the honorable peter stirling and what people thought of him by paul leicester ford stitt publishing company new york henry holt & co. to those dear to me at stoney wolde, turners, new york; pinehurst; norwich, connecticut; brook farm, proctorsville, vermont; and duneside, easthampton, new york, this book, written while among them, is dedicated. chapter i. romance and reality. mr. pierce was talking. mr. pierce was generally talking. from the day that his proud mamma had given him a sweetmeat for a very inarticulate "goo" which she translated into "papa," mr. pierce had found speech profitable. he had been able to talk his nurse into granting him every indulgence. he had talked his way through school and college. he had talked his wife into marrying him. he had talked himself to the head of a large financial institution. he had talked his admission into society. conversationally, mr. pierce was a success. he could discuss schopenhauer or cotillion favors; st. paul, the apostle, or st. paul, the railroad. he had cultivated the art as painstakingly as a professional musician. he had countless anecdotes, which he introduced to his auditors by a "that reminds me of." he had endless quotations, with the quotation marks omitted. finally he had an idea on every subject, and generally a theory as well. carlyle speaks somewhere of an "inarticulate genius." he was not alluding to mr. pierce. like most good talkers, mr. pierce was a tongue despot. conversation must take his course, or he would none of it. generally he controlled. if an upstart endeavored to turn the subject, mr. pierce waited till the intruder had done speaking, and then quietly, but firmly would remark: "relative to the subject we were discussing a moment ago--" if any one ventured to speak, even _sotto voce_, before mr. pierce had finished all he had to say, he would at once cease his monologue, wait till the interloper had finished, and then resume his lecture just where he had been interrupted. only once had mr. pierce found this method to fail in quelling even the sturdiest of rivals. the recollection of that day is still a mortification to him. it had happened on the deck of an ocean steamer. for thirty minutes he had fought his antagonist bravely. then, humbled and vanquished, he had sought the smoking-room, to moisten his parched throat, and solace his wounded spirit, with a star cocktail. he had at last met his superior. he yielded the deck to the fog-horn. at the present moment mr. pierce was having things very much his own way. seated in the standing-room of a small yacht, were some eight people. with a leaden sky overhead, and a leaden sea about it, the boat gently rose and fell with the ground swell. three miles away could be seen the flash-light marking the entrance to the harbor. but though slowly gathering clouds told that wind was coming, the yacht now lay becalmed, drifting with the ebb tide. the pleasure-seekers had been together all day, and were decidedly talked out. for the last hour they had been singing songs--always omitting mr. pierce, who never so trifled with his vocal organs. during this time he had been restless. at one point he had attempted to deliver his opinion on the relation of verse to music, but an unfeeling member of the party had struck up "john brown's body," and his lecture had ended, in the usual serial style, at the most interesting point, without even the promise of a "continuation in our next." finally, however, the singers had sung themselves hoarse in the damp night air, the last "spanish cavalier" had been safely restored to his inevitable true-love, and the sound of voices and banjo floated away over the water. mr. pierce's moment had come. some one, and it is unnecessary to mention the sex, had given a sigh, and regretted that nineteenth century life was so prosaic and unromantic. clearing his throat, quite as much to pre-empt the pause as to articulate the better, mr. pierce spoke: "that modern times are less romantic and interesting than bygone centuries is a fallacy. from time immemorial, love and the battle between evil and good are the two things which have given the world romance and interest. every story, whether we find it in the myths of the east, the folklore of europe, the poems of the troubadours, or in our newspaper of this morning, is based on one or the other of these factors, or on both combined. now it is a truism that love never played so important a part as now in shaping the destinies of men and women, for this is the only century in which it has obtained even a partial divorce from worldly and parental influences. moreover the great battle of society, to crush wrong and elevate right, was never before so bravely fought, on so many fields, by so many people as to-day. but because our lovers and heroes no longer brag to the world of their doings; no longer stand in the moonlight, and sing of their 'dering does,' the world assumes that the days of tourneys and guitars were the only days of true love and noble deeds. even our professed writers of romance join in the cry. 'draw life as it is,' they say. 'we find nothing in it but mediocrity, selfishness, and money-loving.' by all means let us have truth in our novels, but there is truth and truth. most of new york's firemen presumably sat down at noon to-day to a dinner of corned-beef and cabbage. but perhaps one of them at the same moment was fighting his way through smoke and flame, to save life at the risk of his own. boiled dinner and burned firemen are equally true. are they equally worthy of description? what would the age of chivalry be, if the chronicles had recorded only the brutality, filthiness and coarseness of their contemporaries? the wearing of underclothing unwashed till it fell to pieces; the utter lack of soap; the eating with fingers; the drunkenness and foul-mouthedness that drove women from the table at a certain point, and so inaugurated the custom, now continued merely as an excuse for a cigar? some one said once that a man finds in a great city just the qualities he takes to it. that's true of romance as well. modern novelists don't find beauty and nobility in life, because they don't look for them. they predicate from their inner souls that the world is 'cheap and nasty' and that is what they find it to be. there is more true romance in a new york tenement than there ever was in a baron's tower--braver battles, truer love, nobler sacrifices. romance is all about us, but we must have eyes for it. you are young people, with your lives before you. let me give you a little advice. as you go through life look for the fine things--not for the despicable. it won't make you any richer. it won't make you famous. it won't better you in a worldly way. but it will make your lives happier, for by the time you are my age, you'll love humanity, and look upon the world and call it good. and you will have found romance enough to satisfy all longings for mediæval times." "but, dear, one cannot imagine some people ever finding anything romantic in life," said a voice, which, had it been translated into words would have said, "i know you are right, of course, and you will convince me at once, but in my present state of unenlightenment it seems to me that--" the voice, already low, became lower. "now"--a moment's hesitation--"there is--peter stirling." "exactly," said mr. pierce. "that is a very case in point, and proves just what i've been saying. peter is like the novelists of whom i've been talking. i don't suppose we ought to blame him for it. what can you expect of a son of a mill-foreman, who lives the first sixteen years of his life in a mill-village? if his hereditary tendencies gave him a chance, such an experience would end it. if one lives in the country, one may get fine thoughts by contact with nature. in great cities one is developed and stimulated by art, music, literature, and contact with clever people. but a mill-village is one vast expanse of mediocrity and prosaicness, and it would take a bigger nature than peter's to recognize the beautiful in such a life. in truth, he is as limited, as exact, and as unimaginative as the machines of his own village. peter has no romance in him; hence he will never find it, nor increase it in this world. this very case only proves my point; that to meet romance one must have it. boccaccio said he did not write novels, but lived them. try to imagine peter living a romance! he could be concerned in a dozen and never dream it. they would not interest him even if he did notice them. and i'll prove it to you." mr. pierce raised his voice. "we are discussing romance, peter. won't you stop that unsocial tramp of yours long enough to give us your opinion on the subject?" a moment's silence followed, and then a singularly clear voice, coming from the forward part of the yacht, replied: "i never read them, mr. pierce." mr. pierce laughed quietly. "see," he said, "that fellow never dreams of there being romance outside of novels. he is so prosaic that he is unconscious of anything bigger than his own little sphere of life. peter may obtain what he wants in this world, for his desires will be of the kind to be won by work and money. but he will never be controlled by a great idea, nor be the hero of a true romance." steele once wrote that the only difference between the catholic church and the church of england was, that the former was infallible and the latter never wrong. mr. pierce would hardly have claimed for himself either of these qualities. he was too accustomed in his business to writing, "e. and o.e." above his initials, to put much faith in human dicta. but in the present instance he felt sure of what he said, and the little group clearly agreed. if they were right, this story is like that recounted in mother goose, which was ended before it was begun. but mr. pierce had said that romance is everywhere to those who have the spirit of it in them. perhaps in this case the spirit was lacking in his judges--not in peter stirling. chapter ii. appearances. the unconscious illustration of mr. pierce's theory was pacing backwards and forwards on the narrow space between the cuddy-roof and the gunwale, which custom dignifies with the name of deck. six strides forward and turn. six strides aft and turn. that was the extent of the beat. yet had peter been on sentry duty, he could not have continued it more regularly or persistently. if he were walking off his supper, as most of those seated aft would have suggested, the performance was not particularly interesting. the limit and rapidity of the walk resembled the tramp of a confined animal, exercising its last meal. but when one stands in front of the lion's cage, and sees that restless and tireless stride, one cannot but wonder how much of it is due to the last shin-bone, and how much to the wild and powerful nature under the tawny skin. the question occurs because the nature and antecedents of the lion are known. for this same reason the yachters were a unit in agreeing that stirling's unceasing walk was merely a digestive promenade. the problem was whether they were right? or whether, to apply mr. pierce's formula, they merely imposed their own frame of mind in place of stirling's, and decided, since their sole reason for walking at the moment would be entirely hygienic, that he too must be striding from the same cause? dr. holmes tells us that when james and thomas converse there are really six talkers. first, james as james thinks he is, and thomas as thomas thinks he is. second james as thomas thinks him, and thomas as james thinks him. finally, there are james and thomas as they really are. since this is neither an autobiography nor an inspired story, the world's view of peter stirling must be adopted without regard to its accuracy. and because this view was the sum of his past and personal, these elements must be computed before we can know on what the world based its conclusions concerning him. his story was as ordinary and prosaic as mr. and mrs. pierce seemed to think his character. neither riches nor poverty had put a shaping hand to it. the only child of his widowed mother, he had lived in one of the smaller manufacturing cities of new england a life such as falls to most lads. unquestionably he had been rather more shielded from several forms of temptation than had most of his playmates, for his mother's isolation had made him not merely her son, but very largely her companion. in certain ways this had tended to make him more manly than the average fellow of his age, but in others it had retarded his development; and this backwardness had been further accentuated by a deliberate mind, which hardly kept pace with his physical growth. his school record was fair: "painstaking, but slow," was the report in studies. "exemplary," in conduct. he was not a leader among the boys, but he was very generally liked. a characteristic fact, for good or bad, was that he had no enemies. from the clergyman to the "hired help," everybody had a kind word for him, but tinctured by no enthusiasm. all spoke of him as "a good boy," and when this was said, they had nothing more to say. one important exception to this statement is worthy of note. the girls of the high school never liked him. if they had been called upon for reasons, few could have given a tangible one. at their age, everything this world contains, be it the falls of niagara, or a stick of chewing gum, is positively or negatively "nice." for some crime of commission or omission, peter had been weighed and found wanting. "he isn't nice," was the universal verdict of the scholars who daily filed through the door, which the town selectmen, with the fine contempt of the narrow man for his unpaid "help," had labelled, "for females." if they had said that he was "perfectly horrid," there might have been a chance for him. but the subject was begun and ended with these three words. such terseness in the sex was remarkable and would have deserved a psychological investigation had it been based on any apparent data. but women's opinions are so largely a matter of instinct and feeling, and so little of judgment and induction, that an analysis of the mental processes of the hundred girls who had reached this one conclusion, would probably have revealed in each a different method of obtaining this product. the important point is to recognize this consensus of opinion, and to note its bearing on the development of the lad. that peter could remain ignorant of this feeling was not conceivable. it puzzled him not a little when he first began to realize the prejudice, and he did his best to reverse it. unfortunately he took the very worst way. had he avoided the girls persistently and obviously, he might have interested them intensely, for nothing is more difficult for a woman to understand than a woman-hater; and from the days of mother eve the unknown is rumored to have had for her sex a powerful fascination. but he tried to win their friendship by humbleness and kindness, and so only made himself the more cheap in their eyes. "fatty peter," as they jokingly called him, epitomized in two words their contempt of him. nor did things mend when he went to harvard. neither his mother's abilities nor his choice were able to secure for him an _entrée_ to the society which cambridge and boston dole out stintedly to certain privileged collegians. every friday afternoon he went home, to return by an early train monday morning. in his first year it is to be questioned if he exchanged ten words with women whose names were known to him, except during these home-visits. that this could long continue, was impossible. in his second year he was several times taken by his chum, watts d'alloi, to call. but always with one result. invariably peter would be found talking to mamma, or, better still, from his point of view, with pater-familias, while watts chatted with the presumptive attractions. watts laughed at him always. laughed still more when one of these calls resulted in a note, "requesting the pleasure" of mr. peter stirling's company to dinner. it was watts who dictated the acceptance, helped peter put the finishing touches to his toilet, and eventually landed him safely in mrs. purdie's parlor. his description to the boys that night of what followed is worthy of quotation: "the old fellow shook hands with mrs. p., o.k. something was said about the weather, and then mrs. p. said, 'i'll introduce you to the lady you are to take down, mr. stirling, but i shan't let you talk to her before dinner. look about you and take your choice of whom you would like to meet?' chum gave one agonized look round the room. there wasn't a woman over twenty-five in sight! and what do you think the wily old fox said? call him simple! not by a circumstance! a society beau couldn't have done it better. can't guess? well, he said, 'i'd like to talk to you, mrs. purdie.' fact! of course she took it as a compliment, and was as pleased as could be. well, i don't know how on earth he ever got through his introduction or how he ever reached the dining-room, for my inamorata was so pretty that i thought of nothing till we were seated, and the host took her attention for a moment. then i looked across at chum, who was directly opposite, to see how he was getting on. oh, you fellows would have died to see it! there he sat, looking straight out into vacancy, so plainly laboring for something to say that i nearly exploded. twice he opened his lips to speak, and each time closed them again. the girl of course looked surprised, but she caught my eye, and entered into the joke, and we both waited for developments. then she suddenly said to him, 'now let's talk about something else.' it was too much for me. i nearly choked. i don't know what followed. miss jevons turned and asked me something. but when i looked again, i could see the perspiration standing on peter's forehead, while the conversation went by jerks and starts as if it was riding over a ploughed field. miss callender, whom he took in, told me afterwards that she had never had a harder evening's work in her life. nothing but 'yeses' and 'noes' to be got from him. she wouldn't believe what i said of the old fellow." three or four such experiences ended peter's dining out. he was recognized as unavailable material. he received an occasional card to a reception or a dance, for anything in trousers passes muster for such functions. he always went when invited, and was most dutiful in the counter-calls. in fact, society was to him a duty which he discharged with the same plodding determination with which he did his day's studies. he never dreamed of taking his social moments frivolously. he did not recognize that society is very much like a bee colony--stinging those who approached it shyly and quietly, but to be mastered by a bold beating of tin pans. he neither danced nor talked, and so he was shunted by the really pleasant girls and clever women, and passed his time with wall-flowers and unbearables, who, in their normal sourness, regarded and, perhaps, unconsciously made him feel, hardly to his encouragement, that his companionship was a sort of penance. if he had been asked, at the end of his senior year, what he thought of young women and society, he would probably have stigmatized them, as he himself had been formerly: "not nice." all of which, again to apply mr. pierce's theory, merely meant that the phases which his own characteristics had shown him, had re-acted on his own mind, and had led him to conclude that girls and society were equally unendurable. the condition was a dangerous one, and if psychology had its doctors they would have predicted a serious heart illness in store for him. how serious, would depend largely on whether the fever ran its natural course, or whether it was driven inwards by disappointment. if these doctors had ceased studying his mental condition and glanced at his physical appearance, they would have had double cause to shake their heads doubtingly. peter was not good-looking. he was not even, in a sense, attractive. in spite of his taking work so hardly and life so seriously, he was entirely too stout. this gave a heaviness to his face that neutralized his really pleasant brown eyes and thick brown hair, which were his best features. manly the face was, but, except when speaking in unconscious moments, dull and unstriking. a fellow three inches shorter, and two-thirds his weight would have been called tall. "big" was the favorite adjective used in describing peter, and big he was. had he gone through college ten years later, he might have won unstinted fame and admiration as the full-back on the team, or stroke on the crew. in his time, athletics were but just obtaining, and were not yet approved of either by faculties or families. shakespeare speaks of a tide in the affairs of men. had peter been born ten years later the probabilities are that his name would have been in all the papers, that he would have weighed fifty pounds less, have been cheered by thousands, have been the idol of his class, have been a hero, have married the first girl he loved (for heroes, curiously, either marry or die, but never remain bachelors) and would have--but as this is a tale of fact, we must not give rein to imagination. to come back to realism, peter was a hero to nobody but his mother. such was the man, who, two weeks after graduation from harvard, was pacing up and down the deck of mr. pierce's yacht, the "sunrise," as she drifted with the tide in long island sound. yet if his expression, as he walked, could for a moment have been revealed to those seated aft, the face that all thought dull and uninteresting would have riveted their attention, and set each one questioning whether there might not be something both heroic and romantic underneath. the set determination of his look can best be explained by telling what had given his face such rigid lines. chapter iii. a crab chapter. mr. pierce and those about him had clearly indicated by the conversation, or rather monologue, already recorded, that peter was in a sense an odd number in the "sunrise's" complement of pleasure-seekers. whether or no mr. pierce's monologue also indicated that he was not a map who dealt in odd numbers, or showered hospitality on sons of mill-overseers, the fact was nevertheless true. "for value received," or "i hereby promise to pay," were favorite formulas of mr. pierce, and if not actually written in such invitations as he permitted his wife to write at his dictation to people whom he decided should be bidden to the shrubberies, a longer or shorter time would develop the words, as if written in sympathetic ink. yet peter had had as pressing an invitation and as warm a welcome at mr. pierce's country place as had any of the house-party ingathered during the first week of july. clearly something made him of value to the owner of the shrubberies. that something was his chum, watts d'alloi. peter and watts were such absolute contrasts that it seemed impossible that they could have an interest or sympathy, in common. therefore they had become chums. a chance in their freshman year had brought them together. watts, with the refined and delicate sense of humor abounding in collegians, had been concerned with sundry freshmen in an attempt to steal (or, in collegiate terms, "rag") the chapel bible, with a view to presenting it to some equally subtle humorists at yale, expecting a similar courtesy in return from that college. unfortunately for the joke, the college authorities had had the bad taste to guard against the annually attempted substitution. two of the marauders were caught, while watts only escaped by leaving his coat in the hands of the watchers. even then he would have been captured had he not met peter in his flight, and borrowed the latter's coat, in which he reached his room without detection. peter was caught by the pursuers, and summoned before the faculty, but he easily proved that the captured coat was not his, and that he had but just parted from one of the tutors, making it certain that he could not have been an offender. there was some talk of expelling him for aiding and abetting in the true culprit's escape, and for refusing to tell who it was. respect for his motives, however, and his unimpeachable record saved him from everything but an admonition from the president, which changed into a discussion of cotton printing before that august official had delivered half of his intended rebuke. people might not enthuse over peter, but no one ever quarrelled with him. so the interview, after travelling from cotton prints to spring radishes, ended with a warm handshake, and a courteous suggestion that he come again when there should be no charges nor admonitions to go through with. watts told him that he was a "devilish lucky" fellow to have been on hand to help, for peter had proved his pluck to his class, had made a friend of the president and, as watts considerately put it: "but for your being on the corner at : that evening, old chap, you'd never have known me." truly on such small chances do the greatest events of our life turn. perhaps, could peter have looked into the future, he would have avoided that corner. perhaps, could he have looked even further, he would have found that in that chance lay the greatest happiness of his life. who can tell, when the bitter comes, and we later see how we could have avoided it, what we should have encountered in its place? who can tell, when sweet comes, how far it is sweetened by the bitterness that went before? dodging the future in this world is a success equal to that of the old woman who triumphantly announced that she had borrowed money enough to pay all her debts. as a matter of course watts was grateful for the timely assistance, and was not slow either to say or show it. he told his own set of fellows that he was "going to take that stirling up and make him one of us," and watts had a remarkable way of doing what he chose. at first peter did not respond to the overtures and insistance of the handsome, well-dressed, free-spending, new york swell. he was too conscious of the difference between himself and watts's set, to wish or seek identification with them. but no one who ever came under watts's influence could long stand out against his sunny face and frank manner, and so peter eventually allowed himself to be "taken up." perhaps the resistance encountered only whetted watts's intention. he was certainly aided by peter's isolation. whether the cause was single or multiple, peter was soon in a set from which many a seemingly far more eligible fellow was debarred. strangely enough, it did not change him perceptibly. he still plodded on conscientiously at his studies, despite laughter and attempts to drag him away from them. he still lived absolutely within the comfortable allowance that his mother gave him. he still remained the quiet, serious looking fellow of yore. the "gang," as they styled themselves, called him "kill-joy," "graveyard," or "death's head," in their evening festivities, but peter only puffed at his pipe good-naturedly, making no retort, and if the truth had really been spoken, not a man would have changed him a particle. his silence and seriousness added the dash of contrast needed to make the evening perfect. all joked him. the most popular verse in a class-song watts wrote, was devoted to burlesquing his soberness, the gang never tiring of singing at all hours and places: "goodness gracious! who's that in the 'yard' a yelling in the rain? that's the boy who never gave his mother any pain, but now his moral character is sadly on the wane, 'tis little peter stirling, bilin' drunk again. oh, the sunday-school boy, his mamma's only joy, is shouting drunk as usual, and raising cain!" yet joke peter as they would, in every lark, be it drive, sail, feed, drink, or smoke, whoever's else absence was commented upon, his never passed unnoticed. in sophomore year, watts, without quite knowing why, proposed that they should share rooms. nor would he take peter's refusal, and eventually succeeded in reversing it. "i can't afford your style of living," peter had said quietly, as his principal objection. "oh, i'll foot the bills for the fixings, so it shan't cost you a cent more," said watts, and when peter had finally been won over to give his assent, watts had supposed it was on this uneven basis. but in the end, the joint chambers were more simply furnished than those of the rest of the gang, who promptly christened them "the hermitage," and peter had paid his half of the expense. and though he rarely had visitors of his own asking at the chambers, all cost of wine and tobacco was equally borne by him. the three succeeding years welded very strong bands round these two. it was natural that they should modify each other strongly, but in truth, as in most cases, when markedly different characteristics are brought in contact, the only effect was to accentuate each in his peculiarities. peter dug at his books all the harder, by reason of watts's neglect of them. watts became the more free-handed with his money because of peter's prudence. watts talked more because of peter's silence, and peter listened more because of watts's talk. watts, it is true, tried to drag peter into society, yet in truth, peter was really left more alone than if he had been rooming with a less social fellow. each had in truth become the complement of the other, and seemed as mutually necessary as the positive and negative wires in electricity. peter, who had been taking the law lectures in addition to the regular academic course, and had spent his last two summers reading law in an attorney's office, in his native town, taking the new york examination in the previous january, had striven to get watts to do the same, with the ultimate intention of their hanging out a joint legal shingle in new york. "i'll see the clients, and work up the cases, watts, and you'll make the speeches and do the social end," said peter, making a rather long speech in the ardor of his wishes. watts laughed. "i don't know, old man. i rather fancy i shan't do anything. to do something requires that one shall make up one's mind what to do, and that's such devilish hard work. i'll wait till i've graduated, and had a chin with my governor about it perhaps he'll make up my mind for me, and so save my brain tissue. but anyway, you'll come to new york, and start in, for you must be within reach of me. besides, new york's the only place in this country worth living in." such were the relations between the two at graduation time. watts, who had always prepared his lessons in a tenth part of the time it had taken peter, buckled down in the last few weeks, and easily won an honorable mention. peter had tried hard to win honors, but failed. "you did too much outside work, old man," said watts, who would cheerfully have given his own triumph to his friend. "if you want success in anything, you've got to sacrifice other things and concentrate on the object. the mention's really not worth the ink it's written with, in my case, but i knew it would please mammy and pappy, so i put on steam, and got it. if i'd hitched on a lot of freight cars loaded with stuff that wouldn't have told in exams, i never could have been in on time." peter shook his head rather sadly. "you outclass me in brains, watts, as much as you do in other things" "nonsense," said watts. "i haven't one quarter of your head. but my ancestors--here's to the old coves--have been brain-culturing for three hundred years, while yours have been land-culturing; and of course my brain moves quicker and easier than yours. i take to a book, by hereditary instinct, as a duck to water, while you are like a yacht, which needs a heap of building and fitting before she can do the same. but you'll beat me in the long run, as easily as the boat does the duck. and the honor's nothing." "except, as you said, to one's"--peter hesitated for a moment, divided in mind by his wish to quote accurately, and his dislike of anything disrespectful, and then finished "to one's mother." "that's the last person it's needed for, chum," replied watts. "if there's one person that doesn't need the world's or faculty's opinion to prove one's merit, it's one's dear, darling, doating, self-deluded and undisillusioned mamma. heigh-ho. i'll be with mine two weeks from now, after we've had our visit at the pierces'. i'm jolly glad you are going, old man. it will be a sort of tapering-off time for the summer's separation. i don't see why you insist on starting in at once in new york? no one does any law business in the summertime. why, i even think the courts are closed. come, you'd better go on to grey-court with me, and try it, at least. my mammy will kill the fatted calf for you in great style." "we've settled that once," said peter, who was evidently speaking journalistically, for he had done the settling. watts said something in a half-articulate way, which certainly would have fired the blood of every dime museum-keeper in the country, had they been there to hear the conversation, for, as well as could be gathered from the mumbling, it related to a "pig-headed donkey" known of to the speaker. "i suppose you'll be backing out of the pierce affair yet," he added, discontentedly. "no," said peter. "an invitation to grey-court is worth two of the shrubberies. my mother knows only the right kind of people, while mr. pierce--" "is to be our host," interrupted peter, but with no shade of correction in his voice. "yes," laughed watts, "and he is a host. he'll not let any one else get a word in edgewise. you are just the kind of talker he'll like. mark my word, he'll be telling every one, before you've been two hours in the house, that you are a remarkably brilliant conversationalist." "what will he say of you?" said peter, in a sentence which he broke up into reasonable lengths by a couple of pulls at his pipe in the middle of it. "mr. pierce, chum," replied watts, with a look in his eyes which peter had learned to associate with mischief on watts's part, "has too great an affection for yours truly to object to anything i do. do you suppose, if i hadn't been sure of my footing at the shrubberies, that i should have dared to ask an invitation for"--then watts hesitated for a moment, seeing a half-surprised, half-anxious look come into peter's face, "for myself?" he continued. "tell truth and shame the devil," said peter. watts laughed. "confound you! that's what comes of letting even such a stupid old beggar as you learn to read one's thoughts. it's mighty ungrateful of you to use them against me. yes. i did ask to have you included in the party. but you needn't put your back up, mr. unbendable, and think you were forced on them. mr. pierce gave me _carte blanche_, and if it hadn't been you, it would have been some other donkey." "but mrs. pierce?" queried peter. "oh," explained watts, "of course mrs. pierce wrote the letter. i couldn't do it in my name, and so mr. pierce told her to do it. they're very land of me, old man, because my governor is the largest stockholder, and a director in mr. p.'s bank, and i was told i could bring down some fellows next week for a few days' jollity. i didn't care to do that, but of course i wouldn't have omitted you for any amount of ducats." which explanation solves the mystery of peter's presence at the shrubberies. to understand his face we must trace the period between his arrival and the moment this story begins. chapter iv. beginnings. how far watts was confining himself to facts in the foregoing dialogue is of no concern, for the only point of value was that peter was invited, without regard to whether watts first asked mr. pierce, or mr. pierce first asked watts. a letter which the latter wrote to miss pierce, as soon as it was settled that peter should go, is of more importance, and deserves quotation in full: june th. my dear helen-- between your pater and my peter, it has taken an amount of diplomacy to achieve the scheme we planned last summer, which would be creditable to palmerston at his palmiest and have made bismarck even more marked than he is. but the deed, the mighty deed is done, and june twenty-ninth will see chum and me at the shrubberies "if it kills every cow in the barn," which is merely another way of saying that in the bright lexicon of youth, there's no such word as fail. now a word as to the fellow you are so anxious to meet. i have talked to you so much about him, that you will probably laugh at my attempting to tell you anything new. i'm not going to try, and you are to consider all i say as merely a sort of underlining to what you already know. please remember that he will never take a prize for his beauty--nor even for his grace. he has a pleasing way with girls, not only of not talking himself, but of making it nearly impossible for them to talk. for instance, if a girl asks me if i play croquet, which by the way, is becoming very _passé_ (three last lines verge on poetry) being replaced by a new game called tennis, i probably say, "no. do you?" in this way i make croquet good for a ten minutes' chat, which in the end leads up to some other subject. peter, however, doesn't. he says "no," and so the girl can't go on with croquet, but must begin a new subject. it is safest to take the subject-headings from an encyclopædia, and introduce them in alphabetical order. allow about ninety to the hour, unless you are brave enough to bear an occasional silence. if you are, you can reduce this number considerably, and chum doesn't mind a pause in the least, if the girl will only look contented. if she looks worried, however, peter gets worried, too. just put the old chap between you and your mamma at meals, and pull him over any rough spots that come along. you, i know, will be able to make it easy for him. neglect me to any extent. i shan't be jealous, and shall use that apparent neglect as an excuse for staying on for a week after he goes, so as to have my innings. i want the dear old blunderbuss to see how nice a really nice girl can be, so do your prettiest to him, for the sake of watts clarkson d'alloi. when watts and peter saved the "cows in the barn" by stepping off the train on june th, the effect of this letter was manifest. watts was promptly bestowed on the front seat of the trap with mr. pierce, while peter was quickly sitting beside a girl on the back seat. of course an introduction had been made, but peter had acquired a habit of not looking at girls, and as a consequence had yet to discover how far miss pierce came up to the pleasant word-sketch watts had drawn of her. indeed, peter had looked longingly at the seat beside mr. pierce, and had attempted, in a very obvious manner, though one which seemed to him the essence of tact and most un-apparent, to have it assigned to him. but two people, far his superior in natural finesse and experience, had decided beforehand that he was to sit with helen, and he could not resist their skilful manoeuvres. so he climbed into place, hoping that she wouldn't talk, or if that was too much to expect, that at least watts would half turn and help him through. neither of these fitted, however, with miss pierce's plans. she gave peter a moment to fit comfortably into his seat, knowing that if she forced the running before he had done that, he would probably sit awry for the whole drive. then: "i can't tell you how pleased we all are over watts's success. we knew, of course, he could do it if he cared to, but he seemed to think the attempt hardly worth the making, and so we did not know if he would try." peter breathed more easily. she had not asked a question, and the intonation of the last sentence was such as left him to infer that it was not his turn to say something; which, peter had noticed, was the way in which girls generally ended their remarks. "oh, look at that absurd looking cow," was her next remark, made before peter had begun to worry over the pause. peter looked at the cow and laughed. he would like to have laughed longer, for that would have used up time, but the moment he thought the laugh could be employed in place of conversation, the laugh failed. however, to be told to look at a cow required no rejoinder, so there was as yet no cause for anxiety. "we are very proud of our roads about here," said miss pierce. "when we first bought they were very bad, but papa took the matter in hand and got them to build with a rock foundation, as they do in europe." three subjects had been touched upon, and no answer or remark yet forced upon him. peter thought of _rouge et noir_, and wondered what the odds were that he would be forced to say something by miss pierce's next speech. "i like the new england roadside," continued miss pierce, with an apparent relativeness to the last subject that delighted peter, who was used by this time to much disconnection of conversation, and found not a little difficulty in shifting quickly from one topic to another. "there is a tangled finish about it that is very pleasant. and in august, when the golden-rod comes, i think it is glorious. it seems to me as if all the hot sunbeams of the summer had been gathered up in--excuse the expression--it's a word of watts's--into 'gobs' of sunshine, and scattered along the roads and fields." peter wondered if the request to be excused called for a response, but concluded that it didn't. "papa told me the other day," continued miss pierce, "that there were nineteen distinct varieties of golden-rod. i had never noticed that there were any differences." peter began to feel easy and comfortable. he made a mental note that miss pierce had a very sweet voice. it had never occurred to peter before to notice if a girl had a pleasant voice. now he distinctly remembered that several to whom he had talked--or rather who had talked to him--had not possessed that attraction. "last year," said miss pierce, "when watts was here, we had a golden-rod party. we had the whole house decked with it, and yellow lamps on the lawn." "he told me about it," said peter. "he really was the soul of it," said miss pierce, "he wove himself a belt and chaplet of it and wore it all through the evening. he was so good-looking!" peter, quite unconscious that he had said anything, actually continued: "he was voted the handsomest man of the class." "was he really? how nice!" said miss pierce. "yes," said peter. "and it was true." peter failed to notice that a question had been asked, or that he had answered it. he began to think that he would like to look at miss pierce for a moment. miss pierce, during this interval, remarked to herself: "yes. that was the right way, helen, my dear." "we had quite a houseful for our party," miss pierce remarked, after this self-approval. "and that reminds me that i must tell you about whom you meet to-day." then the next ten minutes were consumed in naming and describing the two fashionable new york girls and their brother, who made the party then assembled. during this time peter's eyes strayed from watts's shapely back, and took a furtive glance at miss pierce. he found that she was looking at him as she talked, but for some reason it did not alarm him, as such observation usually did. before the guests were properly catalogued, peter was looking into her eyes as she rambled on, and forgot that he was doing so. the face that he saw was not one of any great beauty, but it was sweet, and had a most attractive way of showing every change of mood or thought. it responded quickly too, to outside influence. many a girl of more real beauty was less popular. people liked to talk to miss pierce, and many could not escape from saying more than they wished, impelled thereto by her ready sympathy. then her eyes were really beautiful, and she had the trimmest, dearest little figure in the world; "squeezable" was the word watts used to describe it, and most men thought the same. finally, she had a pleasant way of looking into people's eyes as she talked to them, and for some reason people felt very well satisfied when she did. it had this effect upon peter. as he looked down into the large gray eyes, really slate-color in their natural darkness, made the darker by the shadows of the long lashes, he entirely forgot place and circumstances; ceased to think whose turn it was to speak; even forgot to think whether he was enjoying the moment. in short he forgot himself and, what was equally important, forgot that he was talking to a girl. he felt and behaved as he did with men. "moly hoses!" said watts to himself on the front seat, "the old fellow's getting loquacious. garrulity must be contagious, and he's caught it from mr. pierce." which, being reduced to actual facts, means that peter had spoken eight times, and laughed twice, in the half hour that was passed between the station and the shrubberies' gate. chapter v. mines and counter-mines. the sight of the party on the veranda of the shrubberies brought a return of self-consciousness to peter, and he braced himself, as the trap slowed up, for the agony of formal greetings. if miss pierce had been a less sweet, sympathetic girl, she could hardly have kept from smiling at the way peter's face and figure stiffened, as the group came in sight. but miss pierce had decided, before she met peter, that she should like him, and, moreover, that he was a man who needed help. let any woman reach these conclusions about a man, and for some reason quite beyond logic or philosophy, he ceases to be ridiculous. so instead of smiling, she bridged over the awful greetings with feminine engineering skill quite equal to some great strategic movement in war. peter was made to shake hands with mrs. pierce, but was called off to help miss pierce out of the carriage, before speech was necessary. then a bundle was missing in the bottom of the carriage, and mr. pawling, the new york swell, was summoned to help peter find it, the incident being seized upon to name the two to each other. finally, he was introduced to the two girls, but, almost instantly, watts and peter were sent to their rooms; and miss pierce, nodding her head in a way which denoted satisfaction, remarked as she went to her own room, "really, helen, i don't think it will be so very hard, after all. he's very tractable." as peter came downstairs, before dinner, he speculated on whether he should be able to talk to miss pierce. he rather doubted from past experience, if such a result was attainable, seeing that there were two other men, who would of course endeavor to do the same. but strangely enough the two men were already seated by the new york girls, and a vacant chair was next that holding miss pierce. what was more, he was at once summoned to fill it, and in five minutes was again entirely unconscious of everything but the slate-colored eyes, looking so pleasantly into his. then he took miss pierce in to dinner, and sat between her and her mother again becoming absorbed in the slate-colored eyes, which seemed quite willing to be absorbed. after dinner, too, when the women had succeeded the weed, peter in someway found it very easy to settle himself near miss pierce. later that night peter sat in his room, or rather, with half his body out of the window, puffing his pipe, and thinking how well he had gone through the day. he had not made a single slip. nothing to groan over. "i'm getting more experienced," he thought, with the vanity noticeable in even the most diffident of collegians, never dreaming that everything that he had said or done in the last few hours, had been made easy for him by a woman's tact. the following week was practically a continuation of this first day. in truth peter was out of his element with the fashionables; mr. pierce did not choose to waste his power on him; and mrs. pierce, like the yielding, devoted wife she was, took her coloring from her husband. watts had intended to look after him, but watts played well on the piano, and on the billiard table; he rowed well and rode well; he sang, he danced, he swam, he talked, he played all games, he read aloud capitally, and, what was more, was ready at any or all times for any or all things. no man who can do half these had better intend seriously to do some duty in a house-party in july. for, however good his intentions, he will merely add to the pavement of a warmer place than even a july temperature makes long island sound. instinctively, peter turned to miss pierce at every opportunity. he should have asked himself if the girl was really enjoying his company more than she did that of the other young people. had he been to the manner born he would have known better than to force himself on a hostess, or to make his monopoly of a young girl so marked. but he was entirely oblivious of whether he was doing as he ought, conscious only that, for causes which he made no attempt to analyze, he was very happy when with her. for reasons best known to miss pierce, she allowed herself to be monopolized. she was even almost as devoted to peter as he was to her, and no comparison could be stronger. it is to be questioned if she enjoyed it very much, for peter was not talkative, and the little he did say was neither brilliant nor witty. with the jollity and "high jinks" (to use a word of watts's) going on about her, it is hardly possible that peter's society shone by contrast. yet in drawing-room or carriage, on the veranda, lawn, or yacht's deck, she was ever ready to give him as much of her attention and help as he seemed to need, and he needed a good deal. watts jokingly said that "the moment peter comes in sight, helen puts out a sign 'vacant, to let,'" and this was only one of many jokes the house-party made over the dual devotion. it was an experience full of danger to peter. for the first time in his life he was seeing the really charming phases which a girl has at command. attractive as these are to all men, they were trebly so to peter, who had nothing to compare with them but the indifferent attitudes hitherto shown him by the maidens of his native town, and by the few boston women who had been compelled to "endure" his society. if he had had more experience he would have merely thought miss pierce a girl with nice eyes, figure and manner. but as a single glass of wine is dangerous to the teetotaller, so this episode had an over-balancing influence on peter, entirely out of proportion to its true value. before the week was over he was seriously in love, and though his natural impassiveness and his entire lack of knowledge how to convey his feelings to miss pierce, prevented her from a suspicion of the fact, the more experienced father and mother were not so blind. "really, charles," said mrs. pierce, in the privacy of their own room, "i think it ought to be stopped." "exactly, my dear," replied her other half, with an apparent yielding to her views that amazed and rather frightened mrs. pierce, till he continued: "beyond question _it_ should be stopped, since you say so. _it_ is neuter, and as neutral things are highly objectionable, stop _it_ by all means." "i mean mr. stirling--" began mrs. pierce. "yes?" interrupted mr. pierce, in an encouraging, inquiring tone. "peter is certainly neuter. i think one might say negative, without gross exaggeration. still, i should hardly stop him. he finds enough difficulty in getting out an occasional remark without putting a stopper in him. perhaps, though, i mistake your meaning, and you want peter merely to stop here a little longer." "i mean, dear," replied mrs. pierce, with something like a tear in her voice, for she was sadly wanting in a sense of humor, and her husband's jokes always half frightened her, and invariably made her feel inferior to him, "i mean his spending so much time with helen. i'm afraid he'll fall in love with her." "my dear," said mr. pierce, "you really should be a professional mind-reader. your suggestion comes as an awful revelation to me. just supposing he should--aye--just supposing he has, fallen in love with helen!" "i really think he has," said mrs. pierce, "though he is so different from most men, that i am not sure." "then by all means we must stop him. by the way, how does one stop a man's falling in love?" asked mr. pierce. "charles!" said mrs. pierce. this remark of mrs. pierce's generally meant a resort to a handkerchief, and mr. pierce did not care for any increase of atmospheric humidity just then. he therefore concluded that since his wit was taken seriously, he would try a bit of seriousness, as an antidote. "i don't think there is any occasion to interfere. whatever peter does can make no difference, for it is perfectly evident that helen is nice to him as a sort of duty, and, i rather suspect, to please watts. so anything she may do will be a favor to him, while the fact that she is attractive to peter will not lessen her value to--others." "then you don't think--?" asked mrs. pierce, and paused there. "don't insult my intelligence," laughed mr. pierce. "i do think. i think things can't be going better. i was a little afraid of mr. pawling, and should have preferred to have him and his sisters later, but since it is policy to invite them and they could not come at any other time, it was a godsend to have sensible, dull old peter to keep her busy. if he had been in the least dangerous, i should not have interfered, but i should have made him very ridiculous. that's the way for parents to treat an ineligible man. next week, when all are gone but watts, he will have his time, and shine the more by contrast with what she has had this week." "then you think helen and watts care for each other?" asked mrs. pierce, flushing with pleasure, to find her own opinion of such a delightful possibility supported by her husband's. "i think," said mr. pierce, "that the less we parents concern ourselves with love the better. if i have made opportunities for helen and watts to see something of each other, i have only done what was to their mutual interests. any courtesy i have shown him is well enough accounted for on the ground of his father's interest in my institution, without the assumption of any matrimonial intentions. however, i am not opposed to a marriage. watts is the son of a very rich man of the best social position in new york, besides being a nice fellow in himself. helen will make any man a good wife, and whoever wins her will not be the poorer. if the two can fix it between themselves, i shall cry _nunc dimittis_, but further than this, the deponent saith and doeth not." "i am sure they love each other," said mrs. pierce. "well," said mr. pierce, "i think if most parents would decide whom it was best for their child to marry, and see that the young people saw just enough of each other, before they saw too much of the world, they could accomplish their purpose, provided they otherwise kept their finger out of the pot of love. there is a certain period in a man's life when he must love something feminine, even if she's as old as his grandmother. there is a certain period in a girl's life when it is well-nigh impossible for her to say 'no' to a lover. he really only loves the sex, and she really loves the love and not the lover; but it is just as well, for the delusion lasts quite as long as the more personal love that comes later. and, being young, they need less breaking for double harness." mrs. pierce winced. most women do wince when a man really verges on his true conclusions concerning love in the abstract, however satisfactory his love in the concrete may be to them. "i am sure they love each other," she affirmed. "yes, i think they do," replied mr. pierce. "but five years in the world before meeting would have possibly brought quite a different conclusion. and now, my dear, if we are not going to have the young people eloping in the yacht by themselves, we had better leave both the subject and the room, for we have kept them fifteen minutes as it is." chapter vi. a monologue and a dialogue. it was at the end of this day's yachting that peter was having his "unsocial walk." early on the morrow he would be taking the train for his native town, and the thought of this, in connection with other thoughts, drew stern lines on his face. his conclusions were something to this effect: "i suspected before coming that watts and miss pierce loved each other. i was evidently wrong, for if they did they could not endure seeing so little of each other. how could he know her and not love her? but it's very fortunate for me, for i should stand no chance against him, even supposing i should try to win the girl he loved. she can't care for me! as watts says, 'i'm an old stupid naturally, and doubly so with girls.' still, i can't go to-morrow without telling her. i shan't see her again till next winter. i can't wait till then. some one else--i can't wait." then he strode up and down half a dozen times repeating the last three words over and over again. his thoughts took a new turn. "it's simply folly, and you have no right to give in to it. you have your own way to make. you have no right to ask mother for more than the fifteen hundred she says you are to have as an allowance, for you know that if she gave you more, it would be only by scrimping herself. what is fifteen hundred a year to such a girl? why, her father would think i was joking!" then peter looked out on the leaden waters and wished it was not cowardly to end the conflict by letting them close over him. the dark color made him think, however, of a pair of slate-colored eyes, so instead of jumping in, he repeated "i can't wait" a few times, and walked with redoubled energy. having stimulated himself thereby, he went on thinking. "she has been so kind to me that--no--she can't care for me. but if she--if by chance--if--supposing she does! why, the money is nothing. we can wait." peter repeated this last remark several times, clearly showing that he made a great distinction between "i can wait" and "we can wait." probably the same nice distinction has been made before, and lovers have good authority for the distinction, for many an editor's public "we think" is the exact opposite of his private "i think." then peter continued: "of course i shall have difficulty with mr. pierce. he's a worldly man. that's nothing, though, if she cares for me. if she cares for me?" peter repeated this last sentence a number of times and seemed to enjoy the prospect it conjured up. he saw peter stirling taking a fond farewell of a certain lady. he saw him entering the arena and struggling with the wild beasts, and of course conquering them. he saw the day when his successes would enable him to set up his own fireside. he saw that fireside made perfect by a pair of slate-colored eyes, which breakfast opposite him, follow him as he starts for his work, and greet him on his return. a pair of eyes to love when present, and think of when absent. heigho! how many firesides and homes have been built out of just such materials! from all this the fact can be gathered that peter was really, despite his calm, sober nature, no more sensible in love matters than are other boys verging on twenty-one. he could not see that success in this love would be his greatest misfortune. that he could not but be distracted from his work. that he would almost certainly marry before he could well afford it, and thus overweight himself in his battle for success. he forgot prudence and common-sense, and that being what a lover usually does, he can hardly be blamed for it. bump! down came the air-castle. home, fireside, and the slate-colored eyes dissolved into a wooden wharf. the dream was over. "bear a hand here with these lunch-baskets, chum," called watts. "make yourself useful as well as ornamental." and so peter's solitary tramp ceased, and he was helping lunch-baskets and ladies to the wharf. but the tramp had brought results which were quickly to manifest themselves. as the party paired off for the walk to the shrubberies, both watts and peter joined miss pierce, which was not at all to peter's liking. "go on with the rest, watts," said peter quietly. miss pierce and watts both stopped short in surprise. "eh?" said the latter. "you join the rest of the party on ahead," said peter. "i don't understand," said watts, who could hardly have been more surprised if peter had told him to drown himself. "i want to say something to miss pierce," explained peter. watts caught his breath. if peter had not requested his absence and given his reason for wishing it, in miss pierce's hearing, watts would have formed an instant conclusion as to what it meant, not far from the truth. but that a man should deliberately order another away, in the girl's hearing, so that he might propose to her, was too great an absurdity for watts to entertain for more than a second. he laughed, and said, "go on yourself, if you don't like the company." "no," said peter. "i want you to go on." peter spoke quietly, but there was an inflexion in his singularly clear voice, which had more command in it than a much louder tone in others. watts had learned to recognize it, and from past experience knew that peter was not to be moved when he used it. but here the case was different. hitherto he had been trying to make peter do something. now the boot was on the other leg, and watts saw therein a chance for some fun. he therefore continued to stand still, as they had all done since peter had exploded his first speech, and began to whistle. both men, with that selfishness common to the sex, failed entirely to consider whether miss pierce was enjoying the incident. "i think," remarked miss pierce, "that i will leave you two to settle it, and run on with the rest." "don't," spoke peter quickly. "i have something to say to you." watts stopped his whistling. "what the deuce is the old boy up to?" he thought to himself. miss pierce hesitated. she wanted to go, but something in peter's voice made it very difficult. "i had no idea he could speak so decidedly. he's not so tractable as i thought. i think watts ought to do what he asks. though i don't see why mr. stirling wants to send him away," she said to herself. "watts," said peter, "this is the last chance i shall really have to thank miss pierce, for i leave before breakfast to-morrow." there was nothing appealing in the way it was said. it seemed a mere statement of a fact. yet something in the voice gave it the character of a command. "'nough said, chum," said watts, feeling a little cheap at his smallness in having tried to rob peter of his farewell. the next moment he was rapidly overtaking the advance-party. by all conventions there should have been an embarrassing pause after this extraordinary colloquy, but there was not. when peter decided to do a thing, he never faltered in the doing. if making love or declaring it had been a matter of directness and plain-speaking, peter would have been a successful lover. but few girls are won by lovers who carry business methods and habits of speech into their courtship. "miss pierce," said peter, "i could not go without thanking you for your kindness to me. i shall never forget this week." "i am so glad you have enjoyed it," almost sang miss pierce, in her pleasure at this reward for her week of self-sacrifice. "and i couldn't go," said peter, his clear voice suddenly husking, "without telling you how i love you." "love me!" exclaimed miss pierce, and she brought the walk again to a halt, in her surprise. "yes," replied peter simply, but the monosyllable meant more than the strongest protestations, as he said it. "oh," almost cried his companion, "i am so sorry." "don't say that," said peter; "i don't want it to be a sorrow to you." "but it's so sudden," gasped miss pierce. "i suppose it is," said peter, "but i love you and can't help telling it. why shouldn't one tell one's love as soon as one feels it? it's the finest thing a man can tell a woman." "oh, please don't," begged miss pierce, her eyes full of tears in sympathy for him. "you make it so hard for me to say that--that you mustn't" "i really didn't think you could care for me--as i cared for you," replied peter, rather more to the voice than to the words of the last speech. "girls have never liked me." miss pierce began to sob. "it's all a mistake. a dreadful mistake," she cried, "and it is my fault." "don't say that," said peter, "it's nothing but my blundering." they walked on in silence to the shrubberies, but as they came near to the glare of the lighted doorway, peter halted a moment. "do you think," he asked, "that it could ever be different?" "no," replied miss pierce. "because, unless there is--is some one else," continued peter, "i shall not----" "there is," interrupted miss pierce, the determination in peter's voice frightening her info disclosing her secret. peter said to himself, "it is watts after all." he was tempted to say it aloud, and most men in the sting of the moment would have done so. but he thought it would not be the speech of a gentleman. instead he said, "thank you." then he braced himself, and added: "please don't let my love cause you any sorrow. it has been nothing but a joy to me. good-night and good-bye." he did not even offer to shake hands in parting. they went into the hallway together, and leaving the rest of the party, who were already raiding the larder for an impromptu supper, to their own devices, they passed upstairs, miss pierce to bathe her eyes and peter to pack his belongings. "where are helen and stirling?" inquired mr. pierce when the time came to serve out the welsh rarebit he was tending. "they'll be along presently," said watts. "helen forgot something, and they went back after it." "they will be properly punished by the leathery condition of the rarebit, if they don't hurry. and as we are all agreed that stirling is somewhat lacking in romance, he will not get a corresponding pleasure from the longer stroll to reward him for that. there, ladies and gentlemen, that is a rarebit that will melt in your mouth, and make the absent ones regret their foolishness. as the gourmand says in 'richelieu,' 'what's diplomacy compared to a delicious pâté?'" chapter vii. facing the world. army surgeons recognize three types of wounded. one type so nervous, that it drops the moment it is struck, whether the wound is disabling or not. another so nerveless, that it fights on, unconscious that it has been hit. a third, who, feeling the wound, goes on fighting, sustained by its nerve. it is over the latter sort that the surgeons shake their heads and look anxious. peter did his packing quietly and quickly, not pausing for a moment in the task. then he went downstairs, and joined the party, just finishing the supper. he refused, it is true, to eat anything, and was quiet, but this phase was so normal in him, that it occasioned no remark. asked where miss pierce was, he explained briefly that he had left her in the hall, in order to do his packing and had not seen her since. in a few moments the party broke up. peter said a good-bye to each, quite conscious of what he was doing, yet really saying more and better things than he had said in his whole visit, and quite surprising them all in the apparent ease with which he went through the duty. "you must come and see us when you have put your shingle out in new york," said mr. pierce, not quite knowing why, having previously decided that they had had enough of peter. "we shall be in the city early in september, and ready to see our friends." "thank you," replied peter. he turned and went upstairs to his room. he ought to have spent the night pacing his floor, but he did not. he went to bed instead whether peter slept, we cannot say. he certainly lay very still, till the first ray of daylight brightened the sky. then he rose and dressed. he went to the stables and explained to the groom that he would walk to the station, and merely asked that his trunk should be there in time to be checked. then he returned to the house and told the cook that he would breakfast on the way. finally he started for the station, diverging on the way, so as to take a roundabout road, that gave him a twelve-mile tramp in the time he had before the train left. perhaps the hardest thing peter encountered was answering his mother's questions about the visit. yet he never flinched nor dodged from a true reply, and if his mother had chosen, she could have had the whole story. but something in the way peter spoke of miss pierce made mrs. stirling careful, and whatever she surmised she kept to herself, merely kissing him good-night with a tenderness that was unusual not merely in a new-englander, but even in her. during the rest of his stay, the pierces were quite as much kept out of sight, as if they had never been known. mrs. stirling was not what we should call a "lady," yet few of those who rank as such, would have been as considerate or tender of peter's trouble, if the power had been given them to lay it bare. love, sympathy, unselfishness and forbearance are not bad equivalents for breeding and etiquette, and have the additional advantage of meeting new and unusual conditions which sometimes occur to even the most conventional. one hope did come to her, "perhaps, now that"--and mrs. stirling left "that" blank even in her thoughts; "now my boy, my peter, will not be so set on going to new york." in this, however, she was disappointed. on the second day of his stay, peter spoke of his intention to start for new york the following week. "don't you think you could do as well here?" said mrs. stirling. "up to a certain point, better. but new york has a big beyond," said peter. "i'll try it there first, and if i don't make my way, i'll come back here" few mothers hope for a son's failure, yet mrs. stirling allowed herself a moment's happiness over this possibility. then remembering that her peter could not possibly fail, she became despondent. "they say new york's full of temptations," she said. "i suppose it is, mother," replied peter, "to those who want to be tempted." "i know i can trust you, peter," said his mother, proudly, "but i want you to promise me one thing." "what?" "that if you do yield, if you do what you oughtn't to, you'll write and tell me about it?" mrs. stirling put her arms about peter's neck, and looked wistfully into his face. peter was not blind to what this world is. perhaps, had his mother known it as he did, she might have seen how unfair her petition was. he did not like to say yes, and could not say no. "i'll try to go straight, mother," he replied, "but that's a good deal to promise." "it's all i'm going to ask of you, peter," urged mrs. stirling. "i have gone through four years of my life with nothing in it i couldn't tell her," thought peter. "if that's possible, i guess another four is." then he said aloud, "well, mother, since you want it, i'll do it." the reason of peter's eagerness to get to new york, was chiefly to have something definite to do. he tried to obtain this distraction of occupation, at present, in a characteristic way, by taking excessively long walks, and by struggling with his mother's winter supply of wood. he thought that every long stride and every swing of the axe was working him free from the crushing lack of purpose that had settled upon him. he imagined it would be even easier when he reached new york. "there'll be plenty to keep me busy there," was his mental hope. all his ambitions and plans seemed in a sense to have become meaningless, made so by the something which but ten days before had been unknown to him. like moses he had seen the promised land. but moses died. he had seen it, and must live on without it. he saw nothing in the future worth striving for, except a struggle to forget, if possible, the sweetest and dearest memory he had ever known. he thought of the epigram: "most men can die well, but few can live well." three weeks before he had smiled over it and set it down as a bit of french cynicism. now--on the verge of giving his mental assent to the theory, a pair of slate-colored eyes in some way came into his mind, and even french wit was discarded therefrom. peter was taking his disappointment very seriously, if quietly. had he only known other girls, he might have made a safe recovery, for love's remedy is truly the homeopathic "similia similibus curantur," woman plural being the natural cure for woman singular. as the russian in the "last word" says, "a woman can do anything with a man--provided there is no other woman." in peter's case there was no other woman. what was worse, there seemed little prospect of there being one in the future. chapter viii. settling. the middle of july found peter in new york, eager to begin his grapple with the future. how many such stormers have dashed themselves against its high ramparts, from which float the flags of "worldly success;" how many have fallen at the first attack; how many have been borne away, stricken in the assault; how many have fought on bravely, till driven back by pressure, sickness or hunger; how few have reached the top, and won their colors! as already hinted, peter had chosen the law as his ladder to climb these ramparts. like many another fellow he had but a dim comprehension of the struggle before him. his college mates had talked over professions, and agreed that law was a good one in new york. the attorney in his native town, "had known of cases where men without knowing a soul in a place, had started in and by hard work and merit had built up a good practice, and i don't see why it can't be done as well in new york as in lawrence or lowell. if new york is bigger, then there is more to be done." so peter, whose new york acquaintances were limited to watts and four other collegians, the pierces and their fashionables, and a civil engineer originally from his native town, had decided that the way to go about it was to get an office, hang up a sign, and wait for clients. on the morning after his arrival, his first object was a lodging. selecting from the papers the advertisements of several boarding-houses, he started in search of one. watts had told him about where to locate, "so as to live in a decent part of the city," but after seeing and pricing a few rooms near the "avenue," about thirtieth street, peter saw that watts had been thinking of his own purse, rather than of his friend's. "can you tell me where the cheaper boarding-houses are?" he asked the woman who had done the honors of the last house. "if it's cheapness you want, you'd better go to bleecker street," said the woman with a certain contemptuousness. peter thanked her, and, walking away, accosted the first policeman. "it's blaker strate, is it? take the sixth avenue cars, there beyant," he was informed. "is it a respectable street?" asked peter. "don't be afther takin' away a strate's character," said the policeman, grinning good-naturedly. "i mean," explained peter, "do respectable people live there?" "shure, it's mostly boarding-houses for young men," replied the unit of "the finest." "ye know best what they're loike." reassured, peter, sought and found board in bleecker street, not comprehending that he had gone to the opposite extreme. it was a dull season, and he had no difficulty in getting such a room as suited both his expectations and purse. by dinner-time he had settled his simple household goods to his satisfaction, and slightly moderated the dreariness of the third floor front, so far as the few pictures and other furnishings from his college rooms could modify the effect of well-worn carpet, cheap, painted furniture, and ugly wall-paper. descending to his dinner, in answer to a bell more suitable for a fire-alarm than for announcing such an ordinary occurrence as meals, he was introduced to the four young men who were all the boarders the summer season had left in the house. two were retail dry-goods clerks, another filled some function in a butter and cheese store, and the fourth was the ticket-seller at one of the middle-grade theatres. they all looked at peter's clothes before looking at his face, and though the greetings were civil enough, peter's ready-made travelling suit, bought in his native town, and his quiet cravat, as well as his lack of jewelry, were proof positive to them that he did not merit any great consideration. it was very evident that the ticket-seller, not merely from his natural self-assertion but even more because of his enviable acquaintance with certain actresses and his occasional privileges in the way of free passes, was the acknowledged autocrat of the table. under his guidance the conversation quickly turned to theatrical and "show" talk. much of it was vulgar, and all of it was dull. it was made the worse by the fact that they all tried to show, off a little before the newcomer, to prove their superiority and extreme knowingness to him. to make peter the more conscious of this, they asked him various questions. "do you like--?" a popular soubrette of the day. "what, never seen her? where on earth have you been living?" "oh? well, she's got too good legs to waste herself on such a little place." they would like to have asked him questions about himself, but feared to seem to lower themselves from their fancied superiority, by showing interest in peter. one indeed did ask him what business he was in. "i haven't got to work yet," answered peter "looking for a place" was the mental comment of all, for they could not conceive of any one entitled to practise law not airing his advantage. so they went on patronizing peter, and glorifying themselves. when time had developed the facts that he was a lawyer, a college graduate, and a man who seemed to have plenty of money (from the standpoint of dry-goods clerks) their respect for him considerably increased. he could not, however, overcome his instinctive dislike to them. after the manly high-minded, cultivated harvard classmates, every moment of their society was only endurable, and he neither went to their rooms nor asked them to his. peter had nothing of the snob in him, but he found reading or writing, or a tramp about the city, much the pleasanter way of passing his evenings. the morning after this first day in new york, peter called on his friend, the civil engineer, to consult him about an office; for watts had been rather hazy in regard to where he might best locate that. mr. converse shook his head when peter outlined his plan. "do you know any new york people," he asked, "who will be likely to give you cases?" "no," said peter. "then it's absolutely foolish of you to begin that way," said mr. converse. "get into a lawyer's office, and make friends first before you think of starting by yourself. you'll otherwise never get a client." peter shook his head. "i've thought it out," he added, as if that settled it. mr. converse looked at him, and, really liking the fellow, was about to explain the real facts to him, when a client came in. so he only said, "if that's so, go ahead. locate on broadway, anywhere between the battery and canal street." later in the day, when he had time, he shook his head, and said, "poor devil! like all the rest." anywhere between the battery and canal street represented a fairly large range of territory, but peter went at the matter directly, and for the next three days passed his time climbing stairs, and inspecting rooms and dark cells. at the end of that time he took a moderate-sized office, far back in a building near worth street. another day saw it fitted with a desk, two chairs (for peter as yet dreamed only of single clients) and a shelf containing the few law books that were the monuments of his harvard law course, and his summer reading. on the following monday, when peter faced his office door he felt a glow of satisfaction at seeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed glass the sign of: peter stirling attorney and counsellor-at-law. he had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hours were one way of winning success. he was a little puzzled what to do with himself. he sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. then he rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave little spaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposing thereby. after that he took down a book--somebody "on torts,"--and dug into it. in the harvard course, he had had two hours a week of this book, but peter worked over it for nearly three hours. then he took paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract of what he had read. then he compared his abstract with the book. returning the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of his memory, he looked at his watch. it was but half-past eleven. peter sat down at his desk. "would all the days go like this?" he asked himself. he had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking and furnishing. but now? he could not read law for more than four hours a day, and get anything from it. what was to be done with the rest of the time? what could he do to keep himself from thinking of--from thinking? he looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs and the drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards. he compressed his lips, and resorted once more to his book. but he found his mind wandering, and realized that he had done all he was equal to on a hot july morning. again he looked out over the roofs. then he rose and stood in the middle at his room, thinking. he looked at his watch again, to make sure that he was right. then he opened his door and glanced about the hall. it was one blank, except for the doors. he went down the two flights of stairs to the street. even that had the deserted look of summer. he turned and went back to his room. sitting down once more at his desk, and opening somebody "on torts" again, he took up his pen and began to copy the pages literally. he wrote steadily for a time, then with pauses. finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became straggly. then he ceased to write. the words blurred, the paper faded from view, and all peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes. he laid his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed. there is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting. most of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! so it was in peter's case. it was waiting--waiting--for what? if clients came, if fame came, if every form of success came,--for what? there is nothing in loneliness to equal the loneliness of a big city. about him, so crowded and compressed together as to risk life and health, were a million people. yet not a soul of that million knew that peter sat at his desk, with his head on his blotter, immovable, from noon one day till daylight of the next. chapter ix. happiness by proxy. the window of peter's office faced east, and the rays of the morning sun shining dazzlingly in his eyes forced him back to a consciousness of things mundane. he rose, and went downstairs, to find the night watch-man just opening the building. fortunately he had already met the man, so that he was not suspected as an intruder; and giving him a pleasant "good-morning," peter passed into the street. it was a good morning indeed, with all that freshness and coolness which even a great city cannot take from a summer dawn. for some reason peter felt more encouraged. perhaps it was the consciousness of having beaten his loneliness and misery by mere physical endurance. perhaps it was only the natural spring of twenty years. at all events, he felt dimly, that miserable and unhopeful as the future looked, he was not conquered yet; that he was going to fight on, come what might. he turned to the river front, and after bargaining with a passing cart for a pint of what the poorer people of the city buy as milk, he turned north, and quickening his pace, walked till he had left the city proper and had reached the new avenue or "drive," which, by the liberality of mr. tweed with other people's money, was then just approaching completion. after walking the length of it, he turned back to his boarding-place, and after a plunge, felt as if he could face and fight the future to any extent. as a result of this he was for the first time late at breakfast the presider over the box-office had ascertained that peter had spent the night out, and had concluded he would have a gird or two at him. he failed, however, to carry out his intention. it was not the first time that both he and his companions had decided to "roast" peter, absent, but had done other wise with peter, present. he had also decided to say to peter, "who's your dandy letter-writer?" but he also failed to do that. this last intention referred to a letter that lay at peters place, and which was examined by each of the four in turn. that letter had an air about it. it was written on linen paper of a grade which, if now common enough, was not so common at that time. then it was postmarked from one of the most, fashionable summer resorts of the country. finally, it was sealed with wax, then very unusual, and the wax bore the impression of a crest. they were all rather disappointed when peter put that letter in his pocket, without opening it. peter read the letter at his office that morning. it was as follows: grey-court, july st. dear. old man-- like a fool i overslept myself on the morning you left, so did not get my talk with you. you know i never get up early, and never can, so you have only your refusal to let me in that night to blame for our not having a last chat. if i had had the news to tell you that i now have, i should not have let you keep me out, even if you had forced me to break my way in. chum, the nicest girl in the world has told me that she loves me, and we are both as happy as happy can be, i know you will not be in a moment's doubt as to who she is, i have only run down here to break it to my family, and shall go back to the shrubberies early next week--to talk to mr. pierce, you understand! my governor has decided that a couple of years' travel will keep me out of mischief as well as anything else he can devise, and as the prospect is not unpleasant, i am not going to let my new plans interfere with it, merely making my journeyings a _solitude à deux_, instead of solus. so we shall be married in september, at the shrubberies, and sail for europe almost immediately. now, i want you to stand by me in this, as you have in other things, and help me through. i want you, in short, to be my "best man" as you have been my best friend. "best man," i should inform you, is an english wedding institution, which our swell people have suddenly discovered is a necessity to make a marriage ceremony legal. he doesn't do much. holding his principal's hat, i believe, is the most serious duty that falls to him, though perhaps not stepping on the bridal dresses is more difficult. my mamma wants me to drive with her, so this must be continued in our next. aff., w. peter did not read law that morning. but after sitting in his chair for a couple of hours, looking at the opposite wall, and seeing something quite different, he took his pen, and without pause, or change of face, wrote two letters, as follows: dear watts: you hardly surprised me by your letter. i had suspected, both from your frequent visits to the shrubberies, and from a way in which you occasionally spoke of miss pierce, that you loved her. after seeing her, i felt that it was not possible you did not. so i was quite prepared for your news. you have indeed been fortunate in winning such a girl. that i wish you every joy and happiness i need not say. i think you could have found some other of the fellows better suited to stand with you, but if you think otherwise, i shall not fail you. you will have to tell me about details, clothes, etc. perhaps you can suggest a gift that will do? i remember miss pierce saying she was very fond of pearls. would it be right to give something of that kind? faithfully yours, peter. dear miss pierce: a letter from watts this morning tells me of his good fortune. fearing lest my blindness may perhaps still give you pain, i write to say that your happiness is the most earnest wish of my life, and nothing which increases it can be other than good news to me. if i can ever serve you in any way, you will be doing me a great favor by telling me how. please give my regards to mr. and mrs. pierce, and believe me, yours ever sincerely, peter stirling. after these letters were written, peter studied the wall again for a time. studied it till long after the hour when he should have lunched. the wall had three cracks in it which approximated to an outline of italy, but though peter gazed at this particular wall a good many hours in the next few weeks, he did not discover this interesting fact till long after this time of wall-gazing. in the early morning and after dinner, in spite of the summer heat, he took long walks. during the day he sat in his office doing nothing, with the exception of an occasional letter to his mother, and one or two to watts in respect to the coming wedding. two visits to the tailor's, and another to tiffany's, which resulted in a pearl pin rather out of proportion to his purse, were almost the sole variations of this routine. it was really a relief to this terrible inactivity, when he found himself actually at the shrubberies, the afternoon before the wedding. peter was rather surprised at the ease with which he went through the next twenty-four hours. it is true that the house was too full, and each person too busy, to trouble the silent groomsman with attention, so he might have done pretty much what he wished, without being noticed. he arrived late, thus having no chance for greetings till after a hurried dressing for dinner, when they were made in the presence of the whole party, who had waited his coming to go to the meal. he went through the ordeal well, even that with miss pierce, actually showing less embarrassment than she did. what was more astonishing, he calmly offered his arm to the bridesmaid who fell to his lot, and, after seating her, chatted without thinking that he was talking. indeed, he hardly heeded what he did say, but spoke mechanically, as a kind of refuge from thought and feeling. "i didn't find him a bit so," the girl said to miss pierce, later in the evening, with an indefiniteness which, if not merely feminine, must presuppose a previous conversation. "he isn't exactly talkative, but he is perfectly easy to get on with. i tried him on new york, and found he had gone into a good many odd places and can tell about them. he describes things very well, so that one sees them." "it must be your tact, then, miss leroy," said mrs. pierce, "for we could get nothing out of him before." "no? i had nothing to do with it, and, between ourselves, i think he disapproved of me. if helen hadn't told me about him, i should have been very cool to him, his manner was so objectionable. he clearly talked to me because he felt it a duty, and not a pleasure." "that's only that unfortunate manner of his," said helen. "i really think at heart he's dreadfully afraid of us. at least that's what watts says. but he only behaves as if--as if--well, you know what i mean, alice!" "exactly," said alice. "you can't describe it. he's so cool, and stolid, and silent, that you feel shoddy and cheap, and any simple little remark doesn't seem enough to say. you try to talk up to him, and yet feel small all the time." "not at all," said helen. "you talk down to him, as if he were--were--your old grandfather, or some one else you admired, but thought very dull and old-fashioned." "but the worst is the way he looks at you. so gravely, even when you try to joke. now i really think i'm passably pretty, but mr. stirling said as plainly as could be: 'i look at you occasionally because that's the proper thing to do, when one talks, but i much prefer looking at that picture over your head.' i don't believe he noticed how my hair was dressed, or the color of my eyes. such men are absolutely maddening. when they've finished their smoke, i'm going to make him notice me." but miss leroy failed in her plan, try as she would. peter did not notice girls any more. after worrying in his school and college days, over what women thought of him and how they treated him, he had suddenly ceased to trouble himself about them. it was as if a man, after long striving for something, had suddenly discovered that he did not wish it--that to him women's opinions had become worthless. perhaps in this case it was only the fox and the grapes over again. at all events, from this time on peter cared little what women did. courteous he tried to be, for he understood this to be a duty. but that was all. they might laugh at him, snub him, avoid him. he cared not. he had struck women out of his plan of life. and this disregard, as we have already suggested, was sure to produce a strange change, not merely in peter, but in women's view and treatment of him. peter trying to please them, by dull, ordinary platitudes, was one thing. peter avoiding them and talking to them when needs must, with that distant, uninterested look and voice, was quite another. the next morning, peter, after finding what a fifth wheel in a coach all men are at weddings, finally stood up with his friend. he had not been asked to stay on for another night, as had most of the bridal party, so he slipped away as soon as his duty was done, and took a train that put him into new york that evening. a week later he said good-bye to the young couple, on the deck of a steamship. "don't forget us, peter," shouted watts, after the fasts were cast off and the steamer was slowly moving into mid-stream. peter waved his hat, and turning, walked off the pier. "could he forget them?" was the question he asked himself. chapter x waiting. "my friend," said an old and experienced philosopher to a young man, who with all the fire and impatience of his years wished to conquer the world quickly, "youth has many things to learn, but one of the most important is never to let another man beat you at waiting." peter went back to his desk, and waited. he gave up looking at the wall of his office, and took to somebody "on torts" again. when that was finished he went through the other law books of his collection. those done, he began to buy others, and studied them with great thoroughness and persistence. in one of his many walks, he stumbled upon the apprentices' library. going in, he inquired about its privileges, and became a regular borrower of books. peter had always been a reader, but now he gave from three or four hours a day to books, aside from his law study. although he was slow, the number of volumes, he not merely read, but really mastered was marvellous. books which he liked, without much regard to their popular reputation, he at once bought; for his simple life left him the ability to indulge himself in most respects within moderation. he was particularly careful to read a classic occasionally to keep up his greek and latin, and for the same reason he read french and german books aloud to himself. before the year was out, he was a recognized quantity in certain book-stores, and was privileged to browse at will both among old and new books without interference or suggestion from the "stock" clerks. "there isn't any good trying to sell him anything," remarked one. "he makes up his mind for himself." his reading was broadened out from the classic and belles-lettres grooves that were still almost a cult with the college graduate, by another recreation now become habitual with him. in his long tramps about the city, to vary the monotony, he would sometimes stop and chat with people--with a policeman, a fruit-vender, a longshoreman or a truckster. it mattered little who it was. then he often entered manufactories and "yards" and asked if he could go through them, studying the methods, and talking to the overseer or workers about the trade. when he occasionally encountered some one who told him "your kind ain't got no business here" he usually found the statement "my father was a mill-overseer" a way to break down the barrier. he had to use it seldom, for he dressed plainly and met the men in a way which seldom failed to make them feel that he was one of them. after such inspection and chat, he would get books from the library, and read up about the business or trade, finding that in this way he could enjoy works otherwise too technical, and really obtain a very good knowledge of many subjects. just how interesting he found such books as "our fire-laddies," which he read from cover to cover, after an inspection of, and chat with, the men of the nearest fire-engine station; or latham's "the sewage difficulty," which the piping of uptown new york induced him to read; and others of diverse types is questionable. probably it was really due to his isolation, but it was much healthier than gazing at blank walls. when the courts opened, peter kept track of the calendars, and whenever a case or argument promised to be interesting, or to call out the great lights of the profession, he attended and listened to them. he tried to write out the arguments used, from notes, and finally this practice induced him to give two evenings a week during the winter mastering shorthand. it was really only a mental discipline, for any case of importance was obtainable in print almost as soon as argued, but peter was trying to put a pair of slate-colored eyes out of his thoughts, and employed this as one of the means. when winter came, and his long walks became less possible, he turned to other things. more from necessity than choice, he visited the art and other exhibitions as they occurred, he went to concerts, and to plays, all with due regard to his means, and for this reason the latter were the most seldom indulged in. art and music did not come easy to him, but he read up on both, not merely in standard books, but in the reviews of the daily press, and just because there was so much in both that he failed to grasp, he studied the more carefully and patiently. one trait of his new england training remained to him. he had brought a letter from his own congregational church in his native town, to one of the large churches of the same sect in new york, and when admitted, hired a sitting and became a regular attendant at both morning and evening service. in time this produced a call from his new pastor. it was the first new friend he had gained in new york. "he seems a quiet, well-informed fellow," was the clergyman's comment; "i shall make a point of seeing something of him." but he was pastor of a very large and rich congregation, and was a hard-worked and hard-entertained man, so his intention was not realized. peter spent christmastide with his mother, who worried not a little over his loss of flesh. "you have been overworking," she said anxiously. "why mother, i haven't had a client yet," laughed peter. "then you've worried over not getting on," said his mother, knowing perfectly well that it was nothing of the sort. she had hoped that peter would be satisfied with his six months' trial, but did not mention her wish. she marvelled to herself that new york had not yet discovered his greatness. when peter returned to the city, he made a change in his living arrangements. his boarding-place had filled up with the approach of winter, but with the class of men he already knew too well. even though he met them only at meals, their atmosphere was intolerable to him. when a room next his office fell vacant, and went begging at a very cheap price, he decided to use it as a bedroom. so he moved his few belongings on his return from his visit to his mother's. although he had not been particularly friendly to the other boarders, nor made himself obtrusive in the least, not one of them failed to speak of his leaving. two or three affected to be pleased, but "butter-and-cheese" said he "was a first-rate chap," and this seemed to gain the assent of the table generally. "i'm dreadfully sorry to lose him," his landlady informed her other boarders, availing herself, perhaps, of the chance to deliver a side hit at some of them. "he never has complained once, since he came here, and he kept his room as neat as if he had to take care of it himself." "well," said the box-office oracle, "i guess he's o.k., if he is a bit stiff; and a fellow who's best man to a big new york swell, and gets his name in all the papers, doesn't belong in a seven-dollar, hash-seven-days-a-week, bleecker street boarding-house." peter fitted his room up simply, the sole indulgence (if properly so called) being a bath, which is not a usual fitting of a new york business office, consciences not yet being tubbable. he had made his mother show him how to make coffee, and he adopted the continental system of meals, having rolls and butter sent in, and making a french breakfast in his own rooms. then he lunched regularly not far from his office, and dined wherever his afternoon walk, or evening plans carried him. he found that he saved no money by the change, but he saved his feelings, and was far freer to come and go as he chose. he did not hear from the honeymoon party. watts had promised to write to him and send his address "as soon as we decide whether we pass the winter in italy or on the nile." but no letter came. peter called on the pierces, only to find them out, and as no notice was taken of his pasteboard, he drew his own inference, and did not repeat the visit. such was the first year of peter's new york life. he studied, he read, he walked, and most of all, he waited. but no client came, and he seemed no nearer one than the day he had first seen his own name on his office door. "how much longer will i have to wait? how long will my patience hold out?" these were the questions he asked himself, when for a moment he allowed himself to lose courage. then he would take to a bit of wall-gazing, while dreaming of a pair of slate-colored eyes. chapter xi. new friends. mr. converse had evidently thought that the only way for peter to get on was to make friends. but in this first year peter did not made a single one that could be really called such. his second summer broadened his acquaintance materially, though in a direction which promised him little law practice. when the warm weather again closed the courts and galleries, and brought an end to the concerts and theatres, peter found time harder to kill, the more, because he had pretty well explored the city. still he walked much to help pass the time, and to get outside of his rooms into the air. for the same reason he often carried his book, after the heat of the day was over, to one of the parks, and did his reading there. not far from his office, eastwardly, where two streets met at an angle, was a small open space too limited to be called a square, even if its shape had not been a triangle. here, under the shade of two very sickly trees, surrounded by tall warehouses, were a couple of benches. peter sat here many evenings smoking his pipe. though these few square feet made perhaps the largest "open" within half a mile of his office, the angle was confined and dreary. hence it is obvious there must have been some attraction to peter, since he was such a walker, to make him prefer spending his time there rather than in the parks not far distant the attraction was the children. only a few hundred feet away was one of the most densely crowded tenement districts of new york. it had no right to be there, for the land was wanted for business purposes, but the hollow on which it was built had been a swamp in the old days, and the soft land, and perhaps the unhealthiness, had prevented the erection of great warehouses and stores, which almost surrounded it. so it had been left to the storage of human souls instead of merchandise, for valuable goods need careful housing, while any place serves to pack humanity. it was not a nice district to go through, for there was a sense of heat and dirt, and smell, and crowd, and toil and sorrow throughout. it was probably no nicer to live in, and nothing proved it better than the overflow of the children therefrom into the little, hot, paved, airless angle. here they could be found from five in the morning till twelve at night. here, with guards set, to give notice of the approach of the children's joy-destroying siva--otherwise the policeman--they played ball. here "cat" and "one old cat" render bearable many a wilting hour for the little urchins. here "sally in our alley" and "skip-rope" made the little girls forget that the temperature was far above blood-heat. here of an evening, peter smoked and watched them. at first he was an object of suspicion, and the sport visibly ceased when he put in an appearance. but he simply sat on one of the benches and puffed his pipe, and after a few evenings they lost all fear of him, and went on as if he were not there. in time, an intercourse sprang up between them. one evening peter appeared with a stick of wood, and as he smoked, he whittled at it with a _real_ jack-knife! he was scrutinized by the keen-eyed youngsters with interest at once, and before he had whittled long, he had fifty children sitting in the shape of a semicircle on the stone pavement, watching his doings with almost breathless interest. when the result of his work actually developed into a "cat" of marvellous form and finish, a sigh of intense joy passed through the boy part of his audience. when the "cat" was passed over to their mercies, words could not be found to express their emotions. another evening, the old clothes-line that served for a jump-rope, after having bravely rubbed against the pavement many thousand times in its endeavor to lighten the joyless life of the little pack, finally succumbed, worn through the centre and quite beyond hope of further knotting. then peter rose, and going to one of the little shops that supplied the district, soon returned with a _real_ jump-rope, with _wooden handles!_ so from time to time, _real_ tops, _real_ dolls, _real_ marbles and various other _real_, if cheap, things, hitherto only enjoyed in dreams, or at most through home-made attempts, found their way into the angle, and were distributed among the little imps. they could not resist such subtle bribery, and soon peter was on as familiar and friendly a footing as he could wish. he came to know each by name, and was made the umpire in all their disputes and the confidant in all their troubles. they were a dirty, noisy, lawless, and godless little community, but they were interesting to watch, and the lonely fellow grew to like them much, for with all their premature sharpness, they were really natural, and responded warmly to his friendly overtures. after a time, peter tried to help them a little more than by mere small gifts. a cheap box of carpenter's tools was bought, and under his superintendence, evenings were spent in the angle, in making various articles. a small wheel barrow, a knife-and-fork basket, a clock-bracket and other easy things were made, one at a time. all boys, and indeed some girls, were allowed to help. one would saw off the end of a plank; another would rule a pencil line; the next would plane the plank down to that line; the next would bore the holes in it; the next would screw it into position; the next would sandpaper it the work went very slowly, but every one who would, had his share in it, while the rest sat and watched. when the article was completed, lots were drawn for it, and happy was the fortunate one who drew the magnificent prize in life's lottery! occasionally too, peter brought a book with him, and read it aloud to them. he was rather surprised to find that they did not take to sunday-school stories or fairy tales. wild adventures in foreign lands were the most effective; and together they explored the heart of africa, climbed the swiss mountains, fought the western indians, and attempted to discover the north pole. they had a curious liking for torture, blood-letting, and death. nor were they without discrimination. "i guess that fellow is only working his jaw," was one little chap's criticism at a certain point of the narrative of a well-known african explorer, rather famous for his success in advertising himself. again, "that's bully," was the comment uttered by another, when peter, rather than refuse their request to read aloud, had been compelled to choose something in macaulay's essays, and had read the description of the black hole of calcutta, "say, mister," said another, "i don't believe that fellow wasn't there, for he never could a told it like that, if he wasn't." as soon as his influence was secure, peter began to affect them in other ways. every fight, every squabble, was investigated, and the blame put where it belonged. then a mandate went forth that profanity was to cease: and, though contrary to every instinct and habit, cease it did after a time, except for an occasional unconscious slip. "sporadic swearing," peter called it, and explained what it meant to the children, and why he forgave that, while punishing the intentional swearer with exclusion from his favor. so, too, the girls were told that to "poke" tongues at each other, and make faces, was but another way of swearing; "for they all mean that there is hate in your hearts, and it is that which is wrong, and not the mere words or faces." he ran the risk of being laughed at, but they didn't laugh, for something in his way of talking to them, even when verging on what they called "goody-goody," inspired them with respect. before many weeks of this intercourse, peter could not stroll east from his office without being greeted with yells of recognition. the elders, too, gave him "good-evening" pleasantly and smiled genially. the children had naturally told their parents about him of his wonderful presents, and great skill with knife and string. "he can whittle anything you ask!" "he knows how to make things you want!" "he can tie a knot sixteen different kinds!" "he can fold a newspaper into soldiers' and firemen's caps!" "he's friends with the policeman!" such laudations, and a hundred more, the children sang of him to their elders. "oh," cried one little four-year-old girl, voicing the unanimous feeling of the children, "mister peter is just shplendid." so the elders nodded and smiled when they met him, and he was pretty well known to several hundred people whom he knew not. but another year passed, and still no client came. chapter xii. his first client. peter sat in his office, one hot july day, two years after his arrival, writing to his mother. he had but just returned to new york, after a visit to her, which had left him rather discouraged, because, for the first time, she had pleaded with him to abandon his attempt and return to his native town. he had only replied that he was not yet prepared to acknowledge himself beaten; but the request and his mother's disappointment had worried him. while he wrote came a knock at the door, and, in response to his "come in," a plain-looking laborer entered and stood awkwardly before him. "what can i do for you?" asked peter, seeing that he must assist the man to state his business. "if you please, sir," said the man, humbly, "it's missy. and i hope you'll pardon me for troubling you." "certainly," said peter. "what about missy?" "she's--the doctor says she's dying," said the man, adding, with a slight suggestion of importance, blended with the evident grief he felt: "sally, and bridget milligan are dead already." "and what can i do?" said peter, sympathetically, if very much at sea. "missy wants to see you before she goes. it's only a child's wish, sir, and you needn't trouble about it. but i had to promise her i'd come and ask you. i hope it's no offence?" "no." peter rose, and, passing to the next room, took his hat, and the two went into the street together. "what is the trouble?" asked peter, as they walked. "we don't know, sir. they were all took yesterday, and two are dead already." the man wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve, smearing the red brick dust with which it was powdered, over his face. "you've had a doctor?" "not till this morning. we didn't think it was bad at first." "what is your name?" "blackett, sir--jim blackett." peter began to see daylight. he remembered both a sally and matilda blackett.--that was probably "missy." a walk of six blocks transferred them to the centre of the tenement district. two flights of stairs brought them to the blackett's rooms. on the table of the first, which was evidently used both as a kitchen and sitting-room, already lay a coffin containing a seven-year-old girl. candles burned at the four corners, adding to the bad air and heat. in the room beyond, in bed, with a tired-looking woman tending her, lay a child of five. wan and pale as well could be, with perspiration standing in great drops on the poor little hot forehead, the hand of death, as it so often does, had put something into the face never there before. "oh, mister peter," the child said, on catching sight of him, "i said you'd come." peter took his handkerchief and wiped the little head. then he took a newspaper, lying on a chair, twisted it into a rude fan, and began fanning the child as he sat on the bed. "what did you want me for?" he asked. "won't you tell me the story you read from the book? the one about the little girl who went to the country, and was given a live dove and real flowers." peter began telling the story as well as he could remember it, but it was never finished. for while he talked another little girl went to the country, a far country, from which there is no return--and a very ordinary little story ended abruptly. the father and mother took the death very calmly. peter asked them a few questions, and found that there were three other children, the eldest of whom was an errand boy, and therefore away. the others, twin babies, had been cared for by a woman on the next floor. he asked about money, and found that they had not enough to pay the whole expenses of the double funeral. "but the undertaker says he'll do it handsome, and will let the part i haven't money for, run, me paying it off in weekly payments," the man explained, when peter expressed some surprise at the evident needless expense they were entailing on themselves. while he talked, the doctor came in. "i knew there was no chance," he said, when told of the death. "and you remember i said so," he added, appealing to the parents. "yes, that's what he said," responded the father. "well," said the doctor, speaking in a brisk, lively way peculiar to him, "i've found what the matter was." "no?" said the mother, becoming interested at once. "it was the milk," the doctor continued. "i thought there was something wrong with it, the moment i smelt it, but i took some home to make sure." he pulled a paper out of his pocket. "that's the test, and dr. plumb, who has two cases next door, found it was just the same there." the blacketts gazed at the written analysis, with wonder, not understanding a word of it. peter looked too, when they had satisfied their curiosity. as he read it, a curious expression came into his face. a look not unlike that which his face had worn on the deck of the "sunrise." it could hardly be called a change of expression, but rather a strengthening and deepening of his ordinary look. "that was in the milk drunk by the children?" he asked, placing his finger on a particular line. "yes," replied the doctor. "the milk was bad to start with, and was drugged to conceal the fact. these carbonates sometimes work very unevenly, and i presume this particular can of milk got more than its share of the doctoring. "there are almost no glycerides," remarked peter, wishing to hold the doctor till he should have had time to think. "no," said the doctor. "it was skim milk." "you will report it to the health board?" asked peter. "when i'm up there," said the doctor. "not that it will do any good. but the law requires it" "won't they investigate?" "they'll investigate too much. the trouble with them is, they investigate, but don't prosecute." "thank you," said peter. he shook hands with the parents, and went upstairs to the fourth floor. the crape on a door guided him to where bridget milligan lay. here preparations had gone farther. not merely were the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly drawn, were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with beer, reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. peter asked a few questions. there was only an elder brother and sister. patrick worked as a porter. ellen rolled cigars. they had a little money laid up. enough to pay for the funeral. "mr. moriarty gave us the whisky and beer at half price," the girl explained incidentally. "thank you, sir. we don't need anything." peter rose to go. "bridget was often speaking of you to us. and i thank you for what you did for her." peter went down, and called next door, to see dr. plumb's patients. these were in a fair way for recovery. "they didn't get any of the milk till last night," the gray-haired, rather sad-looking doctor told him, "and i got at them early this morning. then i suspected the milk at once, and treated them accordingly. i've been forty years doing this sort of thing, and it's generally the milk. dr. sawyer, next door, is a new man, and doesn't get hold quite as quick. but he knows more of the science of the thing, and can make a good analysis." "you think they have a chance?" "if this heat will let up a bit" said the doctor, mopping his forehead. "it's ninety-eight in here; that's enough to kill a sound child." "could they be moved?" "to-morrow, perhaps." "mrs. dooley, could you take your children away to the country to-morrow, if i find a place for you?" "it's very little money i have, sir." "it won't cost you anything. can you leave your family?" "there's only moike. and he'll do very well by himself," he was told. "then if the children can go, be ready at : to-morrow, and you shall all go up for a couple of weeks to my mother's in massachusetts. they'll have plenty of good food there," he explained to the doctor, "grass and flowers close to the house and woods not far away." "that will fix them," said the doctor. "about this milk. won't the health board punish the sellers?" peter asked. "probably not," he was told "it's difficult to get them to do anything, and at this season so many of them are on vacations, it is doubly hard to make them stir." peter went to the nearest telegraph, and sent a dispatch to his mother. then he went back to his office, and sitting down, began to study his wall. but he was not thinking of a pair of slate-colored eyes. he was thinking of his first case. he had found a client. chapter xiii. the case. peter went to work the next morning at an hour which most of us, if we are indiscreet enough to wake, prefer to use as the preface to a further two to four hours' nap. he had spent his evening in a freshening of his knowledge in certain municipal laws, and other details which he thought he might need, and as early as five o clock he was at work in the tenement district, asking questions and taking notes. the inquiry took little skill the milk had come from the cart of a certain company, which passed daily through the locality, not to supply orders, but to peddle milk to whoever cared to buy. peter had the cart pointed out that morning, but, beyond making a note of the exact name of the company, he paid no attention to it. he was aiming at bigger game than a milk cart or its driver. his work was interrupted only by his taking mrs. dooley and the two children to the train. that done, peter walked northwardly and westwardly, till he had nearly reached the river front. it took some little inquiry, but after a while he stumbled on a small shanty which had a sign: national milk company. office. the place, however, was closed and no one around seemed connected with it, though a number of milk carts were standing about. close to these was a long line of sheds, which in turn backed up against a great brewery. a couple of men lounged at the door of the sheds. peter walked up to them, and asked if they could tell him where he could find any one connected with the milk company. "the boss is off for lunch," said one. "i can take an order, if that's what you want." peter said it was not an order, and began chatting with the men. before he had started to question them, a third man, from inside the sheds, joined the group at the door. "that cow's dead," he remarked as he came up. "is it?" said the one called bill. both rose, and went into the shed. peter started to go with them. "you can't come in," said the new-comer. but peter passed in, without paying the least attention to him. "come back," called the man, following peter. peter turned to him: "you are one of the employees of the national milk company?" he asked. "yes," said the man, "and we have orders--" peter usually let a little pause occur after a remark to him, but in this case he spoke before the man completed his speech. he spoke, too, with an air of decision and command that quieted the man. "go back to your work," he said, "and don't order me round. i know what i'm about." then he walked after the other two men as rapidly as the dimness permitted. the employee scratched his head, and then followed. dim as the light was, peter could discern that he was passing between two rows of cows, with not more than space enough for men to pass each other between the rows. it was filthy, and very warm, and there was a peculiar smell in the air which peter did not associate with a cow stable. it was a kind of vapor which brought some suggestion to his mind, yet one he could not identify. presently he came upon the two men. one had lighted a lantern and was examining a cow that lay on the ground. that it was dead was plain. but what most interested peter, although he felt a shudder of horror at the sight, were the rotted tail and two great sores on the flank that lay uppermost. "that's a bad-looking cow," he said. "ain't it?" replied the one with the lantern. "but you can't help their havin' them, if you feed them on mash." "hold your tongue, bill," said the man who had followed peter. "take some of your own advice," said peter, turning quickly, and speaking in a voice that made the man step back. a terrible feeling was welling up in peter's heart. he thought of the poor little fever-stricken children. he saw the poor fever-stricken cow. he would like to--to--. he dropped the arm he had unconsciously raised. "give me that lantern," he demanded. the man hesitated and looked at the others. "give me that lantern," said peter, speaking low, but his voice ringing very clear. the lantern was passed to him, and taking it, he walked along the line of cows. he saw several with sores more or less developed. one or two he saw in the advanced stages of the disease, where the tail had begun to rot away. the other men followed him on his tour of inspection, and whispered together nervously. it did not take peter long to examine all he wanted to see. handing back the lantern at the door, he said: "give me your names." the men looked nonplussed, and shifted their weights uneasily from leg to leg. "you," said peter, looking at the man who had interfered with him. "wot do yer want with it?" he was asked. "that's my business. what's your name?" "john tingley." "where do you live?" " west st street." peter obtained and wrote down the names and addresses of the trio. he then went to the "office" of the company, which was now opened. "is this an incorporated company?" he asked of the man tilted back in a chair. "no," said the man, adding two chair legs to terra firma, and looking at peter suspiciously. "who owns it?" peter queried. "i'm the boss." "that isn't what i asked." "that's what i answered." "and your name is?" "james coldman." "do you intend to answer my question?" "not till i know your business." "i'm here to find out against whom to get warrants for a criminal prosecution." "for what?" "the warrant will say." the man squirmed in his chair. "will you give me till to-morrow?" "no. the warrant is to be issued to-day. decide at once, whether you or your principal, shall be the man to whom it shall be served." "i guess you'd better make it against me," said the man. "very well," said peter. "of course you know your employer will be run down, and as i'm not after the rest of you, you will only get him a few days safety at the price of a term in prison." "well, i've got to risk it," said the man. peter turned and walked away. he went down town to the blacketts. "i want you to carry the matter to the courts," he told the father. "these men deserve punishment, and if you'll let me go on with it, it shan't cost you anything; and by bringing a civil suit as well, you'll probably get some money out of it." blackett gave his assent. so too did patrick milligan, and "moike" dooley. they had won fame already by the deaths and wakes, but a "coort case" promised to give them prestige far beyond what even these distinctions conferred. so the three walked away proudly with peter, and warrants were sworn to and issued against the "boss" as principal, and the driver and the three others as witnesses, made returnable on the following morning. on many a doorstep of the district, that night, nothing else was talked of, and the trio were the most envied men in the neighborhood. even mrs. blackett and ellen milligan forgot their grief, and held a joint _soirée_ on their front stoop. "shure, it's mighty hard for mrs. dooley, that she's away!" said one. "she'll be feeling bad when she knows what she's missed." the next morning, peter, the two doctors, the blacketts, the milligans, dooley, the milk quintet, and as many inhabitants of the "district" as could crush their way in, were in court by nine o'clock. the plaintiffs and their friends were rather disappointed at the quietness of the proceedings. the examinations were purely formal except in one instance, when peter asked for the "name or names of the owner or owners" of the national milk company. here the defendant's attorney, a shrewd criminal lawyer, interfered, and there was a sharp passage at arms, in which an attempt was made to anger peter. but he kept his head, and in the end carried his point. the owner turned out to be the proprietor of the brewery, as peter had surmised, who thus utilized the mash from his vats in feeding cattle. but on peter's asking for an additional warrant against him, the defendant's lawyer succeeded in proving, if the statement of the overseer proved it, that the brewer was quite ignorant that the milk sold in the "district" was what had been unsalable the day before to better customers, and that the skimming and doctoring of it was unknown to him. so an attempt to punish the rich man as a criminal was futile. he could afford to pay for straw men. "arrah!" said dooley to peter as they passed out of the court, "oi think ye moight have given them a bit av yer moind." "wait till the trial," said peter. "we mustn't use up our powder on the skirmish line." so the word was passed through the district that "theer'd be fun at the rale trial," and it was awaited with intense interest by five thousand people. chapter xiv. new york justice. peter saw the district attorney the next morning for a few moments, and handed over to him certain memoranda of details that had not appeared in the committing court's record. "it shall go before the grand jury day after to-morrow," that official told him, without much apparent interest in the matter. "how soon can it be tried, if they find a true bill? asked peter. "can't say," replied the official. "i merely wished to know," said peter, "because three of the witnesses are away, and i want to have them back in time." "probably a couple of weeks," yawned the man, and peter, taking the hint, departed. the rest of the morning was spent in drawing up the papers in three civil suits against the rich brewer. peter filed them as soon as completed, and took the necessary steps for their prompt service. these produced an almost immediate result, in the shape of a call the next morning from the same lawyer who had defended the milkmen in the preliminary examination. peter, as he returned from his midday meal, met the lawyer on the stairs. "ah, mr. stirling. good-morning," said the man, whose name was dummer. "i've just left your office, finding it closed." "come in," said peter. the lawyer glanced around the plain room, and a quiet look of satisfaction came over his face. the two sat down. "about those cases, mr. stirling?" "well?" "for reasons you can easily understand, we don't wish them to come to trial." "well?" "and we take it for granted that your clients will be quite willing to settle them." "we will talk about that, after the criminal trial is over" "why not now?" "because we hope to make coldman speak the truth in the trial, and thus be able to reach bohlmann." "you're wasting your time." "not if there's the smallest chance of sending the brewer to prison." "there isn't. coldman will stick to what he said if the thing is ever tried, which it won't be." peter eyed dummer without changing a muscle. "the district attorney told me that it ought to be in the courts in a couple of weeks." dummer smiled blandly, and slowly closed one eye. "the district attorney tries to tell the truth," he said, "and i have no doubt he thought that was what he was telling you. now, name your figure?" "the civil suits will not be compromised till the criminal one is finished." "but i tell you the criminal one is dead. squashed. bohlmann and i have seen the right people, and they've seen the district attorney. that case won't even go to the grand jury. so now, drop it, and say what you'll settle the civil suits for?" "james coldman shall go to prison for killing those children," said peter, "and till he does, it is waste time to talk of dropping or settling anything." "humph," half laughed the lawyer, though with obvious disgust at the mulishness in peter's face and voice. "you think you know it all. but you don't. you can work for ten years, and that case will be no nearer trial than it is to-day. i tell you, young man, you don't know new york." "i don't know new york," said peter, "but--" "exactly," interrupted dummer. "and i do." "probably," replied peter quietly, "you may know new york, mr. dummer, but you don't know me. that case shall be tried." "well," laughed dummer, "if you'll agree not to press the civil suits, till that's out of the way, we shall have no need to compromise. good-day." the next morning peter went to the district attorney's office, and inquired for him. "he's gone to bar harbor for a couple of weeks' vacation," he was told. "whom must i see in his stead?" and after some time peter was brought face to face with the acting official. "mr. nelson told me he should present the coldman case to the grand jury to-day, and finding he has left the city, i wish to know who has it in charge?" asked peter. "he left all the presentments with me," the deputy replied, "but there was no such case as that." "could he have left it with some one else to attend to?" "no." peter went back to his office, took down the code and went over certain sections. his eyes had rather a sad look as they gazed at his wall, after his study, as if what he had read had not pleased him. but if the eyes were sad, the heavy jaw had a rigidness and setness which gave no indication of weakness or yielding. for two weeks peter waited, and then once more invaded officialdom. "the district attorney's engaged, and can't see you," he was told. peter came again in the afternoon, with the same result. the next morning, brought only a like answer, and this was duplicated in the afternoon. the third day he said he would wait, and sat for hours in the ante-room, hoping to be called, or to intercept the officer. but it was only to see man after man ushered into the private office, and finally to be told that the district attorney had gone to lunch, and would not return that day. the man who told him this grinned, and evidently considered it a good joke, nor had peter been unconscious that all the morning the clerks and underlings had been laughing, and guying him as he waited. yet his jaw was only set the more rigidly, as he left the office. he looked up the private address of the officer in the directory, and went to see him that evening. he was wise enough not to send in his name, and mr. nelson actually came into the hall to see him. the moment he saw peter, however, he said: "oh, it's you. well, i never talk business except in business hours." "i have tried to see you--" began peter. "try some more," interrupted the man, smiling, and going toward the parlor. peter followed him, calmly. "mr. nelson," he said, "do you intend to push that case?" "of course," smiled nelson. "after i've finished four hundred indictments that precede it." "not till then?" "no." "mr. nelson, can't you overlook politics for a moment, and think of--" "who said anything of politics?" interrupted nelson, "i merely tell you there are indictments which have been in my office for five years and are yet to be tried, and that your case is going to take its turn." nelson passed into the back room, leaving his caller alone. peter left the room, and passed out of the front door, just as a man was about to ring the bell. "is mr. nelson in?" asked the man. "i have just left him, mr. dummer," said peter. "ah! good-evening, mr. stirling. i think i can guess your business. well. how do you come on?" dummer was obviously laughing internally. peter started down the steps without answering. "perhaps i can help you?" said dummer. "i know mr. nelson very well in politics, and so does mr. bohlmann. if you'll tell me what you are after, i'll try to say a good word for you?" "i don't need your help, thank you," said peter calmly. "good," said dummer. "you think a briefless lawyer of thirty can go it alone, do you, even against the whole city government?" "i know i have not influence enough to get that case pushed, mr. dummer, but the law is on my side, and i'm not going to give up yet." "well, what are you going to do about it?" said dummer, sneeringly. "fight," said peter, walking away. he went back to his office, and sitting at his desk, wrote a formal letter to the district attorney, calling his attention to the case, and asking information as to when it would be brought to trial. then he copied this, and mailed the original. then he read the code again. after that he went over the new york reports, making notes. for a second time the morning sun found peter still at his desk. but this time his head was not bowed upon his blotter, as if he were beaten or dead. his whole figure was stiff with purpose, and his jaw was as rigid as a mastiff's. chapter xv. the fight. the only reply which peter received to his letter to the district-attorney, was a mere formal reiteration of that officer's verbal statement, that the case would be taken up in its due order, after those which preceded it had been dealt with. peter knew enough of the numberless cases which never reach trial to understand that this meant in truth, the laying aside of the case, till it was killed by the statute of limitations. on receiving this reply, peter made another move, by going to three newspapers, and trying to see their managing editors. one declined to see him. a second merely told peter, after his statement, which the editor only allowed him partly to explain, that he was very busy and could not take time to look into it, but that peter might come again in about a month. the third let peter tell his story, and then shook his head: "i have no doubt you are right, but it isn't in shape for us to use. such a case rarely goes to trial for six months or a year, and so, if we begin an attack now, it will simply fall flat. if you can get us a written statement from the district attorney that he doesn't intend to push the case, we can do something, but i suppose he's far too shrewd to commit himself." "yes." "then there's no use in beginning an attack, for you really have no powder. come in again a year from now, and then we may be able to say something, if he hasn't acted in the meantime." peter left the office, knowing that that chance of pressure was gone. if the papers of the republican party would not use it, it was idle spending time in seeing or trying to see the editors of the democratic papers. he wasted therefore no more efforts on newspapers. the next three days peter passed in the new york law institute library, deep in many books. then he packed his bag, and took an afternoon train for albany. he was going to play his last card, with the odds of a thousand to one against his winning. but that very fact only nerved him the more. promptly at ten o'clock, the morning after his arrival at the state capital, he sent in his card to the governor. fortunately for him, the middle of august is not a busy time with that official, and after a slight delay, he was ushered into the executive chamber. peter had been planning this interview for hours, and without explanation or preamble, he commenced his statement. he knew that he must interest the governor promptly, or there would be a good chance of his being bowed out. so he began with a description of the cow-stables. then he passed to the death of the little child. he sketched both rapidly, not taking three minutes to do it, but had he been pleading for his own life, he could not have spoken more earnestly nor feelingly. the governor first looked surprised at peter's abruptness; then weary; then interested; and finally turned his revolving chair so as to put his back to peter. and after peter had ended his account, he remained so for a moment. that back was very expressive to peter. for the first time he felt vanquished. but suddenly the governor turned, and peter saw tears on his cheek. and he said, after a big swallow, "what do you want of me?" in a voice that meant everything to peter. "will you listen to me for five minutes?" asked peter, eagerly. "yes." than peter read aloud a statement of the legal proceedings, and of his interviews with the district attorney and with dummer, in the clearest and most compact sentences he had been able to frame. "you want me to interfere?" asked the governor. "yes." "i'm afraid it's not possible. i can of course remove the district attorney, but it must be for cause, and i do not see that you can absolutely prove his non intention to prosecute those scoundrels." "that is true. after study, i did not see that you could remove him. but there's another remedy." "what is that?" "through the state attorney you can appoint a special counsel for this case." "are you sure?" peter laid one of the papers in his hands before the governor. after reading it, the governor rang a bell. "send for mr. miller," he said to the boy. then he turned, and with peter went over the court papers, till mr. miller put in an appearance. "state the matter to mr. miller," said the governor, and peter read his paper again and told what he wished. "the power unquestionably exists," said the attorney-general. "but it has not been used in many years. perhaps i had better look into it a bit." "go with mr. miller, mr. stirling, and work over your papers with him," said the governor. "thank you," said peter simply, but his hand and face and voice said far more, as he shook hands. he went out with the first look of hope his face had worn for two years. the ground which the attorney-general and his subordinates had to traverse was that over which peter had so well travelled already, that he felt very much at home, while his notes indeed aided the study, and were doubly welcomed, because the summer season had drained the office of its underlings. half as assistant, and half as principal, he worked till three o'clock, with pleasure that grew, as he saw that the opinion of the attorney-general seemed to agree more and more with his own. then they returned to the governor, to whom the attorney-general gave his opinion that his present conclusion was that the governor could empower him, or some appointee, to prosecute the case. "well," said the governor, "i'm glad you think so. but if we find that it isn't possible, mr. stirling, i'll have a letter written to the district attorney that may scare him into proceeding with the case." peter thanked him, and rose to go. "are you going to new york at once?" asked the governor. "yes. unless i can be of use here." "suppose you dine with me, and take a late train?" "it will be a great pleasure," said peter. "very well. six sharp." then after peter had left the room, the governor asked, "how is he on law?" "very good. clear-headed and balanced." "he knows how to talk," said the governor. "he brought my heart up in my mouth as no one has done in years. now, i must get word to some of the people in new york to find out who he is, and if this case has any concealed boomerang in it." the dinner was a very quiet one with only the governor and his wife. the former must have told his better-half something about peter, for she studied him with a very kind look in her face, and prosaic and silent as peter was, she did not seem bored. after the dinner was eaten, and some one called to talk politics with the governor, she took peter off to another room, and made him tell her about the whole case, and how he came to take it up, and why he had come to the governor for help. she cried over it, and after peter had gone, she went upstairs and looked at her own two sleeping boys, quite large enough to fight the world on their own account, but still little children to the mother's heart, and had another cry over them. she went downstairs later to the governor's study, and interrupting him in the work to which he had settled down, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him. "you must help him, william," she said. "do everything you can to have those scoundrels punished, and let him do it." the governor only laughed; but he pushed back his work, and his wife sat down, and told of her admiration and sympathy for peter's fight. there was a bad time ahead for the criminal and his backers. they might have political influence of the strongest character, fighting their battle, but there was a bigger and more secret one at work. say what we please, the strongest and most subtle "pull" this world as yet contains is the under-current of a woman's influence. peter went back to new york that night, feeling hopeful, yet doubtful. it almost seemed impossible that he had succeeded, yet at twenty-three, failure is hard to believe in. so he waited, hoping to see some move on the part of the state, and dreaming of nothing better. but better came, for only five days after his return his mail brought him a large envelope, and inside that envelope was a special commission, which made peter a deputy of the attorney-general, to prosecute in the court of sessions, the case of "the people of the state of new york _versus_ james goldman." if any one could have seen peter's face, as he read the purely formal instrument, he would not have called it dull or heavy. for peter knew that he had won; that in place of justice blocking and hindering him, every barrier was crushed down; that this prosecution rested with no officials, but was for him to push; that that little piece of parchment bound every court to support him; that if necessary fifty thousand troops would enforce the power which granted it. within three hours, the first formal steps to place the case in the courts had been taken, and peter was working at the evidence and law in the matter. these steps produced a prompt call from dummer, who showed considerably less assurance than hitherto, even though he tried to take peter's success jauntily. he wanted peter to drop the whole thing, and hinted at large sums of money, but peter at first did not notice his hints, and finally told him that the case should be tried. then dummer pleaded for delay. peter was equally obdurate. later they had a contest in the court over this. but peter argued in a quiet way, which nevertheless caught the attention of the judge, who ended the dispute by refusing to postpone. the judge hadn't intended to act in this way, and was rather surprised at his own conduct. the defendant's lawyer was furious. no stone was left unturned, however, to prevent the case going to trial. pressure of the sharpest and closest kind was brought to bear on the governor himself--pressure which required backbone to resist. but he stood by his act: perhaps because he belonged to a different party than that in control of the city government; perhaps because of peter's account, and the truthfulness in his face as he told it; perhaps because the attorney-general had found it legal; perhaps because of his wife; perhaps it was a blending of all these. certain it is, that all attempts to block failed, and in the last week in august it came before the court. peter had kept his clients informed as to his struggles, and they were tremendously proud of the big battle and ultimate success, as indeed were the residents of the whole district, who felt that it was really their own case. then the politicians were furious and excited over it, while the almost unexampled act of the governor had created a good deal of public interest in the case. so the court was packed and the press had reporters in attendance. since the trial was fully reported, it is needless to go over the testimony here. what peter could bring out, is already known. the defence, by "experts," endeavored to prove that the cowsheds were not in a really unhygienic condition; that feeding cows on "mash" did not affect their milk, nor did mere "skin sores;" that the milk had been sold by mistake, in ignorance that it was thirty-six hours old, and skimmed; and that the proof of this particular milk being the cause of the deaths was extremely inadequate and doubtful. the only dramatic incident in the testimony was the putting the two little dooleys (who had returned in fat and rosy condition, the day before) on the stand. "did you find country milk different from what you have here?" peter asked the youngest. "oh, yes," she said. "here it comes from a cart, but in the country it squirts from a cow." "order," said the judge to the gallery. "does it taste differently?" "yes. it's sweet, as if they put sugar in it. it's lovely i like cow milk better than cart milk." "damn those children!" said dummer, to the man next him. the event of the trial came, however, when peter summed up. he spoke quietly, in the simplest language, using few adjectives and no invective. but as the girl at the pierces' dinner had said, "he describes things so that one sees them." he told of the fever-stricken cows, and he told of the little fever-stricken children in such a way that the audience sobbed; his clients almost had to be ordered out of court; the man next dummer mopped his eyes with his handkerchief; the judge and jury thoughtfully covered their eyes (so as to think the better); the reporters found difficulty (owing to the glary light), in writing the words despite their determination not to miss one; and even the prisoner wiped his eyes on his sleeve. peter was unconscious that he was making a great speech; great in its simplicity, and great in its pathos. he afterwards said he had not given it a moment's thought and had merely said what he felt. perhaps his conclusion indicated why he was able to speak with the feeling he did. for he said: "this is not merely the case of the state _versus_ james goldman. it is the case of the tenement-house children, against the inhumanity of man's greed." dummer whispered to the man next him, "there's no good. he's done for us." then he rose, and made a clever defence. he knew it was wasting his time. the judge charged against him, and the jury gave the full verdict: "man-slaughter in the first degree." except for the desire for it, the sentence created little stir. every one was still feeling and thinking of peter's speech. and to this day that speech is talked of in "the district." chapter xvi. the consequences. nor was it the district alone which talked of the speech. perhaps the residents of it made their feelings most manifest, for they organized a torchlight procession that night, and went round and made peter an address of thanks. mr. dennis moriarty being the spokesman. the judge shook hands with him after the trial, and said that he had handled his case well. the defendant's lawyer told him he "knew his business." a number of the reporters sought a few words with him, and blended praise with questions. the reporters did far more than this, however. it was the dull newspaper season, and the case had turned out to be a thoroughly "journalistic" one. so they questioned and interviewed every one concerned, and after cleverly winnowing the chaff, which in this case meant the dull, from the gleanings, most of them gave several columns the next morning to the story. peter's speech was printed in full, and proved to read almost as well as it had sounded. the reporters were told, and repeated the tales without much attempt at verification, that peter had taken the matter up without hope of profit; had paid the costs out of his own pocket; had refused to settle "though offered nine thousand dollars:" had "saved the dooley children's lives by sending them into the country;" and "had paid for the burials of the little victims." so all gave him a puff, and two of the better sort wrote really fine editorials about him. at election time, or any other than a dull season, the case would have had small attention, but august is the month, to reverse an old adage, when "any news is good news." the press began, too, a crusade against the swill-milk dealers, and the men who had allowed all this to be possible. "what is the health board about, that poison for children can be sold in the public streets?" "where is the district attorney, that prosecutions for the public good have to be brought by public-spirited citizens?" they demanded. lynx-eyed reporters tracked the milk-supplies of the city, and though the alarm had been given, and many cows had been hastily sent to the country, they were able to show up certain companies, and print details which were quite lurid enough, when sufficiently "colored" by their skilful pens. most residents of new york can remember the "swill-milk" or "stump-tail milk" exposures and prosecutions of that summer, and of the reformation brought about thereby in the board of health. as the details are not pleasant reading, any one who does not remember is referred to the daily press, and, if they want horrible pictures, to frank leslie's illustrated weekly. except for the papers, it is to be questioned if peter's case would have resulted in much more than the punishment of the man actually convicted; but by the press taking the matter up, the moment's indignation was deepened and intensified to a degree which well-nigh swept every cow-stable off the island, and drove the proper officials into an activity leading to great reforms. no one was more surprised than peter, at the sudden notoriety, or at the far-reaching results. he collected the articles, and sent them to his mother. he wrote: "don't think that this means any great start. in truth, i am a hundred dollars the poorer for the case, and shall have to cut off a few expenses for the rest of the year. i tell you this, because i know you will not think for a moment that i grudge the money, and you are not to spoil my trifling self-denial by any offer of assistance you did quite enough in taking in those two little imps. were they very bad? did they tramp on your flowers, and frighten poor old russet [russet was the cat] out of his fast waning lives? it was a great pleasure to me to see them so plump and brown, and i thank you for it. their testimony in court was really amusing, though at the same time pathetic. people tell me that my speech was a good one. what is more surprising, they tell me that i made the prisoner, and mr. bohlmann, the brewer, who sat next to dummer, both cry. i confess i grieve over the fact that i was not prosecuting bohlmann. he is the real criminal, yet goes scot free. but the moral effect is, i suppose, the important thing, and any one to whom responsibility could be traced (and convicted) gives us that. i find that mr. bohlmann goes to the same church i attend!" his mother was not surprised. she had always known her peter was a hero, and needed no "york papers" to teach her the fact. still she read every line of the case, and of the subsequent crusade. she read peter's speech again and again, stopping to sob at intervals, and hugging the clipping to her bosom from time to time, as the best equivalent for peter, while sobbing: "my boy, my darling boy." every one in the mill-town knew of it, and the clippings were passed round among peter's friends, beginning with the clergyman and ending with his school-boy companions. they all wondered why peter had spoken so briefly. "if i could talk like that," said a lawyer to the proud mother, "i'd have spoken for a couple of hours." mrs. stirling herself wished it had been longer. four columns of evidence, and only a little over a half column of speech! it couldn't have taken him twenty minutes at the most. "even the other lawyer, who had nothing to say but lies, took over a column to his speech. and his was printed close together, while that of peter's was spread out (_e.g._ solid and leaded) making the difference in length all the greater." mrs. stirling wondered if there could be a conspiracy against her peter, on the part of the metropolitan press. she had promptly subscribed for a year to the new york paper which glorified peter the most, supposing that from this time on his name would appear on the front page. when she found it did not and that it was not mentioned in the press and health board crusade against the other "swill-milk" dealers, she became convinced that there was some definite attempt to rob peter of his due fame. "why, peter began it all," she explained, "and now the papers and health board pretend it's all their doings." she wrote a letter to the editor of the paper--a letter which was passed round the office, and laughed over not a little by the staff. she never received an answer, nor did the paper give peter the more attention because of it. two days after the trial, peter had another call from dummer. "you handled that case in great style, mr. stirling," he told peter. "you know the ropes as well as far older men. you got just the right evidence out of your witnesses, and not a bit of superfluous rubbish. that's the mistake most young men make. they bury their testimony in unessential details, i tell you, those two children were worth all the rest put together. did you send them to the country on purpose to get that kind of evidence?" "no," said peter. "well, every man in that jury was probably a father, and that child's talk took right hold of them. not but that your speech would have done the business. you were mighty clever in just telling what you saw, and not going into the testimony. you could safely trust the judge to do that. it was a great speech." "thank you," said peter. "he's not to be taffied," thought the lawyer. "plain talking's the way to deal with him." he ended his allusions to the trial, and said: "now, mr. stirling, mr. bohlmann doesn't want to have these civil suits go any further. mr. bohlmann's a man of respectability, with a nice wife and some daughters. the newspapers are giving him quite enough music without your dragging him into court." "it's the only way i can reach him," said peter. "but you mustn't want to reach him. he's really a well-meaning man, and if you ask your clergyman--for i believe you go to dr. purple's church?--you'll find he's very charitable and generous with his money." peter smiled curiously. "distributing money made that way is not much of a charity." "he didn't know," said the lawyer. then catching a look which came into peter's face, he instantly added, "at least, he had no idea it was that bad. he tells me that he hadn't been inside those cow-sheds for four years." "come and see me to-morrow," said peter. after dummer had gone, peter walked uptown, and saw his clergyman. "yes," he was told, "mr. bohlmann has always stood high in the church, and has been liberal and sensible with his money. i can't tell you how this whole thing has surprised and grieved me, mr. stirling. it must be terrible for his wife. his daughters, too, are such nice sweet girls. you've probably noticed them in church?" "no," peter had not noticed them. he did not add that he did not notice young girls--that for some reason they had not interested him since--since-- "where does he live?" inquired peter. "not ten blocks from here," replied dr. purple, and named the street and number. peter looked at his watch and, thanking the clergyman, took his leave. he did not go back to his office, but to the address, and asked for mr. bohlmann. a respectable butler showed him into a handsome parlor and carried his name to the brewer. there were already two girls in the room. one was evidently a caller. the other, a girl with a sweet, kindly, german face, was obviously one of the "nice" daughters. his arrival checked the flow of conversation somewhat, but they went on comparing their summer experiences. when the butler came back and said aloud, "mr. bohlmann will see you in the library, mr. stirling," peter noticed that both girls turned impulsively to look at him, and that the daughter flushed red. he found mr. bohlmann standing uneasily on the rug by the fireplace, and a stout woman gazing out of the window, with her back to the room. "i had a call from your lawyer this morning, mr. bohlmann," said peter, "and i have taken the liberty of coming to see you about the cases." "sid down, sid down," said his host, nervously, though not sitting himself. peter sat down. "i want to do what is best about the matter," he said. the woman turned quickly to look at him, and peter saw that there were tears in her eyes. "vell," said the brewer, "what is dat?" "i don't know," said peter, "and that's why i've come to see you." mr. bohlmann's face worked for a moment. then suddenly he burst into tears. "i give you my word, mr. stirling," he said, "that i didn't know it was so. i haven't had a happy moment since you spoke that day in court." he had heretofore spoken in english with a slight german accent. but this he said in german. he sat down at the table and buried his face in his arms. his wife, who was also weeping, crossed to him, and tried to comfort him by patting him on the back. "i think," said peter, "we had best drop the suits." mr. bohlmann looked up. "it is not the money, mr. stirling," he said, still speaking in german. "see." he drew from a drawer in his desk a check-book, and filling up a check, handed it to peter. it was dated and signed, but the amount was left blank. "there," he said, "i leave it to you what is right." "i think mr. dummer will feel we have not treated him fairly," said peter, "if we settle it in this way." "do not think of him. i will see that he has no cause for complaint," the brewer said. "only let me know it is ended, so that my wife and my daughters--" he choked, and ended the sentence thus. "very well," said peter. "we'll drop the suits." the husband and wife embraced each other in true german fashion. peter rose and came to the table. "three of the cases were for five thousand each, and the other two were for two thousand each," he said, and then hesitated. he wished to be fair to both sides. "i will ask you to fill in the check for eight thousand dollars. that will be two each for three, and one each for two." mr. bohlmann disengaged himself from his wife, and took his pen. "you do not add your fee," he said. "i forgot it," laughed peter, and the couple laughed with him in their happiness. "make it for eight thousand, two hundred and fifty." "och," said the brewer once more resuming his english. "dat is too leedle for vive cases." "no," said peter. "it was what i had decided to charge in case i got any damages." so the check was filled in, and peter, after a warm handshake from both, went back to his office. "dat iss a fine yoong mahn," said the brewer. chapter xvii. a new friend. the day after this episode, peter had the very unusual experience of a note by his morning's mail. except for his mother's weekly letter, it was the first he had received since watts had sailed, two years before. for the moment he thought that it must be from him, and the color came into his face at the mere thought that he would have news of--of--watts. but a moment's glance at the writing showed him he was wrong, and he tore the envelope with little interest in his face. indeed after he had opened it, he looked at his wall for a moment before he fixed his mind on it. it contained a brief note, to this effect: "a recent trial indicates that mr. stirling needs neither praise not reward as incentives for the doing of noble deeds. "but one who prefers to remain unknown cannot restrain her grateful thanks to mr. stirling for what he did; and being debarred from such acts herself, asks that at least she may be permitted to aid him in them by enclosing a counsel fee for 'the case of the tenement children of new york against the inhumanity of men's greed.' "september third." peter looked at the enclosure, and found it was a check for five hundred dollars. he laid it on his desk, and read the note over again. it was beyond question written by a lady. every earmark showed that, from the delicate scent of the paper, to the fine, even handwriting. peter wanted to know who she was. he looked at the check to see by whom it was signed; to find that it was drawn by the cashier of the bank at which it was payable. half an hour later, a rapid walk had brought him to the bank the name of which was on the check. it was an uptown one, which made a specialty of family and women's accounts. peter asked for the cashier. "i've called about this check," he said, when that official materialized, handing the slip of paper to him. "yes," said the cashier kindly, though with a touch of the resigned sorrow in his voice which cashiers of "family's" and women's banks acquire. "you must sign your name on the back, on the left-hand end, and present it to the paying-teller, over at that window. you'll have to be identified if the paying-teller doesn't know you." "i don't want the money," said peter, "i want to know who sent the check to me?" the cashier looked at it more carefully. "oh!" he said. then he looked up quickly at peter? with considerable interest, "are you mr. stirling?" "yes." "well, i filled this up by order of the president, and you'll have to see him about it, if you want more than the money." "can i see him?" "come this way." they went into a small office at the end of the bank. "mr. dyer," said the cashier, "this is mr. stirling, and he's come to see about that check." "glad to see you, mr. stirling. sit down." "i wish to learn who sent the check." "very sorry we can't oblige you. we had positive instructions from the person for whom we drew it, that no name was to be given." "can you receive a letter?" "that was forbidden too." "a message?" "nothing was said about that." "then will you do me the favor to say to the lady that the check will not be cashed till mr. stirling has been able to explain something to her." "certainly. she can't object to that." "thank you." "not at all." the president rose and escorted him to the door. "that was a splendid speech of yours, mr. stirling," he added. "i'm not a bit ashamed to say that it put salt water in my old eyes." "i think," said peter, "it was the deaths of the poor little children, more than anything i said, that made people feel it." the next morning's mail brought peter a second note, in the same handwriting as that of the day before. it read: "miss de voe has received mr. stirling's message and will be pleased to see him in regard to the check, at half after eleven to-day (wednesday) if he will call upon her. "miss de voe regrets the necessity of giving mr. stirling such brief notice, but she leaves new york on thursday." as peter walked up town that morning, he was a little surprised that he was so cool over his intended call. in a few minutes he would be in the presence of a lady, the firmness of whose handwriting indicated that she was not yet decrepit. three years ago such a prospect would have been replete with terror to him. down to that--that week at the pierce's, he had never gone to a place where he expected to "encounter" (for that was the word he formerly used) women without dread. since that week--except for the twenty-four hours of the wedding, he had not "encountered" a lady. yet here he was, going to meet an entire stranger without any conscious embarrassment or suffering. he was even in a sense curious. peter was not given to self-analysis, but the change was too marked a one for him to be unconscious of it. was it merely the poise of added years? was it that he had ceased to care what women thought of him? or was it that his discovery that a girl was lovable had made the sex less terrible to him? such were the questions he asked himself as he walked, and he had not answered them when he rang the bell of the old-fashioned, double house on second avenue. he was shown into a large drawing-room, the fittings of which were still shrouded in summer coverings, preventing peter from inferring much, even if he had had time to do so. but the butler had scarcely left him when, with a well-bred promptness from which peter might have drawn an inference, the rustle of a woman's draperies was heard. rising, peter found himself facing a tall, rather slender woman of between thirty-five and forty. it did not need a second glance from even peter's untrained eye, to realize the suggestion of breeding in the whole atmosphere about her. the gown was of the simplest summer material, but its very simplicity, and a certain lack of "latest fashion" rather than "old-fashionedness" gave it a quality of respectability. every line of the face, the set of the head, and even more the carriage of the figure, conveyed the "look of race." "i must thank you, mr. stirling," she said, speaking deliberately, in a low, mellow voice, by no means so common then as our women's imitation of the english tone and inflexion has since made it, "for suiting your time to mine on such short notice." "you were very kind," said peter, "to comply with my request. any time was convenient to me." "i am glad it suited you." peter had expected to be asked to sit down, but, nothing being said, began his explanation. "i am very grateful, miss de voe, for your note, and for the check. i thank you for both. but i think you probably sent me the latter through a mistake, and so i did not feel justified in accepting it." "a mistake?" "yes. the papers made many errors in their statements. i'm not a 'poor young lawyer' as they said. my mother is comfortably off, and gives me an ample allowance." "yes?" "and what is more," continued peter, "while they were right in saying that i paid some of the expenses of the case, yet i was more than repaid by my fees in some civil suits i brought for the relatives of the children, which we settled very advantageously." "won't you sit down, mr. stirling?" said miss de voe. "i should like to hear about the cases." peter began a very simple narrative of the matter. but miss de voe interjected questions or suppositions here and there, which led to other explanations, and before peter had finished, he had told not merely the history of the cases, but much else. his mention of the two dooley children had brought out the fact of their visit to his mother, and this had explained incidentally her position in the world. the settlement of the cases involved the story of the visit to the brewer's home, and peter, to justify his action, added his interview with his pastor, peter's connection with the case compelled him to speak of his evenings in the "angle," and the solitary life that had sent him there. afterwards, peter was rather surprised at how much he had told. he did not realize that a woman with tact and experience can, without making it evident, lead a man to tell nearly anything and everything he knows, if she is so minded. if women ever really take to the bar seriously, may providence protect the average being in trousers, when on the witness stand. as peter talked, a clock struck. stopping short, he rose. "i must ask your pardon," he said. "i had no idea i had taken so much of your time." then putting his hand in his pocket, he produced the check. "you see that i have made a very good thing out of the whole matter and do not need this." "one moment, mr. stirling," said the lady, still sitting. "can you spare the time to lunch with me? we will sit down at once, and you shall be free to go whenever you wish." peter hesitated. he knew that he had the time, and it did not seem easy to refuse without giving an excuse, which he did not have. yet he did not feel that he had the right to accept an invitation which he had perhaps necessitated by his long call. "thank you," said his hostess, before he had been able to frame an answer. "may i trouble you to pull that bell?" peter pulled the bell, and coming back, tendered the check rather awkwardly to miss de voe. she, however, was looking towards a doorway, which the next moment was darkened by the butler. "morden," she said, "you may serve luncheon at once." "luncheon is served, madam," said morden. miss de voe rose. "mr. stirling, i do not think your explanation has really affected the circumstances which led me to send that check. you acknowledge yourself that you are the poorer for that prosecution, and received no fees for trying it. as i wrote you, i merely was giving a retaining fee in that case, and as none other has been given, i still wish to do it. i cannot do such things myself, but i am weal--i--i can well afford to aid others to do them, and i hope you will let me have the happiness of feeling that i have done my little in this matter." "thank you," said peter. "i was quite willing to take the money, but i was afraid you might have sent it under a misconception." miss de voe smiled at peter with a very nice look in her face. "i am the one to say 'thank you,' and i am most grateful. but we will consider that as ended, and discuss luncheon in its place." peter, despite his usual unconsciousness could not but notice the beauty of the table service. the meal itself was the simplest of summer luncheons, but the silver and china and glass were such as he had never seen before. "what wine will you have with your luncheon, mr. stirling?" he was asked by his hostess. "i don't--none for me," replied peter. "you don't approve of wine?" asked his hostess. "personally i have no feeling about it." "but?" and there was a very big question mark in miss de voe's voice. "my mother is strongly prejudiced against it, so i do not take it. it is really no deprivation to me, while it would mean great anxiety to her if i drank." this started the conversation on peter's mother and his early years, and before it had ended, his hostess had succeeded in learning much more about his origin and his new york life. the clock finally cut him short again, for they lingered at the table long after the meal was finished, though miss de voe made the pretence of eating a grape occasionally. when three o'clock struck, peter, without the least simulating any other cause for going, rose hastily. "i have used up your whole afternoon," he said, apologetically. "i think," smiled miss de voe, "that we are equal culprits in that. i leave town to-morrow, mr. stirling, but return to the city late in october, and if your work and inclination favor it, i hope you will come to see me again?" peter looked at the silver and the china. then he looked at miss de voe, so obviously an aristocrat. "i shall be happy to," he said, "if, when you return, you will send me word that you wish to see me." miss de voe had slightly caught her breath while peter hesitated. "i believe he is going to refuse!" she thought to herself, a sort of stunned amazement seizing her. she was scarcely less surprised at his reply. "i never ask a man twice to call on me, mr. stirling," she said, with a slight hauteur in her voice. "i'm sorry for that," said peter quietly. miss de voe caught her breath again. "good-afternoon," she said, holding out her hand. "i shall hope to see you." "good-bye," said peter, and the next moment was walking towards his office. miss de voe stood for a moment thinking. "that was curious," she thought, "i wonder if he intends to come?" the next evening she was dining with relatives in one of the fashionable summering places, and was telling them about her call "from mr. stirling, the lawyer who made that splendid speech." "i thought," she said, "when i received the message, that i was going to be buried under a bathos of thanks, or else have my gift declined with the expectation that i would gush over the disinterestedness of the refusal. since i couldn't well avoid seeing him, i was quite prepared to snub him, or to take back the money without a word. but he wasn't a bit that kind of creature. he isn't self-assured nor tonguey--rather the reverse. i liked him so, that i forced him to stay to luncheon, and made him tell me a good deal about himself, without his knowing i was doing so. he leads a very unusual life, without seeming conscious that he does, and he tells about it very well. uses just the right word every time, so that you know exactly what he means, without taxing your own brain to fill up blanks. he has such a nice voice too. one that makes you certain of the absolute truth underneath. no. he isn't good looking, though he has fine eyes, and hair. his face and figure are both too heavy." "is he a gentleman, cousin anneke?" asked one of the party. "he is a little awkward, and over-blunt at moments, but nothing to which one would give a second thought. i was so pleased with him that i asked him to call on me." "it seems to me," said another, "that you are over-paying him." "that was the most curious part," replied miss de voe. "i'm not at all sure that he means to come. it was really refreshing not to be truckled to, but it is rather startling to meet the first man who does not want to win his way to my visiting list. i don't think he even knows who miss de voe is." "he will find out quick enough," laughed a girl, "and then he will do what they all do." "no," said miss de voe. "i suspect it will make no difference. he isn't that kind, i think. i really am curious to see if i have to ask him a second time. it will be the only case i can remember. i'm afraid, my dears, your cousin is getting to be an old woman." peter, had in truth, met, and spent over four hours in the company of a woman whom every one wished to know. a woman equally famous for her lineage, her social position, her wealth and her philanthropy. it would not have made any difference, probably, had he known it, though it might have increased his awkwardness a little. that he was not quite as unconscious as miss de voe seemed to think, is shown by a passage in a letter he wrote to his mother: "she was very much interested in the case, and asked a good many questions about it, and about myself. some which i would rather not have answered, but since she asked them i could not bring myself to dodge them. she asked me to come and see her again. it is probably nothing but a passing interest, such as this class feel for the moment."--[then peter carefully inked out "such as this class feel for the moment," and reproved himself that his bitterness at--at--at one experience, should make him condemn a whole class]--"but if she asks me again i shall go, for there is something very sweet and noble about her. i think she is probably some great personage." later on in the letter he wrote: "if you do not disapprove, i will put this money in the savings bank, in a special or trustee account, and use it for any good that i can do for the people about here. i gave the case my service, and do not think i am entitled to take pay when the money can be so much better employed for the benefit of the people i tried to help." chapter xviii. another client. peter had seen his clients on the morning following the settlement of the cases, and told them of their good fortune. they each had a look at bohlmann's check, and then were asked how they would like their shares. "sure," said dooley, "oi shan't know what to do wid that much money." "i think," said peter, "that your two thousand really belongs to the children." "that it does," said mrs. dooley, quite willing to deprive her husband of it, for the benefit of her children. "but what shall oi do wid it?" asked mr. dooley. "i'd like mr. stirling to take charge of mine," said blackett. "that's the idea," said dooley. and so it was settled by all. peter said the best thing would be to put it in the savings bank. "perhaps later we'll find something better." they all went around to a well-known institution on the bowery, and peter interviewed the cashier. it proved feasible to endorse over the check to the bank, and credit the proper share to each. "i shall have to ask you to give me the odd two hundred and fifty," peter said, "as that is my legal fee." "you had better let me put that in your name, mr. stirling?" said the president, who had been called into the consultation. "very well," said peter. "i shall want some of it before long, but the rest will be very well off here." so a book was handed him, and the president shook him by the hand with all the warmth that eight thousand two hundred and fifty dollars of increased assets and four new depositors implied. peter did not need to draw any of the two hundred and fifty dollars, however. in november he had another knock at his door. it proved to be mr. dennis moriarty, of whom we have incidentally spoken in connection with the half-price drinks for the milligan wake, and as spokesman of the torchlight procession. "good-mornin' to yez, sir," said the visitor. it was a peculiarity of peter's that he never forgot faces. he did not know mr. moriarty's name, never having had it given him, but he placed him instantly. "thank you," said peter, holding out his hand. peter did not usually shake hands in meeting people, but he liked the man's face. it would never take a prize for beauty. the hair verged on a fiery red, the nose was a real sky-scraper and the upper lip was almost proboscidian in its length. but every one liked the face. "it's proud oi'm bein' shakin' the hand av misther stirling," said the irishman. "sit down," said peter. "my name's moriarty, sir, dinnis moriarty, an' oi keeps a saloon near centre street, beyant." "you were round here in the procession." "oi was, sir. shure, oi'm not much at a speech, compared to the likes av yez, but the b'ys would have me do it." peter said something appropriate, and then there was a pause. "misther stirling," finally said moriarty, "oi was up before justice gallagher yesterday, an' he fined me bad. oi want yez to go to him, an' get him to be easier wid me. it's yezself can do it." "what were you fined for?" asked peter. "for bein' open on sunday." "then you ought to be fined." "don't say that till oi tell yez. oi don't want to keep my place open, but it's in my lease, an' so oi have to." "in your lease?" enquired peter. "yes." and the paper was handed over to him. peter ran over the three documents. "i see," he said, "you are only the caretaker really, the brewer having an assignment of the lease and a chattel mortgage on your fixtures and stock." "that's it," said dennis. "it's mighty quick yez got at it. it's caretaker oi am, an' a divil of a care it is. shure, who wants to work seven days a week, if he can do wid six?" "you should have declined to agree to that condition?" "then oi'd have been turned out. begobs, it's such poor beer that it's little enough oi sell even in seven days." "why don't you get your beer elsewhere then?" "why, it's edelhein put me in there to sell his stuff, an' he'd never let me sell anythin' else." "then edelhein is really the principal, and you are only put in to keep him out of sight?" "that's it" "and you have put no money in yourself?" "divil a cent." "then why doesn't he pay the fine?" "he says oi have no business to be afther bein' fined. as if any one sellin' his beer could help bein' fined!" "how is that?" said peter, inferring that selling poor beer was a finable offence, yet ignorant of the statute. "why yez see, sir, the b'ys don't like that beer--an' sensible they are--so they go to other places, an' don't come to my place." "but that doesn't explain your fines." "av course it does. shure, if the boys don't come to my place, it's little oi can do at the primary, an' so it's no pull oi have in politics, to get the perlice an' the joodges to be easy wid me, like they are to the rest." peter studied his blank wall a bit. "shure, if it's good beer oi had," continued moriarty, "oi'd be afther beatin' them all, for oi was always popular wid the b'ys, on account of my usin' my fists so fine." peter smiled. "why don't you go into something else?" he asked. "well, there's mother and the three childers to be supported, an' then oi'd lose my influence at the primary." "what kind of beer does mr. bohlmann make?" asked peter, somewhat irrelevantly. "ah," said moriarty, "that's the fine honest beer! there's never anythin' wrong wid his. an' he treats his keepers fair. lets them do as they want about keepin' open sundays, an' never squeezes a man when he's down on his luck." peter looked at his wall again. peter was learning something. "supposing," he asked, "i was able to get your fine remitted, and that clause struck out of the lease. would you open on sunday?" "divil a bit." "when must you pay the fine?" "oi'm out on bail till to-morrow, sir." "then leave these papers with me, and come in about this time." peter studied his wall for a bit after his new client was gone. he did not like either saloon-keepers or law-breakers, but this case seemed to him to have--to have--extenuating circumstances. his cogitations finally resulted in his going to justice gallagher's court. he found the judge rather curt. "he's been up here three times in as many months, and i intend to make an example of him." "but why is only he arrested, when every saloon keeper in the neighborhood does the same thing?" "now, sir," said the judge, "don't waste any more of my time. what's the next case?" a look we have mentioned once or twice came into peter's face. he started to leave the court, but encountered at the door one of the policemen whom he was "friends with," according to the children, which meant that they had chatted sometimes in the "angle." "what sort of a man is dennis moriarty?" he asked of him. "a fine young fellow, supporting his mother and his younger brothers." "why is justice gallagher so down on him?" the policeman looked about a moment. "it's politics, sir, and he's had orders." "from whom?" "that's more than we know. there was a row last spring in the primary, and we've had orders since then to lay for him." peter stood and thought for a moment. "what saloon-keeper round here has the biggest pull?" he asked. "it's all of them, mostly, but blunkers is a big man." "thank you," said peter. he stood in the street thinking a little. then he walked a couple of blocks and went into blunkers's great gin palace. "i want to see the proprietor," he said. "dat's me," said a man who was reading a paper behind the bar. "do you know justice gallagher?" "do i? well, i guess," said the man. "will you do me the favor to go with me to his court, and get him to remit dennis moriarty's fine?" "will i? no. i will not. der's too many saloons, and one less will be bully." "in that case," said peter quietly, "i suppose you won't mind my closing yours up?" "wot der yer mean?" angrily inquired the man. "if it comes to closing saloons, two can play at that game." "who is yer, anyway?" the man came out from behind the bar, squaring his shoulders in an ugly manner. "my name's stirling. peter stirling." the man looked at him with interest. "how'll yer close my place?" "get evidence against you, and prosecute you." "dat ain't de way." "it will be my way." "wot yer got against me?" "nothing. but i intend to see moriarty have fair play. you want to fight on the square too. you're not a man to hit a fellow in the dark." peter was not flattering the man. he had measured him and was telling him the result of that measure. he told it, too, in a way that made the other man realize the opinion behind the words. "come on," said blunkers, good-naturedly. they went over to the court, and a whispered colloquy took place between the justice and the bartender. "that's all right, mr. stirling," presently said the judge. "clerk, strike dennis moriarty's fine off the list." "thank you," said peter to the saloon-keeper. "if i can ever do a turn for you, let me know it." "dat's hunky," said the man, and they parted. peter went out and walked into the region of the national milk company, but this time he went to the brewery. he found mr. bohlmann, and told him the story, asking his advice at the end. "dondt you vool von minute mit dod edelheim. i dells you vot i do. i harf choost a blace vacant down in zender streed, and your frient he shall it haf." so they chatted till all the details had been arranged. dennis was to go in as caretaker, bound to use only bohlmann's beer, with a percentage on that, and the profits on all else. he was to pay the rent, receiving a sub-lease from bohlmann, who was only a lesee himself, and to give a chattel mortgage on the stock supplied him. finally he was to have the right of redemption of stock, lease, and good-will at any time within five years, on making certain payments. "you draw up der babers, misder stirling, and send der bill to me. ve vill give der yoonger a chance," the brewer said. when dennis called the next day, he was "spacheless" at the new developments. he wrung peter's hand. "arrah, what can oi say to yez?" he exclaimed finally. then having found something, he quickly continued: "now, patsy blunkers, lookout for yezself. it's the divil oi'll give yez in the primary this year." he begged peter to come down the opening night, and help to "celebrate the event." "thank you," said peter, "but i don't think i will." "shure," said dennis, "yez needn't be afraid it won't be orderly. it's myself can do the hittin', an' the b'ys know it." "my mother brought me up," peter explained, "not to go into saloons, and when i came to new york i promised her, if i ever did anything she had taught me not to, that i would write her about it. she would hardly understand this visit, and it might make her very unhappy." peter earned fifty dollars by drawing the papers, and at the end of the first month dennis brought him fifty more. "trade's been fine, sir, an' oi want to pay something for what yez did." so peter left his two hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, having recouped the expenses of the first case out of his new client. he wrote all about it to his mother: "i am afraid you won't approve of what i did entirely, for i know your strong feeling against men who make and sell liquor. but i somehow have been made to feel in the last few days that more can be done in the world by kindness and help than by frowns and prosecutions. i had no thought of getting money out of the case, so i am sure i was not influenced by that. it seemed to me that a man was being unfairly treated, and that too, by laws which are meant for other purposes. i really tried to think it out, and do what seemed right to me. my last client has a look and a way of speaking that makes me certain he's a fine fellow, and i shall try to see something of him, provided it will not worry you to think of me as friendly with a saloon-keeper. i know i can be of use to him." little did peter know how useful his last client would be to him. chapter xix. the primary. after this rush of work, peter's life became as routine as of yore. the winter passed without an event worth noting, if we except a steadily growing acquaintance with the dwellers of the district. but in july a new phase was injected into it by a call from dennis moriarty. "good-mornin' to yez, sir, an' a fine day it is," said the latter, with his usually breezy way. "yes," said peter. "misther stirling. an' is it engaged yez are for this night?" "no." peter had nothing. "then," said dennis, "maybe ye'll be afther goin' wid me to the primary?" "what primary?" "for the election of delegates to the convention, shure." "no. what party?" "what party is it?" "yes." "misther stirling, do yez know my name?" "dennis moriarty, isn't it?" "yes. an' what's my business?" "you keep a saloon." "yes. an' what ward do oi live in?" "the sixth, don't you?" "then," said dennis, his upper lip twisting into a smile of enormous proportions, "oi suppose yez afther thinkin' oi'm a dirty black republican." peter laughed, as few could help doing, when dennis led the way. "look here, dennis," he said, "don't you run down that party. my father was a democrat, but he voted for lincoln, and fought for the blacks when the time came, and though i'm a democrat like him, the republicans are only black in their sympathies, and not in their acts." "an' what do yez say to the whisky frauds, an' black friday, an' credit mobilier?" asked dennis. "of course i don't like them," said peter; "but that's the politicians, not the party." "shure," said dennis, "what's the party but the men that run it?" "you've seen something of mr. bohlmann lately, dennis?" "yes." "well, he was the man who put goldman in charge of that cow stable. yet he's an honest man." dennis scratched his head. "it's a convincin' way yez have wid yez," he said; "but it's scoundrels the republicans are, all the same. look at them in the district; there's not one a decent man would invite to drink wid him." "i think, dennis," said peter, "that when all the decent men get into one party, there'll be only one worth talking about." "av course," replied dennis. "that's the reason there's only the democratic party in new york city." "tell me about this primary," said peter, concluding that abstract political philosophy was not the way to liberalize dennis. "it's most important, it is," he was told, "it's on top patsy blunkers an' his gang av dirty spalpeens (dennis seemed to forget that he had just expressed the opinion that all the "decent" men were democrats) have been this two years, but we've got orders for a new enrollment at last, an' if we don't knock them this time, my name isn't dinnis moriarty." "what is the question before the meeting?" "afther the enrollment, it's to vote for delegates." "oh! then it's just a struggle over who shall be elected?" "that's it. but a fine, big fight it will be. the whole district's so excited, sir, that it's twice oi've had to pound the b'ys a bit in my saloon to keep the peace." "what do you want of me?" "shure, every vote counts on a night like this. an' ye'd be afther helpin' us big, for the district likes yez." "but, dennis, i can't vote without knowing something about the way things are. i shouldn't know whether i was voting rightly." "why, a man votes right when he votes for his friends!" "no; a man votes right when he votes for his convictions." "convictions, is it?" "yes. that is, he votes as he thinks is best for the country." "that, maybe, is the way yez do it where yez come from," said dennis, "but it's no good it would be here. convictions, whatever they be, are never nominated here. it's real things we're afther votin' for in new york." peter laughed. "i've got to take you in hand, dennis, and you've got to take me in hand. i think we both need each other's help. yes, i'll come to the primary. will they let me vote?" "the dirty spalpeens will never dare to stop yez! thank yez, sir. oi'll be along for yez about eight." "remember, though, dennis--i don't say how i'll vote." "yez just listen, an i'm not afraid av what ye'll do." that evening, peter was ushered into a large hot room, pretty well packed with men, and the interstices already filled in with dense tobacco smoke. he looked about him curiously, and was surprised to find how many of the faces he knew. blackett, dooley, and milligan were there, and shook hands with him warmly. judge gallagher and blunkers were in evidence. in plain clothes were two policemen, and three of the "fire-laddies," who formed part of the "crew" of the nearest engine, with all of whom he had often chatted. mr. dummer, his rival lawyer in the case, and one of the jurymen in it, likewise were visible. also many faces which were familiar to peter by a former occasional friendly word or nod exchanged in passing. intense excitement evidently reigned, and every one was whispering in a sort of breathless way, which showed how deeply interested they were. at dennis's suggestion, made in walking to the room, peter presented himself without guidance, at the desk. some one behind him asked if he lived in the ward, and for how long, but this was the only apparent opposition made to the prompt entering of his name. then peter strolled round and talked to those whom he knew, and tried to find out, without much success, just what was the division. every one knew that a fight was on, but in just what it consisted they seemed neither to know nor care. he noticed that hot words were constantly exchanged at the enrolling desk, over would-be members, but not understanding the exact nature of the qualifications needed, he could not follow the disputes. finally these ceased, for want of applicants. "misther stirling," said dennis, coming up to him hurriedly. "will yez be afther bein' chairman for us?" "no. i don't know anything about the proceedings." "it don't take any," said dennis. "it's only fair play we're afther." he was gone again before peter could say anything. the next instant, the enrolling officer rose and spoke. "are there any more to be enrolled?" he called. no one came forward, so after a moment he said: "will the meeting choose a presiding officer?" "mr. chairman," rang two voices so quickly that they in truth cut the presiding officer off in his suggestion. "mr. muldoon," said that officer. "oi spoke first," shouted dennis, and peter felt that he had, and that he was not having fair play. instantly a wave of protest, denials, charges, and counter-charges swept through the room, peter thought there was going to be a fight, but the position was too critical to waste a moment on what dennis styled "a diversion." it was business, not pleasure, just then. "mr. muldoon," said the officer again, not heeding the tempest in the least. "mr. chairman," shouted muldoon, "i am proud to nominate justice gallagher, the pride of the bar, for chairman of this distinguished meeting, and i move to make his election unanimous." "misther chairman," shouted dennis. "mr. moriarty," said the officer. "misther chairman, oi have the honor to nominate for chairman av this meetin' the people's an' the children's friend, misther peter stirling, an' oi don't have to move to make it unanimous, for such is the intelligince an' manhood av this meetin' that it will be that way for shure." peter saw a hurried consultation going on between gallagher, muldoon, and two others, during the latter part of this speech, and barely had dennis finished his remarks, when justice gallagher spoke up. "mr. chairman." "the honorable justice gallagher," said that gentleman. "i take pride in withdrawing in favor of mr. stirling, who so justly merits the honor of presiding on this important occasion. from recent events too well known to need mention, i am sure we can all look to him for justice and fairness." "bad cess to him!" groaned dennis. "oi hoped they'd be just fools enough to oppose yez, an' then we'd have won the first blood." peter was chosen without dissent, and was escorted to the seat behind the desk. "what is the first business before the meeting?" he asked of gallagher, aside, as he was taking his seat. "election of delegates to the state convention. that's all to-night," he was told. peter had presided at college in debates, and was not flurried. "will you stay here so as to give me the names of those i don't know?" he said to the enrolling officer. "the meeting will please come to order," he continued aloud. "the nomination of delegates to the state convention is the business to be acted upon." "misther chairman," yelled dennis, evidently expecting to find another rival as before. but no one spoke. "mr. moriarty," said peter. "misther chairman. it's my delight to nominate as delegates to the state convention, the honorable misther schlurger, our distinguished representative in the assembly, the honorable misther kennedy, our noble police-commissioner, an' misther caggs, whom it would be insult for me to praise in this company." "second the motion," said some one. "mr. chairman," shouted a man. "that's caggs," said the enrolling officer. "mr. caggs," said peter. "mr. chairman," said caggs. "i must decline the honor offered me from such a source." "what?" shrieked dennis, amazement and rage contesting for first place in voice and expression. "mr. chairman," said dummer. "mr. dummer," said peter. "i have the honor to nominate the honorable justice gallagher, mr. peter sweeney, and mr. caggs, to whom mr. moriarty has just paid so glowing a tribute, as delegates to the state convention." "second the--" shouted some one, but the rest was drowned by another storm which swept through the room. even above the tumult, peter could hear dennis challenging and beseeching mr. caggs to come "outside an' settle it like gentlemen." caggs, from a secure retreat behind blunkers's right arm, declined to let the siren's song tempt him forth. finally peter's pounding brought a degree of quiet again. "misther chairman," said dennis. "mr. moriarty," said peter. "misther chairman. oi'll not take the valuable time av this meetin' to speak av dirty, cowardly, black-hearted, treacherous snakes, wid souls blacker than the divil's own--" "order!" said peter to the crowd. "no," continued dennis, in answer to the audible remarks of the opposition. "it's no names oi'm callin'. if yez know such a beast, such a snake, fit it to him. oi'm mentionin' no names. as oi was sayin', misther chairman, oi'll not waste the time av this meetin' wid discribin' the conduct av a beast so vile that he must be the contempt av every honest man. who would have been driven out by st. patrick, wid the rest av the reptiles, if he'd lived at that time. oi only rise to widdraw the name av caggs from the list oi nominated for delegates to the state convention, an' to put in place av it that av a man who is as noble an' true, as some are false an' divilish. that of misther peter stirling, god bless him!" once more chaos came. peter pounded in vain. both sides were at fever heat. finally peter rose. "gentlemen," he shouted, in a voice that rang through the hall above even the tumult, "if this meeting does not come to order, i shall declare it adjourned." instant quiet fell, for all had paused a moment to hear his words, and they concluded that he was in earnest. "was the last motion seconded?" asked the chairman calmly. "i seconded it," shouted blackett and milligan together. "you have heard the nominations, gentlemen. has any one any remarks to make?" a man next justice gallagher said, "mr. chairman," and being duly recognized, proceeded to talk for ten minutes in a very useless way. but during this time, peter noticed first a good deal of whispering among blunkers's friends, and then an interview between gallagher and dennis. the latter was apparently not reconcilable, and shook his head in a way that meant war. then there was more consultation between the opposition, and another confab with dennis, with more headshakes on his part. finally a compromise having been evidently made impossible, the orator was "called down" and it was voted to proceed to an election. peter named one of the firemen, dooley, and blunkers, tellers, who, after a ballot, announced that dennis had carried his nominations, peter heading the list with two hundred and twelve votes, and the others getting one hundred and seventy-two, and one hundred and fifty-eight respectively. the "snake" got but fifty-seven votes. "shure," said dennis, later, "maybe we don't vote for convictions here, but we don't vote for the likes av him!" "then you are voting for convictions," said peter. "it's yezself is the convictions then," said dennis. perhaps he was right. chapter xx. a political debut. peter declared the meeting adjourned as soon as the results of the election had been read, and slipped away in the turmoil that immediately followed, without a word to any one. he was in truth not bewildered--because he had too much natural poise and phlegm--but he was surprised by the suddenness of it all, and wanted to think before talking with others. so he took advantage of the mutual bickerings and recriminations which seemed the order of the day, to get back to his office, and there he sat, studying his wall for a time. then he went to bed, and slept as quickly and as calmly as if he had spent his evening in reading the "modern cottage architecture" or "questions de sociologie," which were on his table instead of presiding at a red-hot primary, and being elected a delegate. the next morning dennis came to see him as early as well could be. "misther stirling," he said, his face expanding into the broadest of grins, "let me salute the delegate to the state convention." "look here, dennis," said peter, "you know you had no business to spring that on me." "ah, sir! shure, when that dirty little spalpeen av a caggs went back on us so, what could oi do? oi know it's speak to yez oi ought, but wid de room yellin' like that it's divilish tryin' to do the right thing quick, barrin' it's not hittin' some one's head, which always comes natural." "well," said peter, "of course i'm very much pleased to have been chosen, but i wish it could have been done with less hard feeling." "hard feelin,' is it?" "yes." "shure, the b'ys are as pleased and kindly this mornin' as can be. it's a fight like that makes them yieldin' an' friendly. nothin' but a little head-punchin' could make them in a sweeter mood, an' we'd a given them that if little caggs had had any sense in him." "you mean gallagher and blunkers and the rest of them?" "av course. that little time last night didn't mean much. no one feels bad over that. shure, it's gallagher was in my place later last night, an' we had a most friendly time, he treatin' the whole crowd twice. we've got to fight in the primary to keep the b'ys interested, but it's seldom that they're not just as friendly the next day." peter looked at his wall. he had not liked gallagher at either time he had met him. "still," he thought to himself, "i have no right to prevent him and dennis being friends, from the little i've seen." "now, sir, about the convention?" said dennis. "i suppose porter is the best man talked of for the nomination," remarked peter. "begobs, sir, that he's not," said dennis. "it's justice gallagher was tellin' me himself that he was a poor kind av creature, wid a strong objection to saloons." peter's eye lost its last suggestion of doubt. "oh, justice gallagher told you that?" he asked. "when?" "last night." "after the primary?" "av course." "whom does he favor?" "catlin." "well, dennis, you've made me a delegate, but i've got to vote my own way." "shure, sir, oi'd not have yez do any thin' else. it's yezself knows better than me. oi was only tellin' yez what the justice--" a knock at the door interrupted him. it proved to be gallagher, who greeted them both in a hearty, friendly way. peter brought another chair from his bedroom. "well, mr. stirling, that was a fine contest we had last night," said his honor. "it seemed to be earnest," said peter. "it's just as well our friend here sprang your nomination on us as a surprise, for if we had known, we should not have put up an opposition candidate. you are just the sort of a man we want to represent us in the convention." "i have never met my colleagues," said peter. "what kind of men are they?" so he got gallagher's opinion, and dennis's opinion. then he wanted to know about the candidates, asking questions about them at considerable length. the intentions of the other city delegates were next introduced. finally the probable planks of the platform were brought up. while they were still under discussion gallagher said the sitting of his court compelled him to leave. "i'll come in some time when i have more to spare." gallagher went to his court, and found a man waiting for him there. "he's either very simple or very deep," said gallagher. "he did nothing but ask questions; and try my best i could not get him to show his hand, nor commit himself. it will be bad if there's a split in a solid delegation!" "i hope it will be a lesson to you to have things better arranged." "blunkers would have it that way, and he's not the kind of man to offend. we all thought he would win." "oh, let them have their fights," said the man crossly; "but it's your business to see that the right men are put up, so that it doesn't make any difference which side wins." "well," said gallagher, "i've done all i could to put things straight. i've made peace, and got moriarty on our side, and i've talked to this stirling, and made out a strong case for catlin, without seeming to care which man gets the nomination." "is there any way of putting pressure on him?" "not that i can find out. he's a young lawyer, who has no business." "then he's a man we don't need to conciliate, if he won't behave?" "no. i can't say that. he's made himself very popular round here by that case and by being friendly to people. i don't think, if he's going into politics, that it will do to fight him." "he's such a green hand that we ought to be able to down him." "he's new, but he's a pretty cool, knowing chap, i think. i had one experience with him, which showed me that any man who picked him up for a fool would drop him quick." then he told how dennis's fine had been remitted. in the next few weeks peter met a good many men who wanted to talk politics with him. gallagher brought some; dennis others; his fellow-ward delegates, more. but peter could not be induced to commit himself. he would talk candidates and principles endlessly, but without expressing his own mind. twice he was asked point blank, "who's your man?" but he promptly answered that he had not yet decided. he had always read a democratic paper, but now he read two, and a republican organ as well. his other reading lessened markedly, and the time gained was spent in talking with men in the "district." he even went into the saloons and listened to the discussions. "i don't drink," he had to explain several times, "because my mother doesn't like it." for some reason this explanation seemed to be perfectly satisfactory. one man alone sneered at him. "does she feed yer still on milk, sonny?" he asked. "no," said peter, "but everything i have comes from her, and that's the kind of a mother a fellow wants to please; don't you think so?" the sneerer hesitated, and finally said he "guessed it was." so peter was made one of them, and smoked and listened. he said very little, but that little was sound, good sense, and, if he did not talk, he made others do so; and, after the men had argued over something, they often looked at peter, rather than at their opponents, to see if he seemed to approve of their opinions. "it's a fine way he has wid the b'ys," dennis told his mother. "he makes them feel that he's just the likes av them, an' that he wants their minds an' opinions to help him. shure, they'd rather smoke one pipe av his tobaccy than drink ten times at gallagher's expense." after peter had listened carefully and lengthily, he wrote to "the honorable lemuel porter, hudson, n.y.," asking him if he could give him an hour's talk some day. the reply was prompt, and told peter that porter would be glad to see him any time that should suit his convenience. so peter took a day off and ran up to hudson. "i am trying to find out for whom i should vote," he explained to porter. "i'm a new man at this sort of thing, and, not having met any of the men talked of, i preferred to see them before going to the convention." porter found that peter had taken the trouble to go over a back file of papers, and read some of his speeches. "of course," peter explained, "i want, as far as possible, to know what you think of questions likely to be matters for legislation." "the difficulty in doing that, mr. stirling," he was told, "is that every nominee is bound to surrender his opinions in a certain degree to the party platform, while other opinions have to be modified to new conditions." "i can see that," said peter. "i do not for a moment expect that what you say to-day is in any sense a pledge. if a man's honest, the poorest thing we can do to him is to tie him fast to one course of action, when the conditions are constantly changing. but, of course, you have opinions for the present state of things?" something in peter's explanation or face pleased mr. porter. he demurred no more, and, for an hour before lunch, and during that meal, he talked with the utmost freedom. "i'm not easily fooled on men," he told his secretary afterwards, "and you can say what you wish to that stirling without danger of its being used unfairly or to injure one. and he's the kind of man to be won by square dealing." peter had spoken of his own district "i think," he said, "that some good can be done in the way of non-partisan legislation. i've been studying the food supplies of the city, and, if i can, i shall try to get a bill introduced this winter to have official inspections systematized." "that will receive my approval if it is properly drawn. but you'll probably find the health board fighting you. it's a nest of politicians." "if they won't yield, i shall have to antagonize them, but i have had some talks with the men there, in connection with the 'swill-milk' investigations, and i think i can frame a bill that will do what i want, yet which they will not oppose. i shall try to make them help me in the drafting, for they can make it much better through their practical experience." "if you do that, the opposition ought not to be troublesome. what else do you want?" "i've been thinking of a general tenement-house bill, but i don't think i shall try for that this winter. it's a big subject, which needs very careful study, in which a lot of harm may be done by ignorance. there's no doubt that anything which hurts the landlord, hurts the tenant, and if you make the former spend money, the tenant pays for it in the long run. yet health must be protected. i shall try to find out what can be done." "i wish you would get into the legislature yourself, mr. stirling." "i shall not try for office. i want to go on with my profession. but i shall hope to work in politics in the future." peter took another day off, and spent a few minutes of it with the other most promising candidate. he did not see very much of him, for they were interrupted by another caller, and peter had to leave before he could have a chance to continue the interview. "i had a call to-day from that fellow stirling, who's a delegate from the sixth ward," the candidate told a "visiting statesman" later. "i'm afraid he'll give us trouble. he asks too many questions. fortunately dewilliger came to see me, and though i shouldn't have seen him ordinarily, i found his call very opportune as a means of putting an end to stirling's cross-examination." "he's the one doubtful man on the city's delegation," said the statesman. "it happened through a mistake. it will be very unfortunate if we can't cast a solid city vote." peter talked more in the next few days. he gave the "b'ys" his impressions of the two candidates, in a way which made them trust his conclusions. he saw his two fellow delegates, and argued long and earnestly with them. he went to every saloon-keeper in the district, and discussed the change in the liquor law which was likely to be a prominent issue in the campaign, telling them what he had been able to draw from both candidates about the subject. "catlin seems to promise you the most," he told them, "and i don't want to say he isn't trying to help you. but if you get the law passed which he promises to sign, you won't be much better off. in the first place, it will cost you a lot of money, as you know, to pass it; and then it will tempt people to go into the business, so that it will cut your profits that way. then, you may stir up a big public sentiment against you in the next election, and so lay yourselves open to unfriendly legislation. it is success, or trying to get too much, which has beaten every party, sooner or later, in this country. look at slavery. if the southerners had left things as they were under the missouri compromise, they never would have stirred up the popular outbreak that destroyed slavery. now, porter is said to be unfriendly to you, because he wants a bill to limit the number of licenses, and to increase the fee to new saloons. don't you see that is all in your favor, though apparently against you? in the first place, you are established, and the law will be drawn so as to give the old dealer precedence over a new one in granting fresh licenses. this limit will really give the established saloon more trade in the future, by reducing competition. while the increase in fee to new saloons will do the same." "by ----, yer right," said blunkers. "that's too good a name to use that way," said peter, but more as if he were stating a fact than reproving. blunkers laughed good-naturedly. "yer'll be gittin' usen to close up yet, mister stirling. yer too good for us." peter looked at him. "blunkers," he said warmly, "no man is too good not to tell the truth to any one whom he thinks it will help." "shake," said blunkers. then he turned to the men at the tables. "step up, boys," he called. "i sets it up dis time to drink der health of der feller dat don't drink." the boys drank chapter xxi. a political dinner. peter had only a month for work after reaching his own conclusions, before the meeting of the convention, but in that month he worked hard. as the result, a rumor, carrying dismay to the party leaders, became current. "what's this i hear?" said gallagher's former interviewer to that gentleman. "they say schlurger says he intends to vote for porter, and kennedy's getting cold?" "if you'll go through the sixth you'll hear more than that." "what do you mean?" "there was a torchlight last night, of nearly every voter in the ward, and nothing but stirling prevented them from making the three delegates pledge themselves to vote for porter. he said they must go unbound." the interviewer's next remark is best represented by several "blank its," no allusion however being intended to bed-coverings. then he cited the lower regions to know what it all meant. "it means that that chap stirling has got to be fixed, and fixed big. i thought i knew how to wire pull, and manage men, but he's taken hold and just runs it as he wants. it's he makes all the trouble." the interviewer left the court, and five minutes later was in stirling's office. "my name's green," he said. "i'm a delegate to the convention, and one of the committee who has the arranging of the special train and accommodations at saratoga." "i'm glad you came in," said peter. "i bought my ticket yesterday, and the man at headquarters said he'd see that i was assigned a room at the united states." "there'll be no trouble about the arrangements. what i want to see you for, is to ask if you won't dine with me this evening? there's to be several of the delegates and some big men there, to talk over the situation." "i should like to," said peter. the man pulled out a card, and handed it to peter. "six o'clock sharp," he said. then he went to headquarters, and told the result of his two interviews. "now who had better be there?" he asked. after consultation, a dinner of six was arranged. the meal proved to be an interesting one to peter. first, he found that all the guests were well-known party men, whose names and opinions were matters of daily notice in the papers. what was more, they talked convention affairs, and peter learned in the two hours' general conversation more of true "interests" and "influences" and "pulls" and "advantages" than all his reading and talking had hitherto gained him. he learned that in new york the great division of interest was between the city and country members, and that this divided interest played a part in nearly every measure. "now," said one of the best known men at the table, "the men who represent the city, must look out for the city. porter's a fine man, but he has no great backing, and no matter how well he intends by us, he can't do more than agree to such bills as we can get passed. but catlin has the monroe members of the legislature under his thumb, and his brother-in-law runs onandaga. he promises they shall vote for all we want. with that aid, we can carry what new york city needs, in spite of the country members." "would the country members refuse to vote for really good and needed city legislation?" asked peter. "every time, unless we agree to dicker with them on some country job. the country members hold the interest of the biggest city in this country in their hands, and threaten or throttle those interests every time anything is wanted." "and when it comes to taxation," added another, "the country members are always giving the cities the big end to carry." "i had a talk with catlin," said peter. "it seemed to me that he wasn't the right kind of man." "catlin's a timid man, who never likes to commit himself. that's because he always wants to do what his backers tell him. of course when a man does that, he hasn't decided views of his own, and naturally doesn't wish to express what he may want to take back an hour later." "i don't like straw men," said peter. "a man who takes other people's opinions is not a bad governor, mr. stirling. it all depends on whose opinion he takes. if we could find a man who was able to do what the majority wants every time, we could re-elect him for the next fifty years. you must remember that in this country we elect a man to do what we want--not to do what he wants himself." "yes," said peter. "but who is to say what the majority wants?" "aren't we--the party leaders--who are meeting daily the ward leaders, and the big men in the different districts, better able to know what the people want than the man who sits in the governor's room, with a doorkeeper to prevent the people from seeing him?" "you may not choose to do what the people want." "of course. i've helped push things that i knew were unpopular. but this is very unusual, because it's risky. remember, we can only do things when our party is in power, so it is our interest to do what will please the people, if we are to command majorities and remain in office. individually we have got to do what the majority of our party wants done, or we are thrown out, and new men take our places. and it's just the same way with the parties." "well," said peter, "i understand the condition better, and can see what i could not fathom before, why the city delegates want catlin. but my own ward has come out strong for porter. we've come to the conclusion that his views on the license question are those which are best for us, and besides, he's said that he will stand by us in some food and tenement legislation we want." "i know about that change, and want to say, mr. stirling, that few men of your years and experience, were ever able to do as much so quickly. but there are other sides, even to these questions, which you may not have yet considered. any proposed restriction on the license will not merely scare a lot of saloon-keepers, who will only understand that it sounds unfriendly, but it will alienate every brewer and distiller, for their interest is to see saloons multiplied. then food and tenement legislation always stirs up bad feeling in the dealers and owners. if the opposite party would play fair, we could afford to laugh at it, but you see the party out of power can oppose about anything, knowing that a minority is never held responsible, and so by winning over the malcontents which every piece of legislation is sure to make, before long it goes to the polls with a majority, though it has really been opposing the best interests of the whole state. we can't sit still, and do nothing, yet everything we do will alienate some interest." "it's as bad as the doctrine of fore-ordination," laughed another of the party: "you can't if you will, you can if you won't, you'll be damned if you do, you'll be damned if you don't." "you just said," stated peter, "that the man who could do what the majority wants done every time, would be re-elected. doesn't it hold true as to a party?" "no. a party is seldom retained in power for such reasons. if it has a long tenure of office it is generally due to popular distrust of the other party. the natural tendency otherwise is to make office-holding a sort of see-saw. let alone change of opinion in older men, there are enough new voters every four years to reverse majorities in almost every state. of course these young men care little for what either party has done in the past, and being young and ardent, they want to change things. the minority's ready to please them, naturally. reform they call it, but it's quite as often 'deform' when they've done it." peter smiled and said, "then you think my views on license, and food-inspection, and tenement-house regulation are 'deformities'?" "we won't say that, but a good many older and shrewder heads have worked over those questions, and while i don't know what you hope to do, you'll not be the first to want to try a change, mr. stirling." "i hope to do good. i may fail, but it's not right as it is, and i must try to better it." peter spoke seriously, and his voice was very clear. "i'm glad to have had this talk, before the convention meets. you are all experienced men, and i value your opinions." "but don't intend to act on them," said his host good-naturedly. "no. i'm not ready to say that. i've got to think them over." "if you do that, mr. stirling, you'll find we are right. we have not been twenty and thirty years in this business for nothing." "i think you know how to run a party--but poisoned milk was peddled in my ward. i went to law to punish the men who sold it. now i'm going into politics to try and get laws and administration which will prevent such evils. i've told my district what i want. i think it will support me. i know you can help me, and i hope you will. we may disagree on methods, but if we both wish the good of new york, we can't disagree on results." peter stopped, rather amazed himself at the length of his speech. "what do you want us to do?" "you say that you want to remain in control. you say you can only do so by majorities. i want you to give this city such a government that you'll poll every honest vote on our side," said peter warmly. "that's only the generalization of a very young man," said the leader. peter liked him all the better for the snub. "i generalized, because it would make clear the object of my particular endeavors. i want to have the health board help me to draft a food-inspection bill, and i want the legislature to pass it, without letting it be torn to pieces for the benefit of special interests. i don't mind fair amendments, but they must be honest ones." "and if the health board helps you, and the bill is made a law?" peter looked mr. costell in the face, and spoke quietly: "i shall tell my ward that you have done them a great service." two of the men moved uneasily in their seats, as if not comfortable, and a third scowled. "and if we can give you some tenement-house legislation?" "i shall tell my ward that you have done them a great service." peter spoke in the same tone of voice, and still looked mr. costell in the face. "and if we don't do either?" "what i shall do then will depend on whether you refuse for a good reason or for none. in either case i shall tell them the facts." "this is damned----" began one of the dinner-party, but the lifting of mr. costell's hand stopped the speech there. "mr. stirling," said mr. costell, rising as he spoke, "i hope when you come to think it over, that you will vote with us for catlin. but whether you do or not, we want you to work with us. we can help you, and you can help us. when you are ready to begin on your bills, come and see me." "thank you," said peter. "that is just what i want." he said good-night to the company, and left the house. "that fellow is going to be troublesome," said green. "there's no good trying to get anything out of him. better split with him at once," said the guest who had used the expletive. "he can't have any very big hold," said a third. "it's only that trial which has given him a temporary popularity." "wait and see if he goes back on catlin, and if he does, lay for him," remarked green. a pause came, and they all looked at costell, who was smiling a certain deep smile that was almost habitual with him, and which no one had ever yet been able to read. "no," he said slowly. "you might beat him, but he isn't the kind that stays beat. i'll agree to outwit any man in politics, except the man who knows how to fight and to tell the people the truth. i've never yet seen a man beaten in the long run who can do both those, unless he chose to think himself beaten. gentlemen, that stirling is a fighter and a truth-teller, and you can't beat him in his ward. there's no use having him against us, so it's our business to see that we have him with us. we may not be able to get him into line this time, but we must do it in the long run. for he's not the kind that lets go. he's beaten nelson, and he's beaten gallagher, both of whom are old hands. mark my words, in five years he'll run the sixth ward. drop all talk of fighting him. he is in politics to stay, and we must make it worth his while to stay with us." chapter xxii. politics. peter sat up later than was prudent that night, studying his blank wall. yet when he rose to go to bed, he gave his head a puzzled shake. when he had gone through his papers, and drunk his coffee the next morning, he went back to wall-gazing again. he was working over two conundrums not very easy to answer, which were somewhat to this effect: does the best man always make the best official? is the honest judgment of a fellow verging on twenty-four better than the experienced opinion of many far older men? peter began to think life had not such clear and direct "right" and "wrong" roads as he had thought. he had said to himself long ago that it was easy to take the right one, but he had not then discovered that it is often difficult to know which is the right, in order to follow it. he had started in to punish bohlmann, and had compromised. he had disapproved of dennis breaking the law, and had compromised his disapproval. he had said he should not go into saloons, and had ended by going. now he was confronted with the problem whether the interests of his ward would be better served by the nomination of a man of good record, whom peter personally liked, or by that of a colorless man, who would be ruled by the city's leaders. in the one case peter feared no support for his measures from his own party. in the other case he saw aid that was tantamount to success. finally he shook himself. "i believe dennis is right," he said aloud. "there are more 'real' things than 'convictions' in new york politics, and a 'real' thing is much harder to decide about in voting than a 'conviction.'" he went to his bedroom, packed his bag, and took his way to the station. there he found a dense crowd of delegates and "well-wishers," both surrounding and filling the special train which was to carry new york's contribution to the collected party wisdom, about to concentrate at saratoga. peter felt like a stranger in the crowd, but on mingling in it he quickly found himself a marked man. he was seized upon by one of the diners of the evening before, and soon found himself forming part of a group, which constantly changed its components, but continued to talk convention affairs steadily. nor did the starting of the train, with cheers, brass bands, flags, and other enthusing elements, make more than a temporary break. from the time the special started, till it rolled into saratoga, six hours later, there was one long series of political debates and confabs. peter listened much, and learned much, for the talk was very straight and plain. he had chats with costell and green. his two fellow-delegates from "de sixt" sought him and discussed intentions. he liked schlurger, a simple, guileless german, who wanted only to do what his constituents wished him to do, both in convention and assembly. of kennedy he was not so sure. kennedy had sneered a little at peter's talk about the "best man," and about "helping the ward," and had only found that peter's ideas had value after he had been visited by various of the saloon-keepers, seen the vast torchlight meeting, and heard the cheers at peter's arguments. still, peter was by no means sure that kennedy was not a square man, and concluded he was right in not condemning him, when, passing through one of the cars, he overheard the following: "what kind of man is that stirling, who's raised such ---- in the sixth?" "i don't know him, but kennedy told me, before he'd swung round, that he was a darned good sort of a cuss." this was flattery, peter understood, however questionable the form might seem, and he was pleased. very few of us do not enjoy a real compliment. what makes a compliment uncomfortable is either a suspicion that the maker doesn't mean it, or a knowledge that it is not merited. peter went at once to his room on reaching the hotel in saratoga, intending to make up the sleep of which his long "think" the night before had robbed him. but scarcely had the colored gentleman bowed himself out, after the usual "can i git de gentleman a pitcher of ice water" (which translated means: "has de gentleman any superfluous change?") when a knock came at the door. peter opened it, to find a man outside. "is this mr. stirling's room?" inquired the individual. "yes." "can i see him?" "come in." peter moved his bag off one of his chairs, and his hat and overcoat off the other. "mr. stirling," said the stranger as he sat down, "i am senator maguire, and am, as perhaps you know, one of porter's managers." "yes." "we understand that you are friendly to us. now, i needn't say that new york is otherwise a unit in opposing us." "no," said peter. "my fellow-delegates from the sixth, schlurger and kennedy, stand as i do!" "are you sure?" "yes." "the change must have been very sudden. they were elected as catlin men, we were told." "yes. but there's quite a different feeling in the ward now, and they have yielded to it." "that's good news." "we all three come here prepared to do what seems best." the senator's expression lost some of the satisfaction peter's news had put into it. he gave a quick look at peter's face, as if to try and find from it what lay behind the words. he hesitated, as if divided in mind over two courses of action. finally he said: "i needn't tell you that this opposition of practically the whole of the new york city delegation, is the most serious set-back to porter's chance. now, we have talked it over, and it seemed to us that it would be a great card for him if he could be nominated by a city delegate. will you do it?" "i don't know him well enough, do i? doesn't the nominating delegate have to make a speech in his favor?" "yes. but i can give you the material to-night. or if you prefer, we'll give it to you all written for delivery?" "i don't make other men's speeches, mr. maguire." "suit yourself about that. it shall be just as you please." "the difficulty is that i have not decided myself, yet, how i shall vote, and of course such an act is binding." mr. maguire's countenance changed again. "i'm sorry to hear that. i hoped you were for porter. he's far away the best man." "so i think." the senator leaned back in his chair, and tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat. he thought he had fathomed peter, and felt that the rest was plain sailing. "this is not a chap to be tolled. i'll give him the gaff at once," was his mental conclusion. then he asked aloud: "what do you want?" it was a question susceptible of many different constructions, but as mr. maguire asked it, it seemed to him to have but one, and that not very honest. peter hesitated. the temptation was strong to lead the senator on, but he did not like to do it. it seemed to savor of traps, and peter had never liked traps. still--he did want to know if the managers on porter's side would stoop to buy his support by some bargain. as peter hesitated, weighing the pros and cons, maguire spoke again. "what does the other side offer you?" peter spoke quickly. "they haven't offered me anything, but advice. that is, costell said he'd try and help me on some legislation i want--" "special?" interrupted maguire. "no, general. i've talked about it with porter as well" "oh! indeed?" "i'm really anxious to get that. otherwise i want nothing." "whew," said the senator to himself. "that was a narrow squeak. if he hadn't spoken so quickly, i should have shown my hand before the call. i wonder if he got any inkling?" he never dreamed that peter had spoken quickly to save that very disclosure. "i needn't say, mr. stirling, that if you can see your way to nominate porter, we shall not forget it. nor will he. he isn't the kind of man who forgets his friends. many a man in to-morrow's convention would give anything for the privilege we offer you." "well," said peter, "i realize the honor offered me, but i don't see my way to take it. it will please me better to see him nominated by some one who has really stood close to him, than to gain his favor by doing it myself." "think twice, mr. stirling." "if you would rather, i will not give you my answer till to-morrow morning?" "i would," said maguire rising, "try and make it favorable. it's a great chance to do good for yourself and for your side. good-night." peter closed his door, and looked about for a bit of blank wall. but on second thought he sat down on his window-sill, and, filling his pipe, tried to draw conclusions as well as smoke from it. "i wonder," he pondered to himself, "how much of that was maguire, and how much porter? ought i, for the sake of doing my best for my ward, to have let him go on? has an agent any right to refuse what will help is client, even if it comes by setting pitfalls?" rap, rap, rap. "come in," called peter, forgetting he had turned down his light. the door opened and mr. costell came in. "having a quiet smoke?" he asked. "yes. i haven't a cigar to offer you. can you join me in a pipe?" "i haven't come to that yet. suppose you try one of my cigars." costell sat down on the window-ledge by peter. "thank you," said peter. "i like a cigar, but it must be a good one, and that kind i can't afford." he lit the cigar, and leaned back to luxuriate in it. "you'll like that, i'm sure. pretty sight, isn't it?" costell pointed to the broad veranda, three stories below them, gay with brilliant dresses. "yes. it's my first visit here, so it's new to me." "it won't be your last. you'll be attending other conventions than this." "i hope so." "one of my scouts tells me you've had a call from maguire?" "yes." peter hesitated a moment. "he wants me to nominate porter," he continued, as soon as he had decided that plain speaking was fair to maguire. "we shall be very sorry to see you do it." "i don't think i shall. they only want me because it would give the impression that porter has a city backing, and to try to give that amounts to a deception." "can they get schlurger or kennedy?" "schlurger is safe. i don't know about kennedy." "can you find out for us?" "yes. when would you like to know?" "can you see him now? i'll wait here." peter rose, looking at his cigar with a suggestion of regret. but he rubbed out the light, and left the room. at the office, he learned the number of kennedy's room, and went to it. on knocking, the door was opened only a narrow crack. "oh! it's you," said kennedy. "come in." peter entered, and found maguire seated in an easy attitude on a lounge. he noticed that his thumbs were once more tucked into his waistcoat. "mr. kennedy," said peter without seating himself, "there is an attempt being made to get a city delegate to nominate porter. it seems to me that is his particular friends' business." maguire spoke so quickly that kennedy had no chance to reply: "kennedy's promised to nominate him, mr. stirling, if you won't." "do you feel that you are bound to do it?" asked peter. kennedy moved uneasily in his chair. "yes, i suppose i have promised." "will you release mr. kennedy from his promise if he asks it?" peter queried to maguire. "why, mr. stirling, i don't think either he or you ought to ask it." "that was not my question." it was the senator's turn to squirm. he did not want to say no, for fear of angering peter, yet he did not like to surrender the advantage. finally he said: "yes, i'll release him, but mr. kennedy isn't the kind of a man that cries off from a promise. that's women's work." "no," said kennedy stiffening suddenly in backbone, as he saw the outlet opened by maguire, between antagonizing peter, and retracting his consent. "i don't play baby. not me." peter stood thinking for a longer time than the others found comfortable. maguire whistled to prove that he was quite at ease, but he would not have whistled if he had been. "i think, mr. kennedy, that i'll save you from the difficulty by nominating mr. porter myself," said peter finally. "good!" said maguire; and kennedy, reaching down into his hip pocket, produced a version of the holy text not yet included in any bibliography. evidently the atmosphere was easier. "about your speech, mr. stirling?" continued the senator. "i shall say what i think right." something in peter's voice made maguire say: "it will be of the usual kind, of course?" "i don't know," said peter, "i shall tell the facts." "what sort of facts?" "i shall tell how it is that a delegate of the sixth ward nominates porter." "and that is?" "i don't see," said peter, "why i need say it. you know it as well as i do." "i know of many reasons why you should do it." "no," said peter. "there's only one, and that has been created in the last ten minutes. mr. maguire, if you insist on the sixth ward nominating mr. porter, the sixth ward is going to tell why it does so. i'm sorry, for i like porter, but the sixth ward shan't lend itself to a fraud, if i can help it." kennedy had been combining things spiritual and aqueous at his wash-stand. but his interest in the blending seemed suddenly to cease. maguire, too, took his thumbs from their havens of rest, and looked dissatisfied. "look here, mr. stirling," he said, "it's much simpler to leave it to kennedy. you think you're doing what's right, but you'll only do harm to us, and to yourself. if you nominate porter, the city gang won't forgive you, and unless you can say what we want said, we shall be down on you. so you'll break with both sides." "i think that is so. that is why i want some real friend of porter's to do it." maguire laughed rather a forced laugh. "i suppose we've got to satisfy you. we'll have porter nominated by one of our own crowd." "i think that's best. good-evening." peter went to the door. "mr. stirling," called kennedy. "won't you stay and take some whisky and water with us?" "thank you," said peter. "mr. costell's in my room and he must be tired of waiting." he closed the door, and walked away. the couple looked at each other blankly for a moment. "the ---- cuss is playing a double game," maguire gasped. "i don't know what it means!" said kennedy. "mean?" cried maguire. "it can mean only one thing. he's acting under costell's orders." "but why should he give it away to us?" "how the ---- should i know? look here, kennedy, you must do it, after all." "i don't want to." "tut, tut, man, you must." "but my ward?" "come. we'll make it quarantine, as you want. that's six years, and you can ---- your ward." "i'll do it." "that's the talk." they sat and discussed plans and whisky for nearly an hour. then maguire said good-night. "you shall have the speech the first thing in the morning," he said at parting. then as he walked down the long corridor, he muttered, "now then, stirling, look out for the hind heel of the mule." peter found costell still waiting for him. "it took me longer than i thought, for maguire was there." "indeed!" said costell, making room for peter on the window-ledge. peter re-lit his cigar, "maguire promises me that porter shall be nominated by one of his friends." "he had been trying kennedy?" "i didn't ask." costell smiled. "i had no business to ask you that?" "no," peter said frankly. both puffed their cigars for a time in silence. then costell began talking about saratoga. he told peter where the "congress" spring was, and what was worth seeing. finally he rose to go. he held out his hand, and said: "mr. stirling, you've been as true as steel with us, and with the other men. i don't want you to suppose we are not conscious of it. i think you've done us a great service to-night, although it might have been very profitable to you if you had done otherwise. i don't think that you'll lose by it in the long run, but i'm going to thank you now, for myself. good-night." peter had a good night. perhaps it was only because he was sleepy, but a pleasant speech is not a bad night-cap. at least it is better than a mental question-mark as to whether one has done wrong. peter did not know how it was coming out, but he thought he had done right, and need not spend time on a blank wall that evening. chapter xxiii the convention. though peter had not gone to bed so early as he hoped, he was up the next morning, and had tramped his eight miles through and around saratoga, before the place gave many evidences of life. he ended his tramp at the congress spring, and tasted the famous water, with exceeding disgust at the result. as he set down his half-finished tumbler, and turned to leave, he found miss de voe at his elbow, about to take her morning glass. "this is a very pleasant surprise," she said, holding out her hand. "when did you arrive?" "i only came last night." "and how long shall you be here?" "i cannot say. i am attending the convention, and my stay will depend on that." "surely you are not a democrat?" said miss de voe, a shade of horror showing itself in her face, in spite of her good breeding. in those days it was not, to put it mildly, a guarantee of respectability to belong to that party, and miss de voe had the strong prejudices of her social station, all the more because she was absolutely ignorant of political events. peter said he was. "how can you be? when a man can ally himself with the best, why should he choose the worst?" "i think," said peter quietly, "that a pharisee said the same thing, in different words, many hundred years ago." miss de voe caught her breath and flushed. she also became suddenly conscious of the two girls who had come to the spring with her. they had been forgotten in the surprise over peter, but now miss de voe wondered if they had heard his reply, and if they had enough bible lore to enable them to understand the reproof. "i am sure you don't mean that," she said, in the sting of the moment. "i am very sorry," said peter, "if i made an unkind speech. what i meant was that no one has a right to pick out the best for himself. i am sure, from your letter to me, that you think a man should help those not as well off as himself." "oh, but that is very different. of course we should be charitable to those who need our help, but we need not mix in their low politics." "if good laws, and good administration can give the poor good food, and good lodgings, don't you think the best charity is to 'mix' in politics, and try to obtain such results?" "i want you to know my two cousins," miss de voe replied. "dorothy, i wish to present mr. stirling. my cousin, miss ogden, and miss minna ogden." peter saw two very pretty girls, and made a bow to them. "which way are you walking?" asked miss de voe. "i have been tramping merely for exercise," said peter, "and stopped here to try the spring, on my way to the united states." "it is hardly worth while, but if you will get into our carriage, we will drop you there. or if you can spare the time, we will drive to our cottage, and then send you back to the hotel." "thank you," said peter, "but i shall only crowd you, i fear." "no. there is plenty of room." "will the convention be interesting to watch, mr. stirling?" asked one of the girls, as soon as they were seated. "i don't know," peter told her. "it is my first experience at it. there is pretty strong feeling, and that of course makes it interesting to the delegates, but i am not sure that it would be so to others." "will there be speeches, and cheers, and all that sort of thing?" "yes." "cousin anneke, won't you take us? it will be such fun!" "are spectators admitted, mr. stirling?" "i believe so. i heard something about tickets last night. if you care to go, i'll see if i can get you some?" "oh, please," cried both girls. "if you can do so, mr. stirling, we should like to see the interesting part," said miss de voe. "i'll try." "send word back by oliver." the carriage had drawn up at the cottage, and farewells were made. as soon as peter reached the hotel, he went to the new york city delegation room, and saw costell. he easily secured admissions, and pencilling on a card, "at headquarters they tell me that the nominations will begin at the afternoon session, about two o'clock," he sent them back by the carriage. then bearding the terrors of the colored "monarch of all he surveys," who guards the dining-room of every well-ordered saratoga hotel, he satisfied as large an appetite as he remembered in a long time. the morning proceedings in the convention were purely formal. the election of the chairman, the roll-call, the naming of the committees, and other routine matter was gotten through with, but the real interest centred in the undertone of political talk, going on with little regard to the business in hand. after the committees were named, an unknown man came up to peter, and introduced himself by a name which peter at once recognized as that of one of the committee on the platform. "mr. costell thinks you might like to see this, and can perhaps suggest a change," explained mr. talcott, laying several sheets of manuscript on peter's desk and indicating with his finger a certain paragraph. peter read it twice before saying anything. "i think i can better it," he said. "if you can give me time i'm very slow about such things." "all right. get it in shape as quickly as possible, and send it to the committee-room." left alone peter looked round for a blank wall. failing in his search, he put his head into his hands, and tried to shut out the seething, excited mass of men about him. after a time he took a sheet of paper and wrote a paragraph for the platform. it pledged the party to investigate the food and tenement questions, and to pass such remedial legislation as should seem best. it pledged the party to do this, with as little disturbance and interference with present conditions as possible, "but fully recognizing the danger of state interference, we place human life above money profits, and human health above annual incomes, and shall use the law to its utmost to protect both." when it appeared in the platform, there was an addition that charged the failure to obtain legislation "which should have rendered impossible the recent terrible lesson in new york city" to "the obstruction in the last legislature in the interest of the moneyed classes and landlords, by the republican party." that had not been in peter's draft and he was sorry to see it. still, the paragraph had a real ring of honesty and feeling in it. that was what others thought too. "gad, that stirling knows how to sling english," said one of the committee, when the paragraph was read aloud. "he makes it take right hold." many an orator in that fall's campaign read the nineteenth section of the democratic platform aloud, feeling that it was ammunition of the right kind. it is in all the new york papers of september th, of that year. immediately after the morning adjournment, green came up to peter. "we've had a count, and can't carry catlin. so we shan't even put him up. what do you think of milton?" "i don't know him personally, but he has a very good record, i believe." "he isn't what we want, but that's not the question. we must take what we can get." "i suppose you think porter has a chance." "not if we take milton." "between the two i have no choice." an hour later, the convention was called to order by the chairman. a few moments sufficed to complete the unfinished business, and then the chairman's gavel fell, and every one knew without his announcement that the crucial moment had been reached. much to peter's surprise, kennedy was one of the members who was instantly on his feet, and was the one selected for recognition by the chairman. he was still more surprised when kennedy launched at once into a glowing eulogium of porter. peter was sitting next kennedy, and though he sat quietly, a sad look came into the face usually so expressionless. he felt wronged. he felt that he had been an instrument in the deceiving of others. most of all he grieved to think that a delegate of his ward, largely through his own interference, was acting discreditably. peter wanted others to do right, and he felt that that was not what kennedy was doing. the moment kennedy finished, peter rose, as did maguire. the convention was cheering for porter, and it took some time to quiet it to a condition when it was worth while recognizing any one. during this time the chairman leaned forward and talked with green, who sat right below him, for a moment. green in turn spoke to costell, and a little slip of paper was presently handed up to the chairman, who from that moment became absolutely oblivious of the fact that maguire was on his feet. when silence finally came, in spite of maguire's, "mr. chairman," that individual said, "mr. stirling." peter began in a low voice, "in rising, mr. chairman, to second the nomination of mr. porter, i feel that it would be idle in me to praise one so well known to all of us, even if he had not just been the subject of so appreciative a speech from my colleague--" here cries of "louder" interrupted peter, during which interruption green said to costell, "we've been tricked." "i'm not so sure," replied costell, "maguire's on his feet yet, and doesn't look happy. something's happening which has not been slated." when peter resumed, there were no more cries of "louder." his introduction had been a matter of trouble and doubt to him, for he liked porter, and feared he might not show it. but now he merely had something to tell his audience, and that was easy work. so, his voice ringing very clear and distinct, he told them of the original election of the delegates; of the feeling of his ward; of the attempts to obtain a city nomination of porter; of maguire's promise. "gad, he hits from the shoulder," said green. as soon as the trend of his remarks was realized, porter's supporters began to hiss and hoot. peter at once stopped, but the moment silence came he began again, and after a repetition of this a few times, they saw they could neither embarrass nor anger him, so they let him have his say. he brought his speech to an end by saying: "i have already expressed my admiration of mr. porter, and as soon as i had made up my mind to vote for him, i made no secret of that intention. but he should not have been nominated by a city delegate, for he is not the choice of new york city, and any attempt to show that he is, or that he has any true backing there, is only an attempt to deceive. in seconding his nomination therefore, i wish it to be distinctly understood that both his nomination and seconding are personal acts, and in no sense the act of the delegates of the city of new york." there was a mingling of hoots and cheers as peter sat down, though neither was very strong. in truth, the larger part of the delegates were very much in the dark as to the tendency of peter's speech. "was it friendly or unfriendly to porter?" they wondered. "mr. maguire," said the chairman. "mr. chairman, the gentleman who has just sat down is to be complimented on his speech. in my whole life i have never heard so deceptive and blinding a narration. we know of brutus stabbing his friend. but what shall we say of a pretended brutus who caresses while he stabs?" here the porter adherents became absolutely sure of the character of peter's speech, and hissed. "nor is it imperial caesar alone," continued maguire, "against whom he turns his poniard. not content with one foul murder, he turns against caesar's friends. by devilish innuendo, he charges the honorable mr. kennedy and myself with bargaining to deceive the american people. i call on him for proof or retraction." the convention laughed. peter rose and said: "mr. chairman, i gave a truthful account of what actually took place last evening in the united states hotel. i made no charges." "but you left the impression that mr. kennedy and i had made a deal," shrieked maguire. "if the gentleman draws that conclusion from what passed, it is not my fault." the convention laughed. "do you mean to charge such a bargain?" angrily shouted maguire. "will you deny it?" asked peter calmly. "then you do charge it?" here the convention laughed for the third time. green shouted "deny it," and the cry was taken up by many of the delegates. "yes," screamed maguire. "i do deny it" peter turned to kennedy. "do you too, deny it?" "yes," shouted kennedy, loudly. again the convention laughed. "then," said peter, "if i had charged you with a bargain, i should now find it necessary to apologize." the convention roared. maguire screamed something, but it could not be heard. the tenor of his remarks was indicated by his red face and clinched fist. costell smiled his deep smile. "i'm very glad," he said to the man next him, "that we didn't pick stirling up." then milton was nominated and seconded, as were also catlin, and four minor stars. that done, a ballot was taken and the vote stood: porter milton catlin scattering a second ballot showed: porter milton catlin scattering a third ballot gave: porter milton catlin scattering "porter's done for on the next," was whispered round the hall, though where it started, no one knew. evidently his adherents thought so, for one made a motion to adjourn. it was voted down, and once more the roll call started. "i shall vote for milton," peter told schlurger, and the changes in the delegations as the call proceeded, proved that many changes were being made the same way. yet the fourth ballot showed: porter milton catlin scattering the wildest excitement broke out in the porter delegates. "they've beaten us," screamed kennedy, as much to himself as to those about. "they've used milton to break our ranks, meaning catlin all the time." so in truth, it was. milton had been put up to draw off porter's delegates, but the moment they had begun to turn to milton, enough new york city delegates had been transferred to catlin to prevent milton being chosen. amid protests and angry words on all sides another ballot was taken: catlin porter milton before the result was announced. green was at peter's elbow. "will you move to make it unanimous?" he asked. "yes." and peter made the formal motion, which was carried by acclamation. half an hour served to choose the lieutenant-governor and the rest of the ticket, for the bulk of it had already been slated. the platform was adopted, and the convention dissolved. "well," said kennedy angrily to peter, "i guess you've messed it this time. a man can't please both sides, but he needn't get cussed by both." peter went out and walked to his hotel. "i'm afraid i did mess it," he thought, "yet i don't see what else i could have done." chapter xxiv. misunderstandings and understandings. "did you understand what it all meant, cousin anneke?" asked dorothy, as they were coming downstairs. "no. the man who got so angry seemed to think mr. stirling had--" she stopped short. a group of men on the sidewalk were talking, and she paused to hear one say: "to see that young chap stirling handling maguire was an eye-opener." another man laughed, rather a deep, quiet laugh. "maguire understands everything but honesty," he said. "you can always beat him with that." miss de voe would have like to stay and listen, but there were too many men. so the ladies entered the carriage. "at least we know that he said he was trying to tell the truth," she went on, "and you just heard what that man said. i don't know why they all laughed." "he didn't seem to mind a bit." "no. hasn't he a funny half-embarrassed, half-cool manner?" "he wasn't embarrassed after he was fairly speaking. you know he was really fine-looking, when he spoke." "yes," said dorothy. "you said he had a dull, heavy face." "that was the first time i saw him, dorothy. it's a face which varies very much. oliver, drive to the united states. we will take him home to dinner." "oh, good," cried the youngest. "then he will tell us why they laughed." as they drove up to the hotel, peter had just reached the steps. he turned to the carriage, the moment he saw that they wanted him. "we wish to carry you off to a simple country dinner," miss de voe told him. "i am going to take the special to new york, and that leaves in half an hour." "take a later train." "my ticket wouldn't be good on it." most men miss de voe would have snubbed on the spot, but to peter she said: "then get another ticket." "i don't care to do that," said peter. "oh, please, mr. stirling," said minna. "i want to ask you a lot of questions about the convention." "hush, minna," said miss de voe. she was nettled that peter should refuse, and that her niece could stoop to beg of "a criminal lawyer and ward politician," as she put it mentally. but she was determined not to show it "we are sorry. good-evening. home, oliver." so they did not learn from peter why the convention laughed. the subject was brought up at dinner, and dorothy asked the opinion of the voters of the family. "probably he had made a fluke of some kind," one said. "more probably he had out-sharped the other side," suggested a second. "it will be in the papers to-morrow," said the first suggestor. the three women looked in the next day's papers, but the reporters were as much at sea in regard to the stirling-sixth-ward incident, as had been the rank-and-file in the convention. three took their views from maguire, and called it "shameful treason," and the like. two called it "unprincipled and contradictory conduct." one alone said that "mr. stirling seemed to be acting conscientiously, if erratically." just what effect it had had on the candidates none of the papers agreed in. one said it had killed porter. another, that "it was a purely personal matter without influence on the main question." the other papers shaded between these, though two called it "a laughable incident." the opposition press naturally saw in it an entire discrediting of both factions of the democratic party, and absolute proof that the nominee finally selected was unfit for office. unable to sift out the truth, the ladies again appealed to the voters of the family. "oh," said one, "stirling did something tricky and was caught in it." "i don't believe that," said miss de voe. "nor i," said dorothy. "well, if you want to make your political heeler an angel, i have no objection," laughed the enfranchised being. "i don't think a man who made that speech about the children can be a scoundrel," said dorothy. "i don't either," said minna. "that's the way you women reason," responded he of the masculine intellect. "because a man looks out for some sick kittens, ergo, he is a political saint. if you must take up with politicians, do take republicans, for then, at least, you have a small percentage of chance in your favor that they are gentlemen." "don't be a pharisee, lispenard," said miss de voe, utilizing peter's rebuke. "then don't trouble me with political questions. politics are so vulgar in this country that no gentleman keeps up with them." miss de voe and the two girls dropped the "vulgar" subject, but miss de voe said later: "i should like to know what they laughed at?" "do ask him--if he comes to call on you, this winter, cousin anneke." "no. i asked him once and he did not come." miss de voe paused a moment. "i shall not ask him again," she added. "i don't think he intends to be rude," said dorothy. "no," responded miss de voe. "i don't think he knows what he is doing. he is absolutely without our standards, and it is just as well for both that he shouldn't call." woman-like, miss de voe forgot that she had said peter was a gentleman. if peter had found himself a marked man in the trip up, he was doubly so on the return train. he sat most of the time by himself, pondering on what had happened, but he could not be unconscious of the number of people to whom he was pointed out. he was conscious too, that his course had not been understood, and that many of those who looked at him with interest, did so without approbation. he was not buoyed up either, by a sense that he had succeeded in doing the best. he had certainly hurt porter, and had made enemies of maguire and kennedy. except for the fact that he had tried to do right, he could see no compensating balance. naturally the newspapers the next morning did not cheer him, though perhaps he cared less for what they said than he ought. he sent them, good, bad, and indifferent, to his mother, writing her at the same time a long letter, telling her how and why he had taken this course. he wrote also a long letter to porter, explaining his conduct. porter had already been told that peter was largely responsible for his defeat, but after reading peter's letter, he wrote him a very kind reply, thanking him for his support and for his letter. "it is not always easy to do what one wants in politics," he wrote, "but if one tries with high motives, for high things, even defeat loses its bitterness. i shall not be able to help you, in your wished-for reforms as greatly as i hoped, but i am not quite a nonentity in politics even now, and if at any time you think my aid worth the asking, do not hesitate to call on me for it. i shall always be glad to see you at my house for a meal or a night, whether you come on political matters or merely for a chat." peter found his constituents torn with dissensions over his and kennedy's course in the convention. he did not answer in kind the blame and criticism industriously sowed by kennedy; but he dropped into a half-a-dozen saloons in the next few days, and told "the b'ys" a pretty full history of the "behind-the-scenes" part. "i'm afraid i made mistakes," he frankly acknowledged, "yet even now i don't see how i could have done differently. i certainly thought i was doing right." "an' so yez were," shouted dennis. "an' if that dirty beast kennedy shows his dirty face inside these doors, it's a washin' it will get wid the drainin' av the beer-glasses. we wants none av his dirty bargains here." "i don't know that he had made any bargain," said peter. "but we do," shouted one of the men. "it's a bargain he's always makin'." "yes," said dennis. "it's kennedy looks out for himself, an' we'll let him do it next time all by himself." it could not be traced to its origin, but in less than a week the consensus of opinion in the ward was that: "kennedy voted for himself, but stirling for us." the ward, too, was rather proud of the celebrity it had achieved. the papers had not merely paragraphed peter, and the peculiar position of the "district" in the convention, but they had begun now asking questions as to how the ward would behave. "would it support catlin?" "was it true that the ward machine had split, and intended to nominate rival tickets?" "had one faction made a deal with the republicans?" "begobs," said dennis, "it's the leaders an' the papers are just afther discoverin' there is a sixth ward, an' it's misther stirling's made them do it." the chief party leaders had stayed over at saratoga, but peter had a call from costell before the week was out. "the papers gave it to you rather rough," costell said kindly, "but they didn't understand it. we thought you behaved very square." "they tell me i did porter harm." "no. it was maguire did the harm. you simply told about it. of course you get the blame." "my constituents stand by me." "how do they like catlin?" "i think they are entirely satisfied. i'm afraid they never cared much who got it." "i'm told kennedy is growling, and running amuck?" "he's down on catlin and me." "well, if you think best, we'll placate him? but gallagher seemed to think he couldn't do much?" "i don't think he has much of a following. even moriarty, who was his strong card, has gone back on him." "will you make a couple of speeches for us in this ward?" "if you'll let me say what i want?" "you can support us?" "yes." "then we'll leave it to you. only beware of making too many statements. you'll get dates and places from the committee as soon as they are settled. we pay twenty-five dollars a night. if you hit the right key, we may want you in some of the other wards, too." "i shall be glad to talk. it's what i've been doing to small crowds in the saloons." "so i'm told. you'll never get a better place. men listen there, as they never will at a mass-meeting." costell rose. "if you are free next sunday, come up into westchester and take a two o'clock dinner with me. we won't talk politics, but you shall see a nice little woman, who's good enough to make my life happier, and after we've looked over my stables, i'll bring you back to the city behind a gray mare that will pass about anything there is on the road." so peter had a half day in the country and enjoyed it very much. he looked over mrs. costell's flower-garden, in which she spent almost her whole time, and chatted with her about it. he saw the beautiful stables, and their still more beautiful occupants. he liked the couple very much. both were simple and silent people, of little culture, but it seemed to peter that the atmosphere had a gentle, homely tone that was very pleasing. as he got into the light buggy, he said to mrs. costell: "i'll get the seed of that mottled gillyflower from my mother as soon as possible. perhaps you'll let me bring it up myself?" "do," she said. "come again, whether you get the seed or not." after they had started, mr. costell said: "i'm glad you asked that. mrs. costell doesn't take kindly to many of the men who are in politics with me, but she liked you, i could see." peter spoke twice in the next week in small halls in his ward. he had good audiences, and he spoke well, if simply. "there ain't no fireworks in his stuff," said the ward satirist. "he don't unfurl the american flag, nor talk about liberty and the constitution. he don't even speak of us as noble freemen. he talks just as if he thought we was in a saloon. a feller that made that speech about the babies ought to treat us to something moving." that was what many of the ward thought. still they went because they wanted to see if he wouldn't burst out suddenly. they felt that peter had unlimited potentialities in the way of eloquence (for eloquence to them meant the ability to move the emotions) and merely saved his powers. without quite knowing it they found what he had to say interesting. he brought the questions at issue straight back to elementary forms. he showed just how each paragraph in the platform would directly affect, not the state, but the "district." "he's thoroughly good," the party leaders were told. "if he would abuse the other side a little more, and stick in a little tinsel and calcium light he would be great." so he was called upon to speak elsewhere in the city. he worked at one of the polls on election day, and was pleased to find that he was able to prevent a little of the "trading" for which kennedy had arranged. his ward went democratic, as was a foregone conclusion, but by an unusually large majority, and peter found that he and dennis were given the credit for it, both in the ward, and at headquarters. catlin was elected, and the assembly had been won. so peter felt that his three months' work had not been an entire failure. the proceeds of his speeches had added also two hundred and fifty dollars to his savings bank account, and one hundred more to the account of "peter stirling, trustee." chapter xxv. various kinds of society. peter spent christmas with his mother, and found her very much worried over his "salooning." "it's first steps, peter, that do the mischief," she told him. "but, mother, i only go to talk with the men. not to drink." "you'll come to that later. the devil's paths always start straight, my boy, but they end in wickedness. promise me you won't go any more." "i can't do that, mother. i am trying to help the men, and you ought not ask me to stop doing what may aid others." "oh, my boy, my boy!" sobbed the mother. "if you could only understand it, mother, as i have come to, you wouldn't mind. here, the saloon is chiefly a loafing place for the lazy and shiftless, but in new york, it's very different. it's the poor man's club. if you could see the dark, cold, foul-aired tenements where they live, and then the bright, warm, cheerful saloons, that are open to all, you would see that it isn't the drink that draws the men. i even wish the women could come. the bulk of the men are temperate, and only take a glass or two of beer or whisky, to pay for their welcome. they really go for the social part, and sit and talk, or read the papers. of course a man gets drunk, sometimes, but usually it is not a regular customer, and even such cases would be fewer, it we didn't tax whisky so outrageously that the dishonest barkeepers are tempted to doctor their whisky with drugs which drive men frantic if they drink. but most of the men are too sensible, and too poor, to drink so as really to harm themselves." "peter, peter! to think that three years in new york should bring you to talk so! i knew new york was a sink-hole of iniquity, but i thought you were too good a boy to be misled." "mother, new york has less evil in it than most places. here, after the mills shut down, there's no recreation for the men, and so they amuse themselves with viciousness. but in a great place like new york, there are a thousand amusements specially planned for the evening hours. exhibitions, theatres, concerts, libraries, lectures--everything to tempt one away from wrong-doing to fine things. and there wickedness is kept out of sight as it never is here. in new york you must go to it, but in these small places it hunts one out and tempts one." "oh, peter! here, where there's room in church of a sabbath for all the folks, while they say that in new york there isn't enough seats in churches for mor'n a quarter of the people. a missionary was saying only last week that we ought to help raise money to build churches in new york. just think of there being mor'n ten saloons for every church! and that my son should speak for them and spend nights in them!" "i'm sorry it troubles you so. if i felt i had any right to stop, i'd do it." "you haven't drunk in them yet, peter?" "no." "and you'll promise to write me if you do." "i'll promise you i won't drink in them, mother." "thank you, peter." still his mother was terrified at the mere thought, and at her request, her clergyman spoke also to peter. he was easier to deal with, and after a chat with peter, he told mrs. stirling: "i think he is doing no harm, and may do much good. let him do what he thinks best." "it's dreadful though, to have your son's first refusal be about going to saloons," sighed the mother. "from the way he spoke i think his refusal was as hard to him as to you. he's a good boy, and you had better let him judge of what's right." on peter's return to the city, he found an invitation from mrs. bohlmann to come to a holiday festivity of which the germans are so fond. he was too late to go, but he called promptly, to explain why he had not responded. he was very much surprised, on getting out his dress-suit, now donned for the first time in three years, to find how badly it fitted him. "mother is right," he had to acknowledge. "i have grown much thinner." however, the ill-fit did not spoil his evening. he was taken into the family room, and passed a very pleasant hour with the jolly brewer, his friendly wife, and the two "nice girls." they were all delighted with catlin's election, and peter had to tell them about his part in it. they did not let him go when he rose, but took him into the dining-room, where a supper was served at ten. in leaving a box of candy, saved for him from the christmas tree, was given him. "you will come again, mr. stirling?" said mrs. bohlmann, warmly. "thank you," said peter. "i shall be very glad to." "yah," said mr. bohlmann. "you coom choost as ofden as you blease." peter took his dress-suit to a tailor the next day, and ordered it to be taken in. that individual protested loudly on the ground that the coat was so old-fashioned that it would be better to make a new suit. peter told him that he wore evening dress too rarely to make a new suit worth the having, and the tailor yielded rather than lose the job. scarcely had it been put in order, when peter was asked to dine at his clergyman's, and the next day came another invitation, to dine with justice gallagher. peter began to wonder if he had decided wisely in vamping the old suit. he had one of the pleasantest evenings of his life at dr. purple's. it was a dinner of ten, and peter was conscious that a real compliment had been paid him in being included, for the rest of the men were not merely older than himself, but they were the "strong" men of the church. two were trustees. all were prominent in the business world. and it pleased peter to find that he was not treated as the youngster of the party, but had his opinions asked. at one point of the meal the talk drifted to a bethel church then under consideration, and this in turn brought up the tenement-house question. peter had been studying this, both practically and in books, for the last three months. before long, the whole table was listening to what he had to say. when the ladies had withdrawn, there was political talk, in which peter was much more a listener, but it was from preference rather than ignorance. one of the men, a wholesale dealer in provisions, spoke of the new governor's recommendation for food legislation. "the leaders tell me that the legislature will do something about it," peter said. "they'll probably make it worse," said mr. avery. "don't you think it can be bettered?" asked peter. "not by politicians." "i'm studying the subject," peter said. "will you let me come down some day, and talk with you about it?" "yes, by all means. you'd better call about lunch hour, when i'm free, and we can talk without interruption." peter would much have preferred to go on discussing with the men, when they all joined the ladies, but mrs. purple took him off, and placed him between two women. they wanted to hear about "the case," so peter patiently went over that well-worn subject. perhaps he had his pay by being asked to call upon both. more probably the requests were due to what mrs. purple had said of him during the smoking time: "he seems such a nice, solid, sensible fellow. i wish some of you would ask him to call on you. he has no friends, apparently." the dinner at justice gallagher's was a horse of a very different color. the men did not impress him very highly, and the women not at all. there was more to eat and drink, and the talk was fast and lively. peter was very silent. so quiet, that mrs. gallagher told her "take in" that she "guessed that young stirling wasn't used to real fashionable dinners," and peter's partner quite disregarded him for the rattling, breezy talker on her other side. after the dinner peter had a pleasant chat with the justice's seventeen-year-old daughter, who was just from a catholic convent, and the two tried to talk in french. it is wonderful what rubbish is tolerable if only talked in a foreign tongue. "i don't see what you wanted to have that stirling for?" said honorable mrs. justice gallagher, to him who conferred that proud title upon her, after the guests had departed. "you are clever, arn't you?" said gallagher, bitingly. "that's living with you," retorted the h.m.j., who was not easily put down. "then you see that you treat stirling as if he was somebody. he's getting to be a power in the ward, and if you want to remain mrs. justice gallagher and spend eight thousand--and pickings--a year, you see that you keep him friendly." "oh, i'll be friendly, but he's awful dull." "oh, no, mamma," said monica. "he really isn't. he's read a great many more french books than i have." peter lunched with the wholesale provision-dealer as planned. the lunch hour proving insufficient for the discussion, a family dinner, a few days later, served to continue it. the dealer's family were not very enthusiastic about peter. "he knows nothing but grub talk," grumbled the heir apparent, who from the proud altitude of a broker's office, had come to scorn the family trade. "he doesn't know any fashionable people," said one of the girls, who having unfulfilled ambitions concerning that class, was doubly interested and influenced by its standards and idols. "he certainly is not brilliant," remarked the mother. "humph," growled the pater-familias, "that's the way all you women go on. brilliant! fashionable! i don't wonder marriage is a failure when i see what you like in men. that stirling is worth all your dancing men, but just because he holds his tongue when he hasn't a sensible thing to say, you think he's no good." "still he is 'a nobody.'" "he's the fellow who made that big speech in the stump-tail milk case." "not that man?" "exactly. but of course he isn't 'brilliant.'" "i never should have dreamed it." "still," said the heir, "he keeps his eloquence for cows, and not for dinners." "he talked very well at dr. purple's," said the mamma, whose opinion of peter had undergone a change. "and he was invited to call by mrs. dupont and mrs. sizer, which is more than you've ever been," said avery senior to avery junior. "that's because of the prog," growled the son, seeing his opportunity to square accounts quickly. coming out of church the next sunday, peter was laid hold of by the bohlmanns and carried off to a mid-day dinner, at which were a lot of pleasant germans, who made it very jolly with their kindly humor. he did not contribute much to the laughter, but every one seemed to think him an addition to the big table. thus it came to pass that late in january peter dedicated a week of evenings to "society," and nightly donning his dress suit, called dutifully on mrs. dupont, mrs. sizer, mrs. purple, mrs. avery, mrs. costell, mrs. gallagher and mrs. bohlmann. peter was becoming very frivolous. chapter xxvi. an evening call. but peter's social gadding did not end with these bread-and-butter calls. one afternoon in march, he went into the shop of a famous picture-dealer, to look over an exhibition then advertised, and had nearly finished his patient examination of each picture, which always involved quite as much mental gymnastics as aesthetic pleasure to peter, when he heard a pleasant: "how do you do, mr. stirling?" turning, he found miss de voe and a well-dressed man at his elbow. peter's face lighted up in a way which made the lady say to herself: "i wonder why he wouldn't buy another ticket?" aloud she said, "i want you to know another of my cousins. mr. ogden, mr. stirling." "charmed," said mr. ogden genially. any expression which peter had thought of using seemed so absolutely lame, beside this passive participle, that he merely bowed. "i did not know you cared for pictures," said miss de voe. "i see most of the public exhibitions," peter told her. "i try to like them." miss de voe looked puzzled. "don't," said mr. ogden. "i tried once, when i first began. but it's much easier to notice what women say, and answer 'yes' and 'no' at the right points." peter looked puzzled. "nonsense, lispenard," said miss de voe. "he's really one of the best connoisseurs i know, mr. stirling." "there," said lispenard. "you see. only agree with people, and they think you know everything." "i suppose you have seen the pictures, and so won't care to go round with us?" inquired miss de voe. "i've looked at them, but i should like to go over again with you," said peter. then he added, "if i shan't be in the way." "not a bit," said lispenard heartily. "my cousin always wants a listener. it will be a charity to her tongue and my ears." miss de voe merely gave him a very pleasant smile. "i wonder why he wouldn't buy a ticket?" she thought. peter was rather astonished at the way they looked at the pictures. they would pass by a dozen without giving them a second glance, and then stop at one, and chat about it for ten minutes. he found that miss de voe had not exaggerated her cousin's art knowledge. he talked familiarly and brilliantly, though making constant fun of his own opinions, and often jeering at the faults of the picture. miss de voe also talked well, so peter really did supply the ears for the party. he was very much pleased when they both praised a certain picture. "i liked that," he told them, making the first remark (not a question) which he had yet made. "it seemed to me the best here." "unquestionably," said lispenard. "there is poetry and feeling in it." miss de voe said: "that is not the one i should have thought of your liking." "that's womanly," said lispenard, "they are always deciding what a man should like." "no," denied miss de voe. "but i should think with your liking for children, that you would have preferred that piece of brown's, rather than this sad, desolate sand-dune." "i cannot say why i like it, except, that i feel as if it had something to do with my own mood at times." "are you very lonely?" asked miss de voe, in a voice too low for lispenard to hear. "sometimes," said peter, simply. "i wish," said miss de voe, still speaking low, "that the next time you feel so you would come and see me." "i will," said peter. when they parted at the door, peter thanked lispenard: "i've really learned a good deal, thanks to miss de voe and you. i've seen the pictures with eyes that know much more about them than mine do." "well, we'll have to have another turn some day. we're always in search of listeners." "if you come and see me, mr. stirling," said miss de voe, "you shall see my pictures. good-bye." "so that is your democratic heeler?" said lispenard, eyeing peter's retreating figure through the carriage window. "don't call him that, lispenard," said miss de voe, wincing. lispenard laughed, and leaned back into a comfortable attitude. "then that's your protector of sick kittens?" miss de voe made no reply. she was thinking of that dreary wintry stretch of sand and dune. thus it came to pass that a week later, when a north-easter had met a south-wester overhead and both in combination had turned new york streets into a series of funnels, in and through which wind, sleet and snow fought for possession, to the almost absolute dispossession of humanity and horses, that peter ended a long stare at his blank wall by putting on his dress-suit, and plunging into the streets. he had, very foolishly, decided to omit dinner, a couple of hours before, rather than face the storm, and a north-east wind and an empty stomach are enough to set any man staring at nothing, if that dangerous inclination is at all habitual. peter realized this, for the opium eater is always keenly alive to the dangers of the drug. usually he fought the tendency bravely, but this night he felt too tired to fight himself, and preferred to battle with a little thing like a new york storm. so he struggled through the deserted streets until he had reached his objective point in the broad second avenue house. miss de voe was at home, but was "still at dinner." peter vacillated, wondering what the correct thing was under the circumstances. the footman, remembering him of old, and servants in those simple days being still open to impressions, suggested that he wait. peter gladly accepted the idea. but he did not wait, for hardly had the footman left him than that functionary returned, to tell peter that miss de voe would see him in the dining-room. "i asked you to come in here, because i'm sure, after venturing out such a night, you would like an extra cup of coffee," miss de voe explained. "you need not sit at the table. morden, put a chair by the fire." so peter found himself sitting in front of a big wood-fire, drinking a cup of coffee decidedly better in quality than his home-brew. blank walls ceased to have any particular value for the time. in a moment miss de voe joined him at the fire. a small table was moved up, and a plate of fruit, and a cup of coffee placed upon it. "that is all, morden," she said. "it is so nice of you to have come this evening. i was promising myself a very solitary time, and was dawdling over my dinner to kill some of it. isn't it a dreadful night?" "it's blowing hard. two or three times i thought i should have to give it up." "you didn't walk?" "yes. i could have taken a solitary-car that passed, but the horses were so done up that i thought i was better able to walk." miss de voe touched the bell. "another cup of coffee, morden, and bring the cognac," she said. "i am not going to let you please your mother to-night," she told peter. "i am going to make you do what i wish." so she poured a liberal portion of the eau-de-vie into peter's second cup, and he most dutifully drank it. "how funny that he should be so obstinate sometimes, and so obedient at others," thought miss de voe. "i don't generally let men smoke, but i'm going to make an exception to-night in your case," she continued. it was a sore temptation to peter, but he answered quickly, "thank you for the thought, but i won't this evening." "you have smoked after dinner already?" "no. i tried to keep my pipe lighted in the street, but it blew and sleeted too hard." "then you had better." "thank you, no." miss de voe thought her former thought again. "where do you generally dine?" she asked. "i have no regular place. just where i happen to be." "and to-night?" peter was not good at dodging. he was silent for a moment. then he said, "i saw rather a curious thing, as i was walking up. would you like to hear about it?" miss de voe looked at him curiously, but she did not seem particularly interested in what peter had to tell her, in response to her "yes." it concerned an arrest on the streets for drunkenness. "i didn't think the fellow was half as drunk as frozen," peter concluded, "and i told the policeman it was a case for an ambulance rather than a station-house. he didn't agree, so i had to go with them both to the precinct and speak to the superintendent." "that was before your dinner?" asked miss de voe, calmly. it was a very easily answered question, apparently, but peter was silent again. "it was coming up here," he said finally. "what is he trying to keep back?" asked miss de voe mentally. "i suppose some of the down-town places are not quite--but he wouldn't--" then she said out loud: "i wonder if you men do as women do, when they dine alone? just live on slops. now, what did you order to-night? were you an ascetic or a sybarite?" "usually," said peter, "i eat a very simple dinner." "and to-night?" "why do you want to know about to-day?" "because i wish to learn where you dined, and thought i could form some conclusion from your menu." miss de voe laughed, so as to make it appear a joke, but she knew very well that she was misbehaving. "i didn't reply to your question," said peter, "because i would have preferred not. but if you really wish to know, i'll answer it." "yes. i should like to know." miss de voe still smiled. "i haven't dined." "mr. stirling! you are joking?" miss de voe's smile had ended, and she was sitting up very straight in her chair. women will do without eating for an indefinite period, and think nothing of it, but the thought of a hungry man fills them with horror--unless they have the wherewithal to mitigate the consequent appetite. hunger with woman, as regards herself, is "a theory." as regards a man it is "a condition." "no," said peter. miss de voe touched the bell again, but quickly as morden answered it, peter was already speaking. "you are not to trouble yourself on my account, miss de voe. i wish for nothing." "you must have--" peter was rude enough to interrupt with the word "nothing." "but i shall not have a moment's pleasure in your call if i think of you as--" peter interrupted again. "if that is so," he said, rising, "i had better go." "no," cried miss de voe. "oh, won't you please? it's no trouble. i'll not order much." "nothing, thank you," said peter. "just a chop or--" peter held out his hand. "no, no. sit down. of course you are to do as you please. but i should be so happy if--?" and miss de voe looked at peter appealingly. "no. thank you." "nothing, morden." they sat down again. "why didn't you dine?" asked miss de voe. "i didn't care to face the storm." "yet you came out?" "yes. i got blue, and thought it foolish to stay indoors by myself." "i'm very glad you came here. it's a great compliment to find an evening with me put above dinner. you know i had the feeling that you didn't like me." "i'm sorry for that. it's not so." "if not, why did you insist on my twice asking you to call on me?" "i did not want to call on you without being sure that you really wished to have me." "then why wouldn't you stay and dine at saratoga?" "because my ticket wouldn't have been good." "but a new ticket would only cost seven dollars." "in my neighborhood, we don't say 'only seven dollars.'" "but you don't need to think of seven dollars." "i do. i never have spent seven dollars on a dinner in my life." "but you should have, this time, after making seven hundred and fifty dollars in one month. i know men who would give that amount to dine with me." it was a foolish brag, but miss de voe felt that her usual means of inspiring respect were not working,--not even realized. "very likely. but i can't afford such luxuries. i had spent more than usual and had to be careful." "then it was economy?" "yes." "i had no idea my dinner invitations would ever be held in so little respect that a man would decline one to save seven dollars." miss de voe was hurt. "i had given him five hundred dollars," she told herself, "and he ought to have been willing to spend such a small amount of it to please me." then she said; "a great many people economize in foolish ways." "i suppose so," said peter. "i'm sorry if i disappointed you. i really didn't think i ought to spend the money." "never mind," said miss de voe. "were you pleased with the nomination and election of catlin?" "i was pleased at the election, but i should have preferred porter." "i thought you tried to prevent porter's nomination?" "that's what the papers said, but they didn't understand." "i wasn't thinking of the papers. you know i heard your speech in the convention." "a great many people seem to have misunderstood me. i tried to make it clear." "did you intend that the convention should laugh?" "no. that surprised and grieved me very much!" miss de voe gathered from this and from what the papers had said that it must be a mortifying subject to peter, and knew that she ought to discontinue it. but she could not help saying, "why?" "it's difficult to explain, i'm afraid. i had a feeling that a man was trying to do wrong, but i hoped that i was mistaken. it seemed to me that circumstances compelled me to tell the convention all about it, but i was very careful not to hint at my suspicion. yet the moment i told them they laughed." "why?" "because they felt sure that the man had done wrong." "oh!" it was a small exclamation, but the expression miss de voe put into it gave it a big meaning. "then they were laughing at maguire?" "at the time they were. really, though, they were laughing at human weakness. most people seem to find that amusing." "and that is why you were grieved?" "yes." "but why did the papers treat you so badly?" "mr. costell tells me that i told too much truth for people to understand. i ought to have said nothing, or charged a bargain right out, for then they would have understood. a friend of--a fellow i used to know, said i was the best chap for bungling he ever knew, and i'm afraid it's true." "do you know costell? i thought he was such a dishonest politician?" "i know mr. costell. i haven't met the dishonest politician yet." "you mean?" "he hasn't shown me the side the papers talk about." "and when he does?" "i shall be very sorry, for i like him, and i like his wife." then peter told about the little woman who hated politics and loved flowers, and about the cool, able manager of men, who could not restrain himself from putting his arms about the necks of his favorite horses, and who had told about the death of one of his mares with tears in his eyes. "he had his cheek cut open by a kick from one of his horses once, and he speaks of it just as we would speak of some unintentional fault of a child." "has he a great scar on his cheek?" "yes. have you seen him?" "once. just as we were coming out of the convention. he said something about you to a group of men which called my attention to him." miss de voe thought peter would ask her what it was. "would you like to know what he said?" she asked, when peter failed to do so. "i think he would have said it to me, if he wished me to hear it." miss de voe's mind reverted to her criticism of peter. "he is so absolutely without our standards." her chair suddenly ceased to be comfortable. she rose, saying, "let us go to the library. i shall not show you my pictures now. the gallery is too big to be pleasant such a night. you must come again for that. won't you tell me about some of the other men you are meeting in politics?" she asked when they had sat down before another open fire. "it seems as if all the people i know are just alike--i suppose it's because we are all so conventional--and i am very much interested in hearing about other kinds." so peter told about dennis and blunkers, and the "b'ys" in the saloons; about green and his fellow delegates; about the honorable mr., mrs., and miss gallagher, and their dinner companions. he did not satirize in the least. he merely told various incidents and conversations, in a sober, serious way; but miss de voe was quietly amused by much of the narrative and said to herself, "i think he has humor, but is too serious-minded to yield to it." she must have enjoyed his talk for she would not let peter go early, and he was still too ignorant of social usages to know how to get away, whether a woman wished or no. finally he insisted that he must leave when the clock pointed dangerously near eleven. "mr. stirling," said miss de voe, in a doubtful, "won't-you-please" voice, such as few men had ever heard from her, "i want you to let me send you home? it will only take a moment to have the carriage here." "i wouldn't take a horse out in such weather," said peter, in a very settling kind of voice. "he's obstinate," thought miss de voe. "and he makes his obstinacy so dreadfully--dreadfully pronounced!" aloud she said: "you will come again?" "if you will let me." "do. i am very much alone too, as perhaps you know?" miss de voe did not choose to say that her rooms could be filled nightly and that everywhere she was welcome. "no. i really know nothing about you, except what you have told me, and what i have seen." miss de voe laughed merrily at peter's frankness. "i feel as if i knew all about you," she said. "but you have asked questions," replied peter. miss de voe caught her breath again. try as she would, she could not get accustomed to peter. all her social experience failed to bridge the chasm opened by his speech. "what did he mean by that plain statement, spoken in such a matter-of-fact voice?" she asked herself. of course the pause could not continue indefinitely, and she finally said: "i have lived alone ever since my father's death. i have relatives, but prefer to stay here. i am so much more independent. i suppose i shall have to move some day. this part of the city is beginning to change so." miss de voe was merely talking against time, and was not sorry when peter shook hands, and left her alone. "he's very different from most men," she said to the blazing logs. "he is so uncomplimentary and outspoken! how can he succeed in politics? still, after the conventional society man he is--he is--very refreshing. i think i must help him a little socially." chapter xxvii. a dinner. the last remark made by miss de voe to her fire resulted, after a few days, in peter's receiving a formal dinner invitation, which he accepted with a promptness not to be surpassed by the best-bred diner-out. he regretted now his vamping of the old suit. peter understood that he was in for quite another affair than the avery, the gallagher, or even the purple dinner. he did not worry, however, and if in the dressing-room he looked furtively at the coats of the other men, he entirely forgot the subject the moment he started downstairs, and thought no further of it till he came to take off the suit in his own room. when peter entered the drawing-room, he found it well filled with young people, and for a moment a little of the bewildered feeling of four years before came over him. but he found himself chatting with miss de voe, and the feeling left him as quickly as it had come. in a moment he was introduced to a "miss lenox," who began talking in an easy way which gave peter just as much or as little to say as he chose. peter wondered if many girls were as easy to talk to as--as--miss lenox. he took miss de voe in, and found dorothy ogden sitting on his other side. he had barely exchanged greetings with her, when he heard his name spoken from across the table, and looking up, he found miss leroy sitting opposite. "i hope you haven't entirely forgotten me," that girl said, the moment his attention was caught. "not at all," said peter. "nor my dress," laughed miss leroy. "i remember the style, material, and train." "especially the train i am sure." "do explain these mysterious remarks," said dorothy. "mr. stirling and i officiated at a wedding, and i was in such mortal terror lest some usher should step on my gown, that it became a joke." "whose wedding was that?" asked miss de voe. "miss pierce's and watts d'alloi's," said the bridesmaid. "do you know watts d'alloi?" exclaimed miss de voe to peter. "yes." "indeed! when?" "at college." "are you a harvard man?" "yes." "you were mr. d'alloi's chum, weren't you?" said miss leroy. "yes." "watts d'alloi?" again exclaimed miss de voe. "yes." "but he's a mere boy." "he's two years my senior." "you don't mean it?" "yes." "i thought you were over thirty." "most people do." miss de voe said to herself, "i don't know as much about him as i thought i did. he may be very frank, but he doesn't tell all one thinks. now i know where he gets his nice manner. i ought to have recognized the harvard finish." "when did you last hear from the d'allois?" asked miss leroy. "not since they sailed," said peter, wincing internally. "not really?" said the bridesmaid. "surely you've heard of the baby?" "no." lines were coming into peter's face which miss de voe had never before seen. "how strange. the letters must have gone astray. but you have written him?" "i did not know his address." "then you really haven't heard of the little baby--why, it was born two--no, three years ago--and of helen's long ill-health, and of their taking a villa on the riviera, and of how they hope to come home this spring?" "no." "yes. they will sail in june if helen is well enough. i'm to be god-mother." "if you were mr. d'alloi's chum, you must have known ray rivington," said dorothy. "yes. but i've not seen him since we graduated. he went out west." "he has just returned. ranching is not to his taste." "will you, if you see him, say that i'm in new york and should like to run across him?" "i will. he and laurence--my second brother--are old cronies, and he often drops in on us. i want you to know my brothers. they are both here this evening." "i have met the elder one, i suppose." "no. that was a cousin, lispenard ogden. he spoke of meeting you. you would be amused to hear his comment about you." "mr. stirling doesn't like to have speeches repeated to him, dorothy," said miss de voe. "what do you mean?" asked dorothy, looking from one to the other. "he snubbed me the other evening when i tried to tell him what we heard, coming out of the convention last autumn," explained miss de voe, smiling slightly at the thought of treating peter with a dose of his own medicine. peter looked at miss de voe. "i hope you don't mean that?" "how else could i take it?" "you asked me if i wished something, and i merely declined, i think." "oh, no. you reproved me." "i'm very sorry if i did. i'm always blundering." "tell us what lispenard said, dorothy. i'm curious myself." "may i, mr. stirling? "i would rather not," said peter. and dorothy did not tell him, but in the drawing-room she told miss de voe: "he said that except his professor of archaeology at heidelberg, mr. stirling was the nicest old dullard he'd ever met, and that he must be a very good chap to smoke with." "he said that, dorothy?" exclaimed miss de voe, contemptuously. "yes." "how ridiculous," said miss de voe. "lispenard's always trying to hit things off in epigrams, and sometimes he's very foolish." then she turned to miss leroy. "it was very nice, your knowing mr. stirling." "i only met him that once. but he's the kind of man somehow that you remember. it's curious i've never heard of him since then." "you know he's the man who made that splendid speech when the poor children were poisoned summer before last." "i can't believe it!" "it's so. that is the way i came to know him." miss leroy laughed. "and helen said he was a man who needed help in talking!" "was mrs. d'alloi a great friend of his?" "no. she told me that watts had brought him to see them only once. i don't think mr. pierce liked him." "he evidently was very much hurt at watts's not writing him." "yes. i was really sorry i spoke, when i saw how he took it." "watts is a nice boy, but he always was thoughtless." in passing out of the dining-room, dorothy had spoken to a man for a moment, and he at once joined peter. "you know my sister, miss ogden, who's the best representative of us," he said. "now i'll show you the worst. i don't know whether she exploited her brother ogden to you?" "yes. she talked about you and your brother this evening." "trust her to stand by her family. there's more loyalty in her than there was in the army of the potomac. my cousin lispenard says it's wrecking his nervous system to live up to the reputation she makes for him." "i never had a sister, but it must be rather a good thing to live up to." "yes. and to live with. especially other fellows' sisters." "are you ready to part with yours for that purpose?" "no. that's asking too much. by the way, i think we are in the same work. i'm in the office of jarvis, redburn and saltus." "i'm trying it by myself." "you've been very lucky." "yes. i've succeeded much better than i hoped for. but i've had very few clients." "fortunately it doesn't take many. two or three rich steady clients will keep a fellow running. i know a man who's only got one, but he runs him for all he's worth, and gets a pretty good living out of him." "my clients haven't been of that sort." peter smiled a little at the thought of making a steady living out of the blacketts, dooleys or milligans. "it's all a matter of friends." peter had a different theory, but he did not say so. just at that point they were joined by laurence ogden, who was duly introduced, and in a moment the conversation at their end of the table became general. peter listened, enjoying his havana. when they joined the ladies, they found lispenard ogden there, and he intercepted peter. "look here," he said. "a friend of mine has just come back from europe, with a lot of prints. he's a fellow who thinks he has discrimination, and he wants me to come up and look them over to-morrow evening. he hopes to have his own taste approved and flattered. i'm not a bit good at that, with men. won't you go with me, and help me lie?" "of course i should like to." "all right. dine with me at six at the union club." "i'm not going to let you talk to each other," said miss de voe. "lispenard, go and talk with miss mcdougal." "see how quickly lying brings its own punishment," laughed lispenard, walking away. "what does he mean?" asked miss de voe. "the opposite of what he says, i think," said peter. "that is a very good description of lispenard. almost good enough to have been said by himself. if you don't mind, i'll tell him." "no." "do tell me, mr. stirling, how you and watts d'alloi came to room together?" "he asked me." "yes. but what ever made him do that?" "i've often wondered myself." "i can easily understand his asking you, but what first threw you together?" "a college scrape." "were you in a college scrape?" "yes. i was up before the faculty twice." "do tell me what you had done?" "i was charged with stealing the chapel bible, and with painting a front door of one of the professors." "and had you done these things?" "no." the guests began to say good-night, so the dialogue was interrupted. when it came peter's turn to go, miss de voe said: "i hope you will not again refuse my dinner invitations." "i have had a very pleasant evening," said peter. "but i had a pleasanter one, the other night." "good-evening," said miss de voe mechanically. she was really thinking "what a very nice speech. he couldn't have meant anything by his remark about the questions." peter dined the next evening with lispenard, who in the course of the meal turned the conversation to miss de voe. lispenard was curious to learn just what peter knew of her. "she's a great swell, of course," he said incidentally. "i suppose so. i really know nothing about her, but the moment i saw her i felt that she was different from any other woman i had ever met." "but you've found out about her since?" "no. i was tempted to question dr. purple, but i didn't like to ask about a friend." lispenard laughed. "you've got a pretty bad case of conscience, i'm afraid. it's a poor thing to have in new york, too. well, my cousin is one of the richest, best born women in this country, though i say it. you can't do better than cultivate her." "is that what you do?" "no. you have me there. she doesn't approve of me at all. you see, women in this country expect a man to be serious and work. i can't do either. i suppose its my foreign education. she likes my company, and finds my escortage very convenient. but while she thinks i'm a pretty good companion, she is sure i'm a poor sort of a man. if she takes a shine to you, make the most of it. she can give you anything she pleases socially." "i suppose you have anything you please socially?" "pretty much." "and would you advise me to spend time to get it?" "um. i wouldn't give the toss of a copper for it--but i can have it. it's not being able to have it that's the bad thing." "so i have found," said peter gravely. lispenard laughed heartily, as he sipped his "court france." "i wish," he said, "that a lot of people, whose lives are given to nothing else, could have heard you say that, in that tone of voice. you don't spell society with a capital, do you?" "possibly," said peter, "if i had more capital, i should use some on society." "good," said lispenard. "heavens," he said to himself, "he's made a joke! cousin anneke will never believe it." he told her the next day, and his statement proved correct. "i know you made the joke," she said. "he didn't." "and why shouldn't he joke as well as i?" "it doesn't suit him." "why not?" "parlor tricks are all right in a lap-dog, but they only belittle a mastiff." lispenard laughed good-naturedly. he was used to his cousin's hits at his do-nothingness, and rather enjoyed them. "he is a big beast, isn't he? but he's a nice fellow. we had such a good time over le grand's etchings last night. didn't get away till after one. it's really a pleasure to find a man who can smoke and keep quiet, and yet enjoy things strongly. le grand was taken with him too. we just fitted each other." "i'm glad you took him. i'm going to give him some society." "did you ever hear the story of dr. brown?" "no. what is it?" "a certain widow announced to her son that she was to marry dr. brown. 'bully for you, ma,' said the son, 'does dr. brown know it?'" "what do you mean?" lispenard laughed. "does stirling know it? because i advise you to tell him before you decide to do anything with him. he's not easy to drive." "of course he'll be glad to meet nice people." "try him." "what do you mean?" "i mean that peter stirling won't give a raparee for all the society you can give him." "you don't know what you are talking about." but lispenard was right. peter had enjoyed the dinner at miss de voe's and the evening at mr. le grand's. yet each night on reaching his rooms, he had sat long hours in his straight office chair, in the dark. he was thinking of what miss leroy had told him of--of--he was not thinking of "society." chapter xxviii. commissions. peter made his dinner call at miss de voe's, but did not find her at home. he received a very pleasant letter expressing her regret at missing him, and a request to lunch with her two days later, and to go with some friends to an afternoon piano recital, "if you care for music. if not, merely lunch with us." peter replied that he was very sorry, but business called him to albany on that day. "i really regret it," said miss de voe to dorothy. "it is getting so late in the season, that unless he makes his call quickly, i shall hardly be able to give him more than one other chance." peter's business in albany had been sprung on him suddenly. it was neither more nor less than a request sent verbally through costell from governor catlin, to come up and see him. "it's about the food and tenement commission bills," costell told him. "they'll be passed by the senate to-day or to-morrow, and be in catlin's hands." "i hope he'll make good appointments," said peter, anxiously. "i think he will," said costell, smiling quietly. "but i don't believe they will be able to do much. commissions are commonly a way of staving off legislation." peter went up to albany and saw catlin. much to his surprise he found the governor asking his advice about the bills and the personnel of the commissions. but after a few minutes he found that this seeking for aid and support in all matters was chronic, and meant nothing special in his own case. "mr. schlurger tells me, though he introduced the bills, that you drafted both. do you think i had better sign them?" "yes." "mr. costell told me to take your advice. you really think i had better?" "yes." the governor evidently found something solacing in the firm voice in which peter spoke his "yes." he drew two papers towards him. "you really think i had better?" "yes." the governor dipped his pen in the ink, but hesitated. "the amendments haven't hurt them?" he queried. "not much." "but they have been hurt?" "they have been made better in some ways." "really?" "yes." still the governor hesitated, but finally began a big g. having committed himself, he wrote the rest rapidly. he paused for a moment over the second bill, and fingered it nervously. then he signed it quickly. "that's done." he shoved them both away much as if they were dangerous. "i wonder," thought peter, "if he enjoys politics?" "there's been a great deal of trouble about the commissioners," said the governor. "i suppose so," said peter. "even now, i can't decide. the leaders all want different men." "the decision rests with you." "that's the trouble," sighed the governor. "if only they'd agree." "you should make your own choice. you will be held responsible if the appointments are bad." "i know i shall. just look over those lists, and see if you think they'll do?" peter took the slips of paper and read them. "i needn't say i'm pleased to see my name," he said. "i had no idea you would think of me." "that was done by costell," said the governor, hastening to shift the responsibility. "i really don't know any of the rest well enough to express an opinion. personally, i should like to see some scientific men on each commission." "scientific! but we have none in politics." "no? but this isn't politics." "i hoped you'd think these lists right." "i think they are good. and the bills give us the power to take evidence; perhaps we can get the scientific part that way." peter did his best to brace catlin up; and his talk or other pressure seemed to have partially galvanized the backbone of that limp individual, for a week later the papers announced the naming of the two commissions. the lists had been changed, however. that on food consisted of green, a wholesale grocer, and a member of the health board. peter's name had been dropped. that on tenements, of five members, was made up of peter; a very large property-owner in new york, who was a member as well of the assembly; a professional labor agitator; a well-known politician of the better type, and a public contractor. peter, who had been studying some reports of a british royal commission on the same subject, looked grave, thinking that what the trained men in england had failed in doing, he could hardly hope to accomplish with such ill-assorted instruments. the papers were rather down on the lists. "the appointments have destroyed any chance of possible benefit," was their general conclusion, and peter feared they were right. costell laughed when peter spoke of the commissions. "if you want catlin to do anything well, you've got to stand over him till it's done. i wanted you on both commissions, so that you could see how useless they all are, and not blame us politicians for failing in our duty. green promises to get you appointed secretary of the food commission, which is the next best thing, and will give you a good salary for a time." the tenement commission met with little delay, and peter had a chance to examine its motley members. the big landlord was a great swell, who had political ambitions, but was too exclusive, and too much of a dilettante to be a real force. peter took a prejudice against him before meeting him, for he knew just how his election to the assembly had been obtained--even the size of the check--and peter thought buying an election was not a very creditable business. he did not like what he knew of the labor agitator, for such of the latter's utterances and opinions as he had read seemed to be the cheapest kind of demagogism. the politician he had met and liked. of the contractor he knew nothing. the commission organized by electing the politician as chairman. then the naming of a secretary was discussed, each member but peter having a candidate. much to peter's surprise, the landlord, mr. pell, named ray rivington. "i thought he was studying law?" peter said. "he is," said pell. "but he can easily arrange to get off for the few hours we shall meet a week, and the five dollars a day will be a very nice addition to his income. do you know him?" "we were in college together. i thought he was rich." "no. he's of good family, but the rivingtons are growing poorer every year. they try to live on their traditions, and traditions don't pay grocers. i hope you'll help him. he's a very decent fellow." "i shall vote for him," replied peter, marvelling that he should be able to give a lift to the man who, in the harvard days, had seemed so thoroughly the mate of watts and the other rich fellows of the "gang." rivington being the only candidate who had two votes, he was promptly selected. thirty arduous minutes were spent in waiting for the arrival of the fifth member of the commission, and in the election of chairman and secretary. a motion was then made to adjourn, on the ground that the commission could not proceed without the secretary. peter promptly objected. he had been named secretary for this particular meeting, and offered to act until rivington could be notified. "i think," he said, "that we ought to lay out our programme." the labor agitator agreed with him, and, rising, delivered an extempore speech, declaring that "we must not delay. the leeches (here he looked at mr. pell) are sucking the life-blood of the people," etc. the chairman started to call him to order, but peter put his hand on the chairman's arm. "if you stop him," he said in a low voice, "he'll think we are against him, and he'll say so outside." "but it's such foolishness." "and so harmless! while he's talking, look over this." peter produced an outline of action which he had drawn up, and having written it in duplicate, he passed one draft over to mr. pell. they all let the speech go on, peter, mr. pell and the chairman chatting over the plan, while the contractor went to sleep. the agitator tried to continue, but as the inattention became more and more evident, his speech became tamer and tamer. finally he said, "that is my opinion," and sat down. the cessation of the oration waked up the contractor, and peter's outline was read aloud. "i don't move its adoption," said peter. "i merely submit it as a basis." not one of the members had come prepared with knowledge of how to go to work, except the chairman, who had served on other commissions. he said: "i think mr. stirling's scheme shows very careful thought and is admirable. we cannot do better than adopt it." "it is chiefly copied from the german committee of three years ago," peter told them. "but i have tried to modify it to suit the different conditions." mr. pell objected to the proposed frequent sittings. thereupon the agitator praised that feature. the hour of meeting caused discussion. but finally the scheme was adopted, and the date of the first session fixed. peter went downstairs with mr. pell, and the latter offered to drop him at his office. so they drove off together, and talked about the commission. "that kurfeldt is going to be a nuisance," said pell "i can't say yet. he evidently has no idea of what our aim is. perhaps, though, when we really get to work, he'll prove useful." peter had a call the next day from rivington. it was made up of thanks, of college chat, and of inquiry as to duties. peter outlined the preliminary work, drafted the "inquiries" and other printed papers necessary to be sent out before the first meeting, and told him about the procedure at the meetings. "i know i shall get into all kinds of pickles," said ray. "i write such a bad hand that often i can't read it myself. how the deuce am i to take down evidence?" "i shall make notes for my own use, and you will be welcome to them, if they will help you." "thanks, peter. that's like you." the commission began its inquiry, on the date fixed, and met three times a week from that time on. peter did not try to push himself forward, but he was by far the best prepared on the subject, and was able to suggest the best sources of information. he asked good questions, too, of the various witnesses summoned. finally he was the one regular attendant, and therefore was the one appealed to for information elicited at previous meetings. he found the politician his best helper. pell was useful when he attended, which was not very often, and even this intermittent attendance ceased in june. "i'm going to newport," he explained, and did not appear again till late in the fall. the contractor really took no part in the proceedings beyond a fairly frequent attendance, and an occasional fit of attention whenever the inquiry related to building. the labor-agitator proved quite a good man. he had, it is true, no memory, and caused them to waste much time in reading over the minutes of previous meetings. but he was in earnest, and proved to be perfectly reasonable as soon as he found that the commissioners' duties were to inquire and not to make speeches. peter walked home with him several times, and they spent evenings together in peter's rooms, talking over the evidence, and the possibilities. peter met a great many different men in the course of the inquiry; landlords, real-estate agents, architects, engineers, builders, plumbers, health officials, doctors and tenants. in many cases he went to see these persons after they had been before the commission, and talked with them, finding that they were quite willing to give facts in private which they did not care to have put on record. he had been appointed the secretary of the food commission, and spent much time on that work. he was glad to find that he had considerable influence, and that green not merely acted on his suggestions, but encouraged him to make them. the two inquiries were so germane that they helped him reciprocally. no reports were needed till the next meeting of the legislature, in the following january, and so the two commissions took enough evidence to swamp them. poor ray was reduced almost to despair over the mass of "rubbish" as he called it, which he would subsequently have to put in order. between the two tasks, peter's time was well-nigh used up. it was especially drawn upon when the taking of evidence ceased and the drafting of the reports began. ray's notes proved hopeless, so peter copied out his neatly, and let ray have them, rather glad that irrelevant and useless evidence was thus omitted. it was left to peter to draw the report, and when his draft was submitted, it was accompanied by a proposed general tenement-house bill. both report and bill were slightly amended, but not in a way that peter minded. peter drew the food-commission report as well, although it went before the commission as green's. to this, too, a proposed bill was attached, which had undergone the scrutiny of the health board, and had been conformed to their suggestions. in november peter carried both reports to albany, and had a long talk with catlin over them. that official would have preferred no reports, but since they were made, there was nothing to do but to submit them to the legislature. peter did not get much encouragement from him about the chances for the bills. but costell told him that they could be "whipped through. the only danger is of their being amended, so as to spoil them." "well," said peter, "i hope they will be passed. i've done my best, whatever happens." a very satisfactory thing to be able to say of yourself, if you believe in your own truthfulness. chapter xxix. in the meantime. in spite of nine months' hard work on the two commissions, it is not to be supposed that peter's time was thus entirely monopolized. if one spends but seven hours of the twenty-four in sleep, and but two more on meals, there is considerable remaining time, and even so slow a worker as peter found spare hours not merely for society and saloons, but for what else he chose to undertake. socially he had an evening with miss de voe, just before she left the city for the summer; a dinner with mr. pell, who seemed to have taken a liking to peter; a call on lispenard; another on le grand; and a family meal at the rivingtons, where he was made much of in return for his aid to ray. in the saloons he worked hard over the coming primary, and spent evenings as well on doorsteps in the district, talking over objects and candidates. in the same cause, he saw much of costell, green, gallagher, schlurger and many other party men of greater or less note in the city's politics. he had become a recognized quantity in the control of the district, and the various ward factions tried hard to gain his support. when the primary met, the proceedings, if exciting, were never for a moment doubtful, for gallagher, peter, moriarty and blunkers had been able to agree on both programme and candidates. an attempt had been made to "turn down" schlurger, but peter had opposed it, and had carried his point, to the great gratitude of the silent, honest german. what was more important to him, this had all been done without exciting hard feelings. "stirling's a reasonable fellow," gallagher told costell, not knowing how much peter was seeing of the big leader, "and he isn't dead set on carrying his own schemes. we've never had so little talk of mutiny and sulking as we have had this paring. moriarty and blunkers swear by him. it's queer. they've always been on opposite sides till now." when the weather became pleasant, peter took up his "angle"' visitings again, though not with quite the former regularity. yet he rarely let a week pass without having spent a couple of evenings there. the spontaneous welcome accorded him was payment enough for the time, let alone the pleasure and enjoyment he derived from the imps. there was little that could raise peter in their estimation, but they understood very well that he had become a man of vast importance, as it seemed to them. they had sharp little minds and ears, and had caught what the "district" said and thought of peter. "cheese it, the cop, tim," cried an urchin one evening to another, who was about to "play ball." "cheese it yerself. he won't dare tech me," shouted tim, "so long as mister peter's here." that speech alone showed the magnitude of his position in their eyes. he was now not merely, "friends wid de perlice;" he was held in fear by that awesome body! "if i was as big as him," said one, "i'd fire all the peelers." "wouldn't that be dandy!" cried another. he won their hearts still further by something he did in midsummer. blunkers had asked him to attend what brilliant posters throughout that part of the city announced as: ho for the sea-shore! sixth annual clam bake of the patrick n. blunkers's association. when peter asked, he found that it was to consist of a barge party (tickets fifty cents) to a bit of sand not far away from the city, with music, clams, bathing and dancing included in the price of the ticket, and unlimited beer for those who could afford that beverage. "the beer just pays for it," blunkers explained. "i don't give um whisky cause some ---- cusses don't drink like as dey orter." then catching a look in peter's face, he laughed rather shamefacedly. "i forgits," he explained. "yer see i'm so da--" he checked himself--"i swears widout knowin' it." "i shall be very glad to go," said peter. "dat's bully," said blunkers. then he added anxiously: "dere's somethin' else, too, since yer goin'. ginerally some feller makes a speech. yer wouldn't want to do it dis time, would yer?" "what do they talk about?" "just what dey--" blunkers swallowed a word, nearly choking in so doing, and ended "please." "yes. i shall be glad to talk, if you don't mind my taking a dull subject?" "yer just talk what yer want. we'll listen." after peter had thought it over for a day, he went to blunkers's gin palace. "look here," he said. "would it be possible to hire one more barge, and take the children free? i'll pay for the boat, and for the extra food, if they won't be in the way." "i'm damned if yer do," shouted blunkers. "yer don't pay for nothinks, but der childers shall go, or my name ain't blunkers." and go they did, blunkers making no secret of the fact that it was peter's idea. so every child who went, nearly wild with delight, felt that the sail, the sand, the sea, and the big feed, was all owed to peter. it was rather an amusing experience to peter. he found many of his party friends in the district, not excluding such men as gallagher, kennedy and others of the more prominent rank. he made himself very pleasant to those whom he knew, chatting with them on the trip down. he went into the water with the men and boys, and though there were many good swimmers, peter's country and river training made it possible for him to give even the "wharf rats," a point or two in the way of water feats. then came the regulation clam-bake, after which peter talked about the tenement-house question for twenty minutes. the speech was very different from what they expected, and rather disappointed them all. however, he won back their good opinions in closing, for he ended with a very pleasant "thank you," to blunkers, so neatly worded, and containing such a thoroughly apt local joke, that it put all in a good humor, and gave them something to tell their neighbors, on their return home. the advantage of seldom joking is that people remember the joke, and it gets repeated. peter almost got the reputation of a wit on that one joke, merely because it came after a serious harangue, and happened to be quotable. blunkers was so pleased with the end of the speech that he got peter to write it out, and to this day the "thank you" part of the address, in peter's neat handwriting, handsomely framed, is to be seen in blunkers's saloon. peter also did a little writing this summer. he had gone to see three or four of the reporters, whom he had met in "the case," to get them to write up the food and tenement subjects, wishing thereby to stir up public feeling. he was successful to a certain degree, and they not merely wrote articles themselves, but printed three or four which peter wrote. in two cases, he was introduced to "staff" writers, and even wrote an editorial, for which he was paid fifteen dollars. this money was all he received for the time spent, but he was not working for shekels. all the men told him to let them know when he had more "stories" for them, and promised him assistance when the reports should go in to the legislature. peter visited his mother as usual during august. before going, he called on dr. plumb, and after an evening with him, went to two tenements in the district. as the result of these calls, he carried three children with him when he went home. rather pale, thin little waifs. it is a serious matter to charge any one with so grave a crime as changling, but peter laid himself open to it, for when he came back, after two weeks, he returned very different children to the parents. the fact that they did not prosecute for the substitution only proves how little the really poor care for their offspring. but this was not his only summering. he spent four days with the costells, as well as two afternoons later, thoroughly enjoying, not merely the long, silent drives over the country behind the fast horses, but the pottering round the flower-garden with mrs. costell. he had been reading up a little on flowers and gardening, and he was glad to swap his theoretical for her practical knowledge. candor compels the statement that he enjoyed the long hours stretched on the turf, or sitting idly on the veranda, puffing mr. costell's good havanas. twice mr. bohlmann stopped at peter's office of a saturday and took him out to stay over sunday at his villa in one of the oranges. the family all liked peter and did not hesitate to show it. mr. bohlmann told him: "i sbend about dree dousand a year on law und law-babers. misder dummer id does for me, but ven he does nod any longer it do, i gifts id you." on the second visit mrs. bohlmann said: "i tell my good man that with all the law-business he has, he must get a lawyer for a son-in-law." peter had not heard mrs. bohlmann say to her husband the evening before, as they were prinking for dinner: "have you told mr. stirling about your law business?" nor mr. bohlmann's prompt: "yah. i dells him der last dime." yet peter wondered if there were any connection between the two statements. he liked the two girls. they were nice-looking, sweet, sincere women. he knew that mr. bohlmann was ranked as a millionaire already, and was growing richer fast. yet--peter needed no blank walls. during this summer, peter had a little more law practice. a small grocer in one of the tenements came to him about a row with his landlord. peter heard him through, and then said: "i don't see that you have any case; but if you will leave it to me to do as i think best, i'll try if i can do something," and the man agreeing, peter went to see the landlord, a retail tobacconist up-town. "i don't think my client has any legal grounds," he told the landlord, "but he thinks that he has, and the case does seem a little hard. such material repairs could not have been foreseen when the lease was made." the tobacconist was rather obstinate at first. finally he said, "i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll contribute one hundred dollars towards the repairs, if you'll make a tenant named podds in the same building pay his rent; or dispossess him if he doesn't, so that it shan't cost me anything." peter agreed, and went to see the tenant in arrears. he found that the man had a bad rheumatism and consequently was unable to work. the wife was doing what she could, and even the children had been sent on the streets to sell papers, or by other means, to earn what they could. they also owed a doctor and the above-mentioned grocer. peter went back to the landlord and told him the story. "yes," he said, "it's a hard case, i know, but, mr. stirling, i owe a mortgage on the place, and the interest falls due in september. i'm out four months' rent, and really can't afford any more." so peter took thirty-two dollars from his "trustee" fund, and sent it to the tobacconist. "i have deducted eight dollars for collection," he wrote. then he saw his first client, and told him of his landlord's concession. "how much do i owe you?" inquired the grocer. "the podds tell me they owe you sixteen dollars." "yes. i shan't get it." "my fee is twenty-five. mark off their bill and give me the balance." the grocer smiled cheerfully. he had charged the podds roundly for their credit, taking his chance of pay, and now got it paid in an equivalent of cash. he gave the nine dollars with alacrity. peter took it upstairs and gave it to mrs. podds. "if things look up with you later," he said, "you can pay it back. if not, don't trouble about it. ill look in in a couple of weeks to see how things are going." when this somewhat complicated matter was ended, he wrote about it to his mother: "many such cases would bankrupt me. as it is, my fund is dwindling faster than i like to see, though every lessening of it means a lessening of real trouble to some one. i should like to tell miss de voe what good her money has done already, but fear she would not understand why i told her. it has enabled me to do so much that otherwise i could not have afforded. there is only one hundred and seventy-six dollars left. most of it though, is merely loaned and perhaps will be repaid. anyway, i shall have nearly six hundred dollars for my work as secretary of the food commission, and i shall give half of it to this fund." chapter xxx. a "comedy." when the season began again, miss de voe seriously undertook her self-imposed work of introducing peter. he was twice invited to dinner and was twice taken with opera parties to sit in her box, besides receiving a number of less important attentions. peter accepted dutifully all that she offered him. even ordered a new dress-suit of a tailor recommended by lispenard. he was asked by some of the people he met to call, probably on miss de voe's suggestion, and he dutifully called. yet at the end of three months miss de voe shook her head. "he is absolutely a gentleman, and people seem to like him. yet somehow--i don't understand it." "exactly," laughed lispenard. "you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." "lispenard," angrily said miss de voe, "mr. stirling is as much better than--" "that's it," said lispenard. "don't think i'm depreciating peter. the trouble is that he is much too good a chap to make into a society or a lady's man." "i believe you are right. i don't think he cares for it at all." "no," said lispenard. "barkis is not willin'. i think he likes you, and simply goes to please you." "do you really think that's it?" lispenard laughed at the earnestness with which the question was asked. "no," he replied. "i was joking. peter cultivates you, because he wants to know your swell friends." either this conversation or miss de voe's own thoughts, led to a change in her course. invitations to formal dinners and to the opera suddenly ceased, and instead, little family dinners, afternoons in galleries, and evenings at concerts took their place. sometimes lispenard went with them, sometimes one of the ogden girls, sometimes they went alone. it was an unusual week when peter's mail did not now bring at least one little note giving him a chance to see miss de voe if he chose. in february came a request for him to call. "i want to talk with you about something," it said. that same evening he was shown into her drawing-rooms. she thanked him with warmth for coming so quickly, and peter saw that only the other visitors prevented her from showing some strong feeling. he had stumbled in on her evening--for at that time people still had evenings--but knowing her wishes, he stayed till they were left alone together. "come into the library," she said. as they passed across the hall she told morden, "i shall not receive any more to-night." the moment they were in the smaller and cosier room, without waiting to sit even, she began: "mr. stirling, i dined at the manfreys yesterday." she spoke in a voice evidently endeavoring not to break. peter looked puzzled. "mr. lapham, the bank president, was there." peter still looked puzzled. "and he told the table about a young lawyer who had very little money, yet who put five hundred dollars--his first fee--into his bank, and had used it to help--" miss de voe broke down, and, leaning against the mantel, buried her face in her handkerchief. "it's curious you should have heard of it," said peter. "he--he didn't mention names, b-bu-but i knew, of course." "i didn't like to speak of it because--well--i've wanted to tell you the good it's done. suppose you sit down." peter brought a chair, and miss de voe took it. "you must think i'm very foolish," she said, wiping her eyes. "it's nothing to cry about." and peter began telling her of some of the things which he had been able to do:--of the surgical brace it had bought; of the lessons in wood-engraving it had given; of the sewing-machine it had helped to pay for; of the arrears in rent it had settled. "you see," he explained, "these people are too self-respecting to go to the big charities, or to rich people. but their troubles are talked over in the saloons and on the doorsteps, so i hear of them, and can learn whether they really deserve help. they'll take it from me, because they feel that i'm one of them." miss de voe was too much shaken by her tears to talk that evening. miss de voe's life and surroundings were not exactly weepy ones, and when tears came they meant much. she said little, till peter rose to go, and then only: "i shall want to talk with you, to see what i can do to help you in your work. please come again soon. i ought not to have brought you here this evening, only to see me cry like a baby. but--i had done you such injustice in my mind about that seven dollars, and then to find that--oh!" miss de voe showed signs of a recurring break-down, but mastered herself. "good-evening." peter gone, miss de voe had another "good" cry--which is a feminine phrase, quite incomprehensible to men--and, going to her room, bathed her eyes. then she sat before her boudoir fire, thinking. finally she rose. in leaving the fire, she remarked aloud to it: "yes. he shall have dorothy, if i can do it." so dorothy became a pretty regular addition to the informal meals, exhibitions and concerts. peter was once more taken to the opera, but dorothy and miss de voe formed with him the party in the box on such nights. miss de voe took him to call on mrs. odgen, and sang his praises to both parents. she even went so far as to say frankly to them what was in her mind. mr. ogden said, "those who know him speak very well of him. i heard 'van' pell praise him highly at newport last summer. said all the politicians thought of him as a rising man." "he seems a nice steady fellow," said the mamma. "i don't suppose he has much practice?" "oh, don't think of the money," said miss de voe. "what is that compared to getting a really fine man whom one can truly love?" "still, money is an essential," said the papa. "yes. but you both know what i intend to do for dorothy and minna. they need not think of money. if he and dorothy only will care for each other!" peter and dorothy did like each other. dorothy was very pretty, and had all the qualities which make a girl a strong magnet to men. peter could not help liking her. as for dorothy, she was like other women. she enjoyed the talking, joking, "good-time" men in society, and chatted and danced with them with relish. but like other women, when she thought of marriage, she did not find these gingerbread ornamentations so attractive. the average woman loves a man, aside from his love for her, for his physical strength, and his stiff truth-telling. the first is attractive to her because she has it not. far be it from man to say why the second attracts. so dorothy liked peter. she admired many qualities in him which she would not have tolerated in other men. it is true that she laughed at him, too, for many things, but it was the laughter of that peculiar nature which implies admiration and approval, rather than the lower feelings. when the spring separation came, miss de voe was really quite hopeful. "i think things have gone very well. now, mr. stirling has promised to spend a week with me at newport. i shall have dorothy there at the same time," she told mrs. ogden. lispenard, who was present, laughed as usual. "so you are tired of your new plaything already?" "what do you mean?" "arn't you marrying him so as to get rid of his calls and his escortage?" "of course not. we shall go on just the same." "bully for you, ma. does dr. brown know it?" miss de voe flushed angrily, and put an end to her call. "what a foolish fellow lispenard is!" she remarked unconsciously to wellington at the carriage door. "beg pardon, mum?" said wellington, blank wonderment filling his face. "home, wellington," said miss de voe crossly. peter took his week at newport on his way back from his regular august visit to his mother. miss de voe had told him casually that dorothy would be there, and dorothy was there. yet he saw wonderfully little of her. it is true that he could have seen more if he had tried, but peter was not used to practice finesse to win minutes and hours with a girl, and did not feel called upon, bluntly, to take such opportunities. his stay was not so pleasant as he had expected. he had thought a week in the same house with miss de voe, dorothy and lispenard, without much regard to other possible guests, could not but be a continual pleasure. but he was conscious that something was amiss with his three friends. nor was peter the only one who felt it. dorothy said to her family when she went home: "i can't imagine what is the matter with cousin anneke. all last spring she was nicer to me than she has ever been before, but from the moment i arrived at newport, and before i could possibly have said or done anything to offend her, she treated me in the snippiest way. after two days i asked her what the matter was, but she insisted there was nothing, and really lost her temper at my suggesting the idea. there was something, i know, for when i said i was coming home sooner than i had at first intended, she didn't try to make me stay." "perhaps," said mrs. ogden, "she was disappointed in something, and so vented her feeling on you." "but she wasn't cross--except when i asked her what the matter was. she was just--just snippy." "was mr. stirling there?" "yes. and a lot of other people. i don't think anybody had a good time, unless it was cousin lispenard. and he wasn't a bit nice. he had some joke to himself, and kept making remarks that nobody could understand, and chuckling over them. i told him once that he was rude, but he said that 'when people went to a play they should laugh at the right points.' that's the nice thing about mr. stirling. you know that what he says is the real truth." "lispenard's always trying to be clever." "yes. what do you suppose he said to me as i came away!" "what?" "he shook my hand, laughing, and said, 'exit villain. it is to be a comedy, not a tragedy.' what could he mean?" lispenard stayed on to see the "comedy," and seemed to enjoy it, if the amused expression on his face when he occasionally gave himself up to meditation was any criterion. peter had been pressed to stay beyond the original week, and had so far yielded as to add three days to his visit. these last three days were much pleasanter than those which had gone before, although dorothy had departed and peter liked dorothy. but he saw much more of miss de voe, and miss de voe was in a much pleasanter mood. they took long drives and walks together, and had long hours of talk in and about the pleasant house and grounds. miss de voe had cut down her social duties for the ten days peter was there, giving far more time for them to kill than usually fell to newporters even in those comparitively simple days. in one of these talks, miss de voe spoke of dorothy. "she is such a nice, sweet girl," she said. "we all hope she'll marry lispenard." "do you think cousins ought to marry?" miss de voe had looked at peter when she made her remark. peter had replied quietly, but his question, as miss de voe understood it, was purely scientific, not personal. miss de voe replied: "i suppose it is not right, but it is so much better than what may happen, that it really seems best. it is so hard for a girl in dorothy's position to marry as we should altogether wish." "why?" asked peter, who did not see that a girl with prospective wealth, fine social position, and personal charm, was not necessarily well situated to get the right kind of a husband. "it is hard to make it clear--but--i'll tell you my own story, so that you can understand. since you don't ask questions, i will take the initiative. that is, unless your not asking them means you are not interested?" miss de voe laughed in the last part of this speech. "i should like to hear it." people, no matter what peter stated, never said "really?" "you are in earnest?" or "you really mean it?" so miss de voe took him at his word. "both my father and mother were rich before they married, and the rise in new york real estate made them in time, much richer. they both belonged to old families. i was the only child--lispenard says old families are so proud of themselves that they don't dare to have large families for fear of making the name common. of course they lavished all their thought, devotion and anxiety on me. i was not spoiled; but i was watched and tended as if i were the most precious thing the world contained. when i grew up, and went into society, i question if i ever was a half-hour out of the sight of one or the other of my parents. i had plenty of society, of course, but it was restricted entirely to our set. none other was good enough for me! my father never had any business, so brought no new element into our household. it was old families, year in and year out! from the moment i entered society i was sought for. i had many suitors. i had been brought up to fear fortune-hunting, and suspected the motives of many men. others did not seem my equals--for i had been taught pride in my birth. those who were fit as regarded family were, many of them, unfit in brains or morals--qualities not conspicuous in old families. perhaps i might have found one to love--if it had not been for the others. i was surrounded wherever i went and if by chance i found a pleasant man to talk to, _téte-à-téte,_ we were interrupted by other men coming up. only a few even of the men whom i met could gain an _entrée_ to our house.--they weren't thought good enough. if a working, serious man had ever been able to see enough of me to love me, he probably would have had very little opportunity to press his suit. but the few men i might have cared for were frightened off by my money, or discouraged by my popularity and exclusiveness. they did not even try. of course i did not understand it then. i gloried in my success and did not see the wrong it was doing me. i was absolutely happy at home, and really had not the slightest inducement to marry--especially among the men i saw the most. i led this life for six years. then my mother's death put me in mourning. when i went back into society, an almost entirely new set of men had appeared. those whom i had known were many of them married--others were gone. society had lost its first charm to me. so my father and i travelled three years. we had barely returned when he died. i did not take up my social duties again till i was thirty-two. then it was as the spinster aunt, as you have known me. now do you understand how hard it is for such a girl as dorothy to marry rightly?" "yes. unless the man is in love. let a man care enough for a woman, and money or position will not frighten him off." "such men are rare. or perhaps it is because i did not attract them. i did not understand men as well then as i do now. of some whom i thought unlovable or dull at that time, i have learned to think better. a woman does not marry to be entertained--or should not." "i think," said peter, "that one marries for love and sympathy." "yes. and if they are given, it does not matter about the rest. even now, thirty-seven though i am, if i could find a true man who could love me as i wish to be loved, i could love him with my whole heart. it would be my happiness not merely to give him social position and wealth, but to make his every hope and wish mine also." all this had been said in the same natural manner in which they both usually spoke. miss de voe had talked without apparent emotion. but when she began the last remark, she had stopped looking at peter, and had gazed off through the window at the green lawn, merely showing him her profile. as a consequence she did not see how pale he suddenly became, nor the look of great suffering that came into his face. she did not see this look pass and his face, and especially his mouth, settle into a rigid determination, even while the eyes remained sad. miss de voe ended the pause by beginning, "don't you"--but peter interrupted her there, by saying: "it is a very sad story to me--because i--i once craved love and sympathy." miss de voe turned and looked at him quickly. she saw the look of suffering on his face, but read it amiss. "you mean?" she questioned. "there was a girl i loved," said peter softly, "who did not love me." "and you love her still?" "i have no right to." "she is married?" "yes." "will you tell me about it?" "i--i would rather not." miss de voe sat quietly for a moment, and then rose. "dear friend," she said, laying her hand on peter's shoulder, "we have both missed the great prize in life. your lot is harder than the one i have told you about. it is very,"--miss de voe paused a moment,--"it is very sad to love--without being loved." and so ended lispenard's comedy. chapter xxxi. conflicts. lispenard went back with peter to the city. he gave his reason on the train: "you see i go back to the city occasionally in the summer, so as to make the country bearable, and then i go back to the country, so as to make the city endurable. i shall be in newport again in a week. when will you come back?" "my summering's over." "indeed. i thought my cousin would want you again!" "she did not say so." "the deuce she didn't. it must be the only thing she didn't say, then, in your long confabs?" peter made no reply, though lispenard looked as well as asked a question. "perhaps," continued lispenard, "she talked too much, and so did not remember to ask you?" still peter said nothing. "are you sure she didn't give you a chance to have more of her society?" lispenard was smiling. "ogden," said peter gently, "you are behaving contemptibly and you know it." the color blazed up into lispenard's face and he rose, saying: "did i understand you aright?" the manner and attitude were both threatening though repressed. "if you tell me that i misunderstood you, i will apologize. if you think the statement insulting, i will withdraw it. i did not speak to insult you; but because i wished you to know how your questions impressed me." "when a man tells another he is contemptible, he cannot expect to escape results. this is no place to have a scene. you may send me your apology when we reach new york--" peter interrupted. "i shall, if you will tell me i wronged you in supposing your questions to be malicious." lispenard paid no attention to the interjection. "otherwise," he finished, "we will consider our relations ended." he walked away. peter wrote lispenard that evening a long letter. he did not apologize in it, but it ended: "there should be no quarrel between us, for we ought to be friends. if alienation has come, it is due to what has occurred to-day, and that shall not cause unkind feelings, if i can help it. an apology is due somewhere. you either asked questions you had no right to ask, or else i misjudged you. i have written you my point of view. you have your own. i leave the matter to your fairness. think it over, and if you still find me in the wrong, and will tell me so, i will apologize." he did not receive a reply. meeting ogden ogden a few days later, he was told that lispenard had gone west for a hunting trip, quite unexpectedly. "he said not to expect him back till he came. he seemed out of sorts at something." in september peter had a letter from miss de voe. merely a few lines saying that she had decided to spend the winter abroad, and was on the point of sailing. "i am too hurried to see my friends, but did not like to go without some good-byes, so i write them." on the whole, as in the case of most comedies, there was little amusement for the actual performers. a great essayist has defined laughter as a "feeling of superiority in the laugher over the object laughed at." if this is correct, it makes all humor despicable. certainly much coarseness, meanness and cruelty are every day tolerated, because of the comic covering with which it is draped. it is not to be supposed that this comedy nor its winter prologue had diverted peter from other things. in spite of miss de voe's demands on his time he had enough left to spend many days in albany when the legislature took up the reports of the commissions. he found strong lobbies against both bills, and had a long struggle with them. he had the help of the newspapers, and he had the help of costell, yet even with this powerful backing, the bills were first badly mangled, and finally were side-tracked. in the actual fight, pell helped him most, and peter began to think that a man might buy an election and yet not be entirely bad. second only to pell, was his whilom enemy, the former district-attorney, now a state senator, who battled himself into peter's reluctant admiration and friendship by his devotion and loyalty to the bills. peter concluded that he had not entirely done the man justice in the past. curiously enough, his chief antagonist was maguire. peter did not give up the fight with this defeat. his work for the bills had revealed to him the real under-currents in the legislative body, and when it adjourned, making further work in albany only a waste of time, he availed himself of the secret knowledge that had come to him, to single out the real forces which stood behind and paid the lobby, and to interview them. he saw the actual principals in the opposition, and spoke with utmost frankness. he told them that the fight would be renewed, on his part, at every session of the legislature till the bills were passed; that he was willing to consider proposed amendments, and would accept any that were honest. he made the fact very clear to them that they would have to pay yearly to keep the bills off the statute book. some laughed at him, others quarrelled. but a few, after listening to him, stated their true objections to the bills, and peter tried to meet them. when the fall elections came, peter endeavored to further his cause in another way. three of the city's assemblymen and one of her senators had voted against the bills. peter now invaded their districts, and talked against them in saloons and elsewhere. it very quickly stirred up hard feeling, which resulted in attempts to down him. but peter's blood warmed up as the fight thickened, and hisses, eggs, or actual attempts to injure him physically did not deter him. the big leaders were appealed to to call him off, but costell declined to interfere. "he wouldn't stop anyway," he told green, "so we should do no good. let them fight it out by themselves." both of which sentences showed that mr. costell understood his business. peter had challenged his opponents to a joint debate, and when that was declined by them, he hired halls for evenings and spoke on the subject. he argued well, with much more feeling than he had shown since his speech in "the case." after the first attempt of this kind, he had no difficulty in filling his halls. the rumor came back to his own district that he was "talkin' foin," and many of his friends there turned out to hear him. the same news went through other wards of the city and drew men from them. people were actually excluded, for want of room, and therefore every one became anxious to hear his speeches. finally, by subscription of a number of people who had become interested, headed by mr. pell, the cooper union was hired, and peter made a really great speech to nearly three thousand people. the papers came to his help too, and stood by him manfully. by their aid, it was made very clear that this was a fight against a selfish lobby. by their aid, it became one of the real questions of the local campaign, and was carried beyond the borders of the city, so as to play a part in the county elections. peter met many of the editors, and between his expert knowledge, acquired on the commissions, and his practical knowledge, learned at albany, proved a valuable man to them. they repaid his help by kind words and praise in their columns, and brought him forward as the chief man in the movement. mrs. stirling concluded that the conspiracy to keep peter in the background had been abandoned. "those york papers couldn't help my peter's getting on," was the way she put it. the results of this fight were even better than he had hoped. one assemblyman gave in and agreed no longer to oppose the bills. another was defeated. the senator had his majority so cut down that he retired from the opposition. the questions too had become so much more discussed and watched, and the blame so fastened upon the lobby that many members from the country no longer dared to oppose legislation on the subject. hence it was that the bills, newly drawn by peter, to reduce opposition as far as possible, when introduced by schlurger soon after the opening of the legislature, went through with a rush, not even ayes and nays being taken. aided by mr. costell, peter secured their prompt signing by catlin, his long fight had ended in victory. the "sixt" was wild with joy over the triumph. whether it was because it was a tenement ward, or because peter had talked there so much about it, or because his success was felt to redound to their credit, the voters got up a display of fireworks on the night when the news of the signing of the bills reached new york. when peter returned to the city, he was called down to a hall one evening, to witness a torchlight procession and receive resolutions "engrossed and framed" from his admiring friends. blunkers was chairman and made a plain speech which set the boys cheering by its combination of strong feeling and lack of grammar. then justice gallagher made a fine-sounding, big-worded presentation. in the enthusiasm of the moment, dennis broke the programme by rising and giving vent to a wild burst of feeling, telling his audience all that they owed to peter, and though they knew already what he told them, they cheered and cheered the strong, natural eloquence. "yer was out a order," said blunkers, at the end of the speech. "yez loi!" said dennis, jumping on his feet again. "it's never out av order to praise misther stirling." the crowd applauded his sentiment. chapter xxxii. the end of the conflict. peter had had some rough experiences two or three times in his fall campaign, and dennis, who had insisted on escorting him, took him to task about his "physical culture." "it's thirty pounds yez are too heavy, sir," he told peter. "an' it's too little intirely yez afther knowin' av hittin'." peter asked his advice, bought indian clubs, dumb-bells, and boxing-gloves, and under dennis's tutelage began to learn the art of self-defence. he was rather surprised, at the end of two months, to find how much flesh he had taken off, how much more easily he moved, how much more he was eating, and how much more he was able to do, both mentally and physically. "it seems as if somebody had oiled my body and brain," he told dennis. dennis let him into another thing, by persuading him to join the militia regiment most patronized by the "sixth," and in which dennis was already a sergeant. peter received a warm welcome from the regiment, for dennis, who was extremely popular, had heralded his fame, and peter's physical strength and friendly way did the rest. ogden ogden laughed at him for joining a "mick" regiment, and wanted to put peter into the seventh. peter only said that he thought his place was where he was. society did not see much of peter this winter. he called on his friends dutifully, but his long visits to albany, his evenings with dennis, and his drill nights, interfered badly with his acceptance of the invitations sent him. he had, too, made many friends in his commission work and politics, so that he had relatively less time to give to his older ones. the absence of miss de voe and lispenard somewhat reduced his social obligations it is true, but the demands on his time were multiplying fast. one of these demands was actual law work. the first real case to come to him was from the contractor who had served on the tenement-commission. he was also employed by the health board as special counsel in a number of prosecutions, to enforce clauses of his food bill. the papers said it was because of his familiarity with the subject, but peter knew it was the influence of green, who had become a member of that board. then he began to get cases from the "district," and though there was not much money in each case, before long the number of them made a very respectable total. the growth of his practice was well proven by a suggestion from dummer that they should join forces. "mr. bohlmann wants to give you some of his work, and it's easier to go into partnership than to divide his practice." peter knew that dummer had a very lucrative business of a certain kind, but he declined the offer. "i have decided never to take a case which has not right on its side." "a lawyer is just as much bound to try a case as a physician is bound to take a patient." "that is what lawyers say outside, but they know better." "well, have your scruples. we'll make the firm cases only such as you choose. i'll manage the others." "i should like to," said peter. "i'm very grateful for the offer--but we could hardly do that successfully. if the firm was good for anything, we should be known as belonging to it, and the public could not well discriminate." so that chance of success was passed. but every now and then bohlmann sent him something to do, and dummer helped him to a joint case occasionally. so, though friends grew steadily in numbers, society saw less and less of peter. those who cared to study his tastes came to recognize that to force formal entertaining on him was no kindness, and left it to peter to drop in when he chose, making him welcome when he came. he was pleased to get a letter from lispenard during the winter, from japan. it was long, but only the first paragraph need be quoted, for the rest related merely to his travels: "the breezes of the pacific have blown away all my bad temper," he wrote, "and i want to say that i was wrong, and regret my original fault, as well as what it later led me into. you are quite right. we must continue friends." peter wrote a reply, which led to a regular correspondence. he sent miss de voe, also, a line of christmas greetings, and received a long letter from her at nice, which told him something of watts and helen: "she is now well again, but having been six years in europe, she and her husband have become wedded to the life. i question if they ever return. i spoke of you, and they both inquired with great warmth about you." peter replied, sending his "remembrance to mr. and mrs. d'alloi in case you again meet them." from that time on miss de voe and he corresponded, she telling him of her italian, greek and egyptian wanderings, and he writing of his doings, especially in regard to a certain savings bank fund standing in the name of "peter stirling, trustee" to which miss de voe had, the winter before, arranged to contribute a thousand dollars yearly. as his practice increased he began to indulge himself a little. through the instrumentality of mr. pell, he was put first into one and later into a second of the new york clubs, and his dinners became far less simple in consequence. he used these comforters of men, indeed, almost wholly for dining, and, though by no means a club-man in other senses, it was still a tendency to the luxurious. to counteract this danger he asked mr. costell to pick him up a saddle-horse, whereupon that friend promptly presented him with one. he went regularly now to a good tailor, which conduct ought to have ruined him with the "b'ys," but it didn't. he still smoked a pipe occasionally in the saloons or on the doorsteps of the district, yet candor compels us to add that he now had in his room a box of cigars labelled "habana." these were creature pleasures, however, which he only allowed himself on rare occasions. and most of these luxuries did not appear till his practice had broadened beyond the point already noted. broaden it did. in time many city cases were thrown in his way. as he became more and more a factor in politics, the judges began to send him very profitable referee cases. presently a great local corporation, with many damage suits, asked him to accept its work on a yearly salary. "of course we shall want you to look out for us at albany," it was added. "i'll do what i can to prevent unfair legislation. that must be all, though. as for the practice, you must let me settle every case where i think the right is with the plaintiff." this caused demur at first, but eventually he was employed, and it was found that money was saved in the long run, for peter was very successful in getting people to settle out of court. then the savings bank, for which peter had done his best (not merely as recorded, but at other times), turned over its law business to him, giving him many real estate transactions to look into, besides papers to draw. "he brings us a good many depositors," mr. lapham told his trustees, "and is getting to be a large depositor himself." peter began to find help necessary, and took a partner. he did this at the suggestion of ogden ogden, who had concluded his clerkship, and who said to peter: "i have a lot of friends who promise me their work. i don't know how much it will be, but i should like to try it with you. of course, yours is the bigger practice, but we can arrange that." so after considerable discussion, the sign on peter's door became "stirling and ogden," and the firm blossomed out with an office boy--one of peter's original "angle" friends, now six years older than when peter and he had first met. ogden's friends did materialize, and brought good paying cases. as the city, referee, corporation and bank work increased, their joint practice needed more help, and ray rivington was, on ogden's request, taken in. "he doesn't get on with his law studies, though he pretends to work over them hard. in fact he'll never be a good lawyer. he hasn't a legal mind. but he'll bring cases, for he's very popular in society, and he'll do all the palavering and running round very well. he's just the fellow to please people." this was what ogden urged, adding, "i might as well tell you that i'm interested for another reason, too. he and dorothy will marry, if he can ever get to the marrying point. this, of course, is to be between us." "i'll be very glad to have him, both for his own sake, and for what you've just told me," said peter. thus it was that the firm again changed its name, becoming "stirling, ogden and rivington," and actually spread into two other rooms, peter's original little "ten by twelve" being left to the possession of the office boy. that functionary gazed long hours at the map of italy on the blank wall, but it did not trouble him. he only whistled and sang street songs at it. as for peter, he was too busy to need blank walls. he had fought two great opponents. the world and himself. he had conquered them both. chapter xxxiii. a renewal. if the american people had anglicized themselves as thoroughly into liking three-volume stories, as they have in other things, it would be a pleasure to trace the next ten years of peter's life; for his growing reputation makes this period a far easier matter to chronicle than the more obscure beginnings already recorded. if his own life did not supply enough material we could multiply our characters, as did dickens, or journey sideways, into little essays, as did thackeray. his life and his biographer's pen might fail to give interest to such devices, but the plea is now for "realism," which most writers take to mean microscopical examination of minutia. if the physical and psychical emotions of a heroine as she drinks a glass of water can properly be elaborated so as to fill two printed pages, peter's life could be extended endlessly. there were big cases, political fights, globe trottings, and new friends, all of which have unlimited potentialities for numerous chapters. but americans are peculiar people, and do not buy a pound of sugar any the quicker because its bulk has been raised by a skilful admixture of moisture and sand. so it seems best partly to take the advice of the bellman, in the "hunting of the snark," to skip sundry years. in resuming, it is to find peter at his desk, reading a letter. he has a very curious look on his face, due to the letter, the contents of which are as follows: march . dear old chum-- here is the wretched old sixpence, just as bad as ever--if not worse--come back after all these years. and as of yore, the sixpence is in a dreadful pickle, and appeals to the old chum, who always used to pull him out of his scrapes, to do it once more. please come and see me as quickly as possible, for every moment is important. you see i feel sure that i do not appeal in vain. "changeless as the pyramids" ought to be your motto. helen and our dear little girl will be delighted to see you, as will yours affectionately, watts. peter opened a drawer and put the letter into it. then he examined his diary calendar. after this he went to a door, and, opening it, said: "i am going uptown for the afternoon. if mr. murtha comes, mr. ogden will see him.". peter went down and took a cab, giving the driver a number in grammercy park. the footman hesitated on peter's inquiry. "mr. d'alloi is in, sir, but is having his afternoon nap, and we have orders he's not to be disturbed." "take him my card. he will see me." the footman showed peter into the drawing-room, and disappeared. peter heard low voices for a moment, then the curtains of the back room were quickly parted, and with hands extended to meet him, helen appeared. "this is nice of you--and so unexpected!" peter took the hand, but said nothing. they sat down, and mrs. d'alloi continued: "watts is asleep, and i have given word that he is not to be disturbed. i want to see you for a moment myself. you have plenty of time?" "yes." "that's very nice. i don't want you to be formal with us. do say that you can stay to dinner?" "i would, if i were not already engaged." "then we'll merely postpone it. it's very good of you to come to see us. i've tried to get watts to look you up, but he is so lazy! it's just as well since you've found us out. only you should have asked for both of us." "i came on business," said peter. mrs. d'alloi laughed. "watts is the poorest man in the world for that, but he'll do anything he can to help you, i know. he has the warmest feeling for you." peter gathered from this that mrs. d'alloi did not know of the "scrape," whatever it was, and with a lawyer's caution, he did not attempt to disabuse her of the impression that he had called about his own affairs. "how you have changed!" mrs. d'alloi continued. "if i had not known who it was from the card, i am not sure that i should have recognized you." it was just what peter had been saying to himself of mrs. d'alloi. was it her long ill-health, or was it the mere lapse of years, which had wrought such changes in her? except for the eyes, everything had altered. the cheeks had lost their roundness and color; the hair had thinned noticeably; lines of years and pain had taken away the sweet expression that formerly had counted for so much; the pretty roundness of the figure was gone, and what charm it now had was due to the modiste's skill. peter felt puzzled. was this the woman for whom he had so suffered? was it this memory that had kept him, at thirty-eight, still a bachelor? like many another man, he found that he had been loving an ideal--a creation of his own mind. he had, on a boyish fancy, built a dream of a woman with every beauty and attraction, and had been loving it for many years, to the exclusion of all other womankind. now he saw the original of his dream, with the freshness and glamour gone, not merely from the dream, but from his own eyes. peter had met many pretty girls, and many sweet ones since that week at the pierces. he had gained a very different point of view of women from that callow time. peter was not blunderer enough to tell mrs. d'alloi that he too, saw a change. his years had brought tact, if they had not made him less straightforward. so he merely said, "you think so?" "ever so much. you've really grown slender, in spite of your broad shoulders--and your face is so--so different." there was no doubt about it. for his height and breadth of shoulder, peter was now by no means heavy. his face, too, had undergone a great change. as the roundness had left it, the eyes and the forehead had both become more prominent features, and both were good. the square, firm jaw still remained, but the heaviness of the cheek and nose had melted into lines which gave only strength and character, and destroyed the dulness which people used to comment upon. the face would never be called handsome, in the sense that regular features are supposed to give beauty, but it was strong and speaking, with lines of thought and feeling. "you know," laughed mrs. d'alloi, "you have actually become good-looking, and i never dreamed that was possible!" "how long have you been here?" "a month. we are staying with papa, till the house in fifty-seventh street can be put in order. it has been closed since mrs. d'alloi's death. but don't let's talk houses. tell me about yourself." "there is little to tell. i have worked at my profession, with success." "but i see your name in politics. and i've met many people in europe who have said you were getting very famous." "i spend a good deal of time in politics. i cannot say whether i have made myself famous, or infamous. it seems to depend on which paper i read." "yes, i saw a paper on the steamer, that--" mrs. d'alloi hesitated, remembering that it had charged peter with about every known sin of which man is capable. then she continued, "but i knew it was wrong." yet there was quite as much of question as of assertion in her remark. in truth, mrs. d'alloi was by no means sure that peter was all that was desirable, for any charge made against a politician in this country has a peculiar vitality and persistence. she had been told that peter was an open supporter of saloons, and that new york politics battened on all forms of vice. so a favorite son could hardly have retained the purity that women take as a standard of measurement. "don't you find ward politics very hard?" she asked, dropping an experimental plummet, to see what depths of iniquity there might be. "i haven't yet." "but that kind of politics must be very disagreeable to gentlemen. the men must have such dirty hands!" "it's not the dirty hands which make american politics disagreeable. it's the dirty consciences." "are--are politics so corrupt and immoral?" "politics are what the people make them." "really?" "i suppose your life has not been of a kind to make you very familiar with it all. tell me what these long years have brought you?" "perfect happiness! oh, mr. stirling--may i call you peter?--thank you. peter, i have the finest, noblest husband that ever lived! he is everything that is good and kind!" mrs. d'alloi's face lighted up with happiness and tenderness. "and your children?" "we have only one. the sweetest, loveliest child you can imagine." "fie, fie, rosebud," cried a voice from the doorway. "you shouldn't speak of yourself so, even if it is the truth. leave that to me. how are you, peter, old fellow? i'd apologize for keeping you waiting, but if you've had helen, there's no occasion. isn't it boileau who said that: 'the best thing about many a man is his wife'?" mrs. d'alloi beamed, but said, "it isn't so, peter. he's much better than i." watts laughed. "you'll have to excuse this, old man. will happen sometimes, even in the properest of families, if one marries an angel." "there, you see," said mrs. d'alloi. "he just spoils me, peter." "and she thrives on it, doesn't she, peter?" said watts. "isn't she prettier even than she was in the old days?" mrs. d'alloi colored with pleasure, even while saying: "now, watts dear, i won't swallow such palpable flattery. there's one kiss for it--peter won't mind--and now i know you two want to talk old times, so i'll leave you together. good-bye, peter--or rather _au revoir_--for you must be a regular visitor now. watts, arrange with peter to dine with us some day this week." mrs. d'alloi disappeared through the doorway. peter's pulse did not change a beat. chapter xxxiv. help. the moment she was gone, watts held out his hand, saying: "here, old man, let us shake hands again. it's almost like going back to college days to see my old chum. come to the snuggery, where we shan't be interrupted." they went through two rooms, to one fitted up as a smoking-room and office. "it's papa-in-law's workshop. he can't drop his work at the bank, so he brings it home and goes on here. sit down. here, take a cigar. now, are you comfortable?" "yes." "_maintenant_, i suppose you want to know why i wrote you to come so quickly?" "yes." "well, the truth of it is, i'm in an awful mess. yesterday i was so desperate i thought i should blow my brains out. i went round to the club to see if i couldn't forget or drown my trouble, just as sick as a man could be. fellows talking. first thing i heard was your name. 'just won a great case.' 'one of the best lawyers in new york.' thinks i to myself, 'that's a special providence.' peter always was the fellow to pull me through my college scrapes. i'll write him.' did it, and played billiards for the rest of the evening, secure in the belief that you would come to my help, just as you used to." "tell me what it is?" "even that isn't easy, chum. it's a devilish hard thing to tell even to you." "is it money trou--?" "no, no!" watts interrupted. "it isn't that. the truth is i've a great deal more money than is good for me, and apparently always shall have. i wish it were only that!" "how can i help you?" began peter. "i knew you would," cried watts, joyfully. "just the same old reliable you always were. here. draw up nearer. that's it. now then, here goes. i shan't mind if you are shocked at first. be as hard on me as you like." "well?" "well, to make a long story short, i'm entangled with a woman, and there's the devil to pay. now you'll pull me through, old man, won't you?" "no." "don't say that, peter! you must help me. you're my only hope. "i do not care to mix myself in such a business," said peter, very quietly. "i would rather know nothing about it." peter rose. "don't desert me," cried watts, springing to his feet, and putting his hand on peter's shoulder, so as to prevent his progress to the door. "don't. she's going to expose me. think of the disgrace! my god, peter, think--" "take your hand off my shoulder." "but peter, think--" "the time to think was before--not now, watts. i will not concern myself in this." "but, old man. i can't face it. it will kill helen!" peter had already thrown aside the arm, and had taken a step towards the doorway. he stopped and turned. "she does not know?" "not a suspicion. and nothing but absolute proof will make her believe it. she worships me. oh, peter, save her! save leonore--if you won't save me!" "can they be saved?" "that's what i want to know. here--sit down, please! i'll tell you all about it." peter hesitated a moment, and then sat down. "it began in paris twelve years ago. such affairs have a way of beginning in paris, old man. it's in the atmosphere. she--" "stop. i will ask questions. there's no good going over the whole story." peter tried to speak calmly, and to keep his voice and face from showing what he felt. he paused a moment, and then said: "she threatens to expose you. why?" "well, after three years i tired of it and tried to end it. then she used it to blackmail me for ten years, till, in desperation, i came to america, to see if i couldn't escape her." "and she followed you?" "yes. she was always tracking me in europe, and making my life a hell on earth, and now she's followed me here." "if it's merely a question of money, i don't see what you want of me." "she says she doesn't want money now--but revenge. she's perfectly furious over my coming off without telling her--always had an awful temper--and--well, you know an infuriated woman is capable of anything. the spaniard was right who said it was easier to take care of a peck of fleas than one woman, eh, chum?" "so she threatens to tell your wife?" "no. she says she's going to summon me into court." "on what grounds?" "that's the worst part of it. you see, chum, there's a child, and she says she's going to apply for a proper support for it. proper support! heavens! the money i've paid her would support ten children. it's only temper." peter said, "watts, watts," in a sad voice. "pretty bad, isn't it? if it wasn't for the child i could--" peter interrupted. "has she any proofs of paternity besides--?" watts interrupted in turn. "yes. confound it! i was fool enough to write letters during my infatuation. talleyrand was right when he said only fools and women wrote letters." "how could you?" "that's what i've asked myself a hundred times. oh, i'm sorry enough. i've sworn never to put pen to paper again. _jamais!_" "i did not mean the letters. but your vow." "my vow?" "your marriage vow." "oh, yes. i know. but you know, chum, before you promise to love one woman for all time you should have seen them all." "and that display ten minutes ago was all mockery?" "no, no! really, peter, i'm awfully fond of the little woman. really i am. and you know daudet says a man can love two women at the same time." "and if so, how about his honor?" peter was trying to repress his emotion, but it would jerk out questions. "yes, i know. i've said that to myself over and over again. why, look here." watts pulled a small revolver from his hip pocket. "this will show you how close to the desperation point i have come. i've carried that for two days, so that if worse comes to worse--well. phut!--_voila tout_." peter rose, speaking in a voice ringing with scorn. "you would escape your sin, to leave it with added disgrace for your wife and daughter to bear! put up your pistol, watts d'alloi. if i am to help you, i want to help a man--not a skulker. what do you want me to do?" "that's what i wish to know. what can i do?" "you have offered her money?" "yes. i told her that--" "never mind details," interrupted peter, "was it enough to put further offers out of the question?" "yes. she won't hear of money. she wants revenge." "give me her name and address." "celestine--" the rest was interrupted by a knock at the door. "well?" said watts. the door was opened, and a footman entered. "if you please, mr. d'alloi, there's a frenchwoman at the door who wants to see you. she won't give me her name, but says you'll know who it is." "say i won't see her. that i'm busy." "she told me to say that if you were engaged, she'd see mrs. d'alloi." "my god!" said watts, under his breath. "ask the woman to come in here," said peter, quietly, but in a way which made the man leave the room without waiting to see if watts demurred. a complete silence followed. then came the rustle of skirts, and a woman entered the room. peter, who stood aside, motioned to the footman to go, and closed the door himself, turning the key. the woman came to the middle of the room. "so, monsieur d'alloi," she said in french, speaking very low and distinctly, "you thought it best not to order your groom to turn me out, as you did that last day in paris, when you supposed your flight to america left you free to do as you pleased? but you did not escape me. here i am." watts sat down in an easy-chair, and striking a match, lighted a cigarette. "that, celestine," he said in french, "is what in english we call a self-evident proposition." celestine's foot began to tap the floor, "you needn't pretend you expected i would follow you. you thought you could drop me, like an old slipper." watts blew a whiff of tobacco from his mouth. "it was a remark of ricard's, i believe, 'that in woman, one should always expect the unexpected.'" "_mon dieu_!" shrieked celestine. "if i--if i could kill you--you--" she was interrupted by peter's bringing a chair to her and saying in french, "will you not sit down, please?" she turned in surprise, for she had been too wrought up to notice that peter was in the room. she stared at him and then sat down. "that's right," said watts. "take it easy. no occasion to get excited." "ah!" screamed celestine, springing to her feet, "your name shall be in all the papers. you shall--" peter again interrupted. "madame, will you allow me to say something?" he spoke gently and deferentially. celestine looked at him again, saying rapidly: "why should i listen to you? what are you to me? i don't even know you. my mind's made up. i tell you--" the woman was lashing herself into a fury, and peter interrupted her again: "pardon me. we are strangers. if i ask anything of you for myself, i should expect a refusal. but i ask it for humanity, to which we all owe help. only hear what i have to say. i do not claim it as a right, but as a favor." celestine sat down. "i listen," she said. she turned her chair from watts and faced peter, as he stood at the study table. peter paused a moment, and then said: "after what i have seen, i feel sure you wish only to revenge yourself on mr. d'alloi?" "yes." "now let me show you what you will do. for the last two days mr. d'alloi has carried a pistol in his pocket, and if you disgrace him he will probably shoot himself." "bon!" "but where is your revenge? he will be beyond your reach, and you will only have a human life upon your conscience ever after." "i shall not grieve!" "nor is that all. in revenging yourself on him, you do one of the cruelest acts possible. a wife, who trusts and believes in him, will have her faith and love shattered. his daughter--a young girl, with all her life before her--must ever after despise her father and blush at her name. do not punish the weak and innocent for the sin of the guilty!" peter spoke with an earnestness almost terrible. tears came into his eyes as he made his appeal, and his two auditors both rose to their feet, under the impulse of his voice even more than of his words. so earnest was he, and so spell-bound were the others, that they failed to hear the door from the dining-room move, or notice the entrance of mrs. d'alloi as peter ended his plea. a moment's silence followed peter's outburst of feeling. then the frenchwoman cried: "truly, truly. but what will you do for me and my child? haven't we been ill-treated? don't you owe us help, too? justice? don't we deserve tenderness and protection?" "yes," said peter. "but you wish revenge. ask for justice, ask for help, and i will do what is within my power to aid you." "watts," cried mrs. d'alloi, coming forward, "of what child are you talking? whose child? who is this woman?" watts jumped as if he had been shot. celestine even retreated before the terrible voice and face with which mrs. d'alloi asked her questions. a sad, weary look came into peter's eyes. no one answered mrs. d'alloi. "answer me," she cried "my dear little woman. don't get excited. it's all right." watts managed to say this much. but he did not look his last remark. "answer me, i say. who is this woman? speak!" "it's all right, really, it's all right. here. peter will tell you it's all right." "peter," cried mrs. d'alloi. "of whose child were you speaking?" peter was still standing by the desk. he looked sad and broken, as he said: "this is the mother, mrs. d'alloi." "yes? yes?" peter raised his eyes to helen's and looked at her. then he said quietly: "and watts--will tell you that--i am its father." chapter xxxv. running away. the dramatic pause which followed peter's statement was first broken by mrs. d'alloi, who threw her arms about watt's neck, and cried: "oh! my husband. forgive me, forgive me for the suspicion!" peter turned to celestine. "madame," he said. "we are not wanted here." he unlocked the door into the hall, and stood aside while she passed out, which she did quietly. another moment found the two on the sidewalk. "i will walk with you to your hotel, if you will permit me?" peter said to her. "certainly," celestine replied. nothing more was said in the walk of ten blocks. when they reached the hotel entrance, peter asked: "can you see me for a few moments?" "yes. come to my private parlor." they took the elevator, and were but a moment in reaching that apartment. peter spoke the moment the door was closed. "madame," he said, "you saw that scene. spare his wife and child? he is not worth your anger." "ah, ciel!" cried celestine, emotionally. "do you think so lowly of me, that you can imagine i would destroy your sacrifice? your romantic, your dramatic, _mon dieu!_ your noble sacrifice? non, non. celestine lacour could never do so. she will suffer cruelty, penury, insults, before she behaves so shamefully, so perfidiously." peter did not entirely sympathize with the frenchwoman's admiration for the dramatic element, but he was too good a lawyer not to accept an admission, no matter upon what grounds. he held out his hand promptly. "madame," he said, "accept my thanks and admiration for your generous conduct." celestine took it and shook it warmly. "of course," said peter. "mr. d'alloi owes you an ample income." "ah!" cried celestine, shrugging her shoulders. "do not talk of him--i leave it to you to make him do what is right." "and you will return to france?" "yes, yes. if you say so?" celestine looked at peter in a manner known only to the latin races. just then a side door was thrown open, and a boy of about twelve years of age dashed into the room, followed by a french poodle. "little villain!" cried celestine. "how dare you approach without knocking? go. go. quickly." "pardon, madame," said the child. "i thought you still absent." "is that the child?" asked peter. "yes," said celestine. "does he know?" "nothing. i do not tell him even that i am his mother." "then you are not prepared to give him a mother's care and tenderness?" "never. i love him not. he is too like his father. and i cannot have it known that i am the mother of a child of twelve. it would not be believed, even." celestine took a look at herself in the tall mirror. "then i suppose you would like some arrangement about him?" "yes." peter stayed for nearly an hour with the woman. he stayed so long, that for one of the few times in his life he was late at a dinner engagement. but when he had left celestine, every detail had been settled. peter did not have an expression of pleasure on his face as he rode down-town, nor was he very good company at the dinner which he attended that evening. the next day did not find him in any better mood. he went down-town, and called on an insurance company and talked for a while with the president. then he called at a steamship office. after that he spent twenty minutes with the head of one of the large schools for boys in the city. then he returned to his office. "a mr. d'alloi is waiting for you in your private office, sir," he was told. "he said that he was an old friend and insisted on going in there." peter passed into his office. watts cried: "my dear boy, how can i ever--" he was holding out his hand, but peter failed to take it, and interrupted him. "i have arranged it all with madame lacour," peter said coldly. "she sails on la bretagne on thursday. you are to buy an annuity for three thousand dollars a year. in addition, you are to buy an annuity for the boy till he is twenty-five, of one thousand dollars a year, payable to me as his guardian. this will cost you between forty and fifty thousand dollars. i will notify you of the amount when the insurance company sends it to me. in return for your check, i shall send you the letters and other things you sent madame lacour, or burn them, as you direct. except for this the affair is ended. i need not detain you further." "oh, i say, chum. don't take it this way," cried watts. "do you think--?" "i end it as suits me," said peter. "good-day." "but, at least you must let me pay you a fee for your work?" peter turned on watts quickly, but checked the movement and the words on his tongue. he only reiterated. "good-day." "well, if you will have it so." watts went to the door, but hesitated. "just as you please. if, later, you change your mind, send me word. i shan't cherish any feeling for this. i want to be friends." "good-day," said peter. watts passed out, closing the door. peter sat down at his desk, doing nothing, for nearly an hour. how long he would have sat will never be known, if his brown study had not been ended by rivington's entrance. "the appeals have just handed down their decision in the henley case. we win." "i thought we should," said peter mechanically. "why, peter! what's the matter with you? you look as seedy as--" "as i feel," said peter. "i'm going to stop work and take a ride, to see if i can't knock some of my dulness out of me." within an hour he was at the riding club. "hello," said the stable man. "twice in one day! you're not often here at this hour, sir. which horse will you have?" "give me whichever has the most life in him." "it's mutineer has the devil in him always, sir. though it's not yourself need fear any horse. only look out for the ice." peter rode into the park in ten minutes. he met lispenard at the first turn. "hello! it's not often you are here at this hour." lispenard reined his horse up alongside. "no," said peter. "i've been through a very revolt--a very disagreeable experience, and i've come up here to get some fresh air. i don't want to be sociable." "that's right. truthful as ever. but one word before we separate. keppel has just received two proofs of haden's last job. he asks awful prices for them, but you ought to see them." "thanks." and the two friends separated as only true friends can separate. peter rode on, buried in his own thoughts. the park was rather empty, for dark comes on early in march, and dusk was already in the air. he shook himself presently, and set mutineer at a sharp canter round the larger circle of the bridle path. but before they had half swung the circle, he was deep in thought again, and mutineer was taking his own pace. peter deserved to get a stumble and a broken neck or leg, but he didn't. he was saved from it by an incident which never won any credit for its good results to peter, however much credit it gained him. peter was so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not hear the clutter of a horse's feet behind him, just as he struck the long stretch of the comparatively straight path along the reservoir. but mutineer did, and pricked up his ears. mutineer could not talk articulately, but all true lovers of horses understand their language. mutineer's cogitations, transmuted into human speech, were something to this effect: "hello! what's that horse trying to do? he can't for a moment expect to pass me!" but the next moment a roan mare actually did pass him, going at a swift gallop. mutineer laid his ears back, "the impudence!" he said. "does that little whiffet of a roan mare think she's going to show me her heels? i'll teach her!" it is a curious fact that both the men and horses who are most seldom passed by their kind, object to it most when it happens. peter suddenly came back to affairs earthly to find mutineer just settling into a gait not permitted by park regulations. he drew rein, and mutineer, knowing that the fun was up, danced round the path in his bad temper. "really," he said to himself, "if i wasn't so fond of you, i'd give you and that mare, an awful lesson. hello! not another? this is too much!" the last remarks had relation to more clattering of hoofs. in a moment a groom was in view, going also at a gallop. "hout of the way," cried the groom, to peter, for mutineer was waltzing round the path in a way that suggested "no thoroughfare." "hi'm after that runaway." peter looked after the first horse, already a hundred feet away. he said nothing to groom nor horse, but mutineer understood the sudden change in the reins, even before he felt that maddening prick of the spurs. there was a moment's wild grinding of horse's feet on the slippery road and then mutineer had settled to his long, tremendous stride. "now, i'll show you," he remarked, "but if only he wouldn't hold me so damned tight." we must forgive mutineer for swearing. he lived so much with the stablemen, that, gentleman though he was, evil communications could not be entirely resisted. peter was riding "cool." he knew he could run the mare down, but he noticed that the woman, who formed the mount, was sitting straight, and he could tell from the position of her elbows that she was still pulling on her reins, if ineffectually. he thought it best therefore to let the mare wind herself before he forced himself up, lest he should only make the runaway horse the wilder. so after a hundred yards' run, he drew mutineer down to the mare's pace, about thirty feet behind her. they ran thus for another hundred yards. then suddenly peter saw the woman drop her reins, and catch at the saddle. his quick eye told him in a moment what had happened. the saddle-girth had broken, or the saddle was turning. he dug his spurs into mutineer, so that the horse, who had never had such treatment, thought that he had been touched by two branding irons. he gave a furious shake of his ears, and really showed the blood of his racing kentucky forebears. in fifteen seconds the horse was running even with the mare. peter had intended merely to catch the reins of the runaway, trusting to his strength to do what a woman's could not. but when he came up alongside, he saw that the saddle had turned so far that the rider could not keep her seat ten seconds longer. so he dropped his reins, bent over, and putting his arms about the woman lifted her off the precarious seat, and put her in front of him. he held her there with one arm, and reached for his reins. but mutineer had tossed them over his head. "mutineer!" said peter, with an inflection of voice decidedly commanding. "i covered a hundred yards to your seventy," mutineer told the roan mare. "on a mile track i could go round you twice, without getting out of breath. i could beat you now, even with double mount easily. but my peter has dropped the reins and that puts me on my honor. good-bye." mutineer checked his great racing stride, broke to a canter; dropped to a trot; altered that to a walk, and stopped. peter had been rather astonished at the weight he had lifted. peter had never lifted a woman before. his chief experience in the weight of human-kind had been in wrestling matches at the armory, and only the largest and most muscular men in the regiment cared to try a bout with him. of course peter knew as a fact that women were lighter than men, but after bracing himself, much as he would have done to try the cross-buttock with two hundred pounds of bone and brawn, he marvelled much at the ease with which he transferred the rider. "she can't weigh over eighty pounds," he thought. which was foolish, for the woman actually weighed one hundred and eighteen, as peter afterwards learned. the woman also surprised peter in another way. scarcely had she been placed in front of him, than she put her arms about his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. she was not crying, but she was drawing her breath in great gasps in a manner which scared peter terribly. peter had never had a woman cling to him in that way, and frightened as he was, he made three very interesting discoveries: . that a man's shoulder seems planned by nature as a resting place for a woman's head. . that a man's arm about a woman's waist is a very pleasant position for the arm. . that a pair of woman's arms round a man's neck, with the clasped hands, even if gloved, just resting on the back of his neck, is very satisfying. peter could not see much of the woman. his arm told him that she was decidedly slender, and he could just catch sight of a small ear and a cheek, whose roundness proved the youth of the person. otherwise he could only see a head of very pretty brown hair, the smooth dressing of which could not entirely conceal its longing to curl. when mutineer stopped, peter did not quite know what to do. of course it was his duty to hold the woman till she recovered herself. that was a plain duty--and pleasant. peter said to himself that he really was sorry for her, and thought his sensations were merely the satisfaction of a father in aiding his daughter. we must forgive his foolishness, for peter had never been a father, and so did not know the parental feeling. it had taken mutineer twenty seconds to come to a stand, and for ten seconds after, no change in the condition occurred. then suddenly the woman stopped her gasps. peter, who was looking down at her, saw the pale cheek redden. the next moment, the arms were taken from his neck and the woman was sitting up straight in front of him. he got a downward look at the face, and he thought it was the most charming he had ever seen. the girl kept her eyes lowered, while she said firmly, though with traces of breathlessness and tremulo in her voice, "please help me down." peter was out of his saddle in a moment, and lifted the girl down. she staggered slightly on reaching the ground, so that peter said: "you had better lean on me." "no," said the girl, still looking down, "i will lean against the horse." she rested against mutineer, who looked around to see who was taking this insulting liberty with a kentucky gentleman. having looked at her he said: "you're quite welcome, you pretty dear!" peter thought he would like to be a horse, but then it occurred to him that equines could not have had what he had just had, so he became reconciled to his lot. the girl went on flushing, even after she was safely leaning against mutineer. there was another ten seconds' pause, and then she said, still with downcast eyes, "i was so frightened, that i did not know what i was doing." "you behaved very well," said peter, in the most comforting voice he could command. "you held your horse splendidly." "i wasn't a bit frightened, till the saddle began to turn." the girl still kept her eyes on the ground, and still blushed. she was undergoing almost the keenest mortification possible for a woman. she had for a moment been horrified by the thought that she had behaved in this way to a groom. but a stranger--a gentleman--was worse! she had not looked at peter's face, but his irreproachable riding-rig had been noticed. "if it had only been a policeman," she thought. "what can i say to him?" peter saw the mortification without quite understanding it. he knew, however, it was his duty to ease it, and took the best way by giving her something else to think about. "as soon as you feel able to walk, you had better take my arm. we can get a cab at the d street entrance, probably. if you don't feel able to walk, sit down on that stone, and i'll bring a cab. it oughtn't to take me ten minutes." "you are very good," said the girl, raising her eyes, and taking a look at peter's face for the first time. a thrill went through peter. the girl had slate-colored eyes!! chapter xxxvi. a dream. something in peter's face seemed to reassure the girl, for though she looked down after the glance, she ceased leaning against the horse, and said, "i behaved very foolishly, of course. now i will do whatever you think best." before peter had recovered enough from his thrill to put what he thought into speech, a policeman came riding towards them, leading the roan mare. "any harm done?" he called. "none, fortunately. where can we get a cab? or can you bring one here?" "i'm afraid there'll be none nearer than fifty-ninth street. they leave the other entrances before it's as dark as this." "never mind the cab," said the girl. "if you'll help me to mount, i'll ride home." "that's the pluck!" said the policeman. "do you think you had better?" asked peter. "yes. i'm not a bit afraid. if you'll just tighten the girth." it seemed to peter he had never encountered such a marvellously fascinating combination as was indicated by the clinging position of a minute ago and the erect one of the present moment. he tightened the girth with a pull that made the roan mare wonder if a steam-winch had hold of the end, and then had the pleasure of the little foot being placed in his hand for a moment, as he lifted the girl into the saddle. "i shall ride with you," he said, mounting instantly. "beg pardon," said the policeman. "i must take your names. we are required to report all such things to headquarters." "why, williams, don't you know me?" asked peter. williams looked at peter, now for the first time on a level with him. "i beg your pardon, mr. stirling. it was so dark, and you are so seldom here afternoons that i didn't know you." "tell the chief that this needn't go on record, nor be given to the reporters." "very well, mr. stirling." "i beg your pardon," said the girl in a frank yet shy way, "but will you tell me your first name?" peter was rather astonished, but he said "peter." "oh!" cried the girl, looking peter in the face. "i understand it now. i didn't think i could behave so to a stranger! i must have felt it was you." she was smiling joyfully, and she did not drop her eyes from his. on the contrary she held out her hand to him. of course peter took it. he did not stop to ask if it was right or wrong to hold a young girl's hand. if it was wrong, it was certainly a very small one, judging from the size of the hand. "i was so mortified! but if it's you it's all right." peter thought this mood of the girl was both delightful and complimentary, but he failed to understand anything of it, except its general friendliness. his manner may have suggested this, for suddenly the girl said: "but of course, you do not know who i am? how foolish of me! i am leonore d'alloi." it was peter's turn to gasp. "not--?" he began and then stopped. "yes," said the girl joyfully, as if peter's "not" had had something delightful in it. "but--she's a child." "i'll be eighteen next week," said leonore, with all the readiness of that number of years to proclaim its age. peter concluded that he must accept the fact. watts could have a child that old. having reached this conclusion, he said, "i ought to have known you by your likeness to your mother." which was an unintentional lie. her mother's eyes she had, as well as the long lashes; and she had her mother's pretty figure, though she was taller. but otherwise she was far more like watts. her curly hair, her curvy mouth, the dimple, and the contour of the face were his. leonore d'alloi was a far greater beauty than her mother had ever been. but to peter, it was merely a renewal of his dream. just at this point the groom rode up. "beg pardon, miss d'alloi," he said, touching his cap. "my 'orse went down on a bit of hice." "you are not hurt, belden?" said miss d'alloi. peter thought the anxious tone heavenly. he rather wished he had broken something himself. "no. nor the 'orse." "then it's all right. mr. stirling, we need not interrupt your ride. belden will see me home." belden see her home! peter would see him do it! that was what peter thought. he said, "i shall ride with you, of course." so they started their horses, the groom dropping behind. "do you want to try it again?" asked mutineer of the roan. "no," said the mare. "you are too big and strong." leonore was just saying: "i could hear the pound of a horse's feet behind me, but i thought it was the groom, and knew he could never overtake fly-away. so when i felt the saddle begin to slip, i thought i was--was going to be dragged--as i once saw a woman in england--oh!--and then suddenly i saw a horse's head, and then i felt some one take hold of me so firmly that i didn't have to hold myself at all, and i knew i was safe. oh, how nice it is to be big and strong!" peter thought so too. so it is the world over. peter and mutineer felt happy and proud in their strength, and leonore and fly-away glorified them for it. yet in spite of this, as peter looked down at the curly head, from his own and mutineers altitude, he felt no superiority, and knew that the slightest wish expressed by that small mouth, would be as strong with him as if a european army obeyed its commands. "what a tremendous horse you have?" said leonore. "isn't he?" assented peter. "he's got a bad temper, i'm sorry to say, but i'm very fond of him. he was given me by my regiment, and was the choice of a very dear friend now dead." "who was that?" "no one you know. a mr. costell." "oh, yes i do. i've heard all about him." "what do you know of mr. costell?" "what miss de voe told me." "miss de voe?" "yes. we saw her both times in europe. once at nice, and once in--in --at maggiore. the first time, i was only six, but she used to tell me stories about you and the little children in the angle. the last time she told me all she could remember about you. we used to drift about the lake moonlight nights, and talk about you." "what made that worth doing to you?" "oh from the very beginning, that i can remember, papa was always talking about 'dear old peter'"--the talker said the last three words in such a tone, shot such a look up at peter, half laughing and half timid, that in combination they nearly made peter reel in his saddle--"and you seemed almost the only one of his friends he did speak of, so i became very curious about you as a little girl, and then miss de voe made me more interested, so that i began questioning americans, because i was really anxious to learn things concerning you. nearly every one did know something, so i found out a great deal about you." peter was realizing for the first time in his life, how champagne made one feel. "tell me whom you found who knew anything about me?" "oh, nearly everybody knew something. that is, every one we've met in the last five years. before that, there was miss de voe, and grandpapa, of course, when he came over in --" "but," interrupted peter, "i don't think i had met him once before that time, except at the shrubberies." "no, he hadn't seen you. but he knew a lot about you, from mr. lapharn and mr. avery, and some other men who had met you." "who else?" "miss leroy, mamma's bridesmaid, who spent two weeks at our villa near florence, and dr. purple, your clergyman, who was in the same house with us at ober-ammergau, and--and--oh the best were mr. and mrs. rivington. they were in jersey, having their honeymoon. they told me more than all the rest put together." "i feel quite safe in their hands. dorothy and i formed a mutual admiration society a good many years ago." "she and mr. rivington couldn't say enough good of you." "you must make allowance for the fact that they were on their wedding journey, and probably saw everything rose-colored." "that was it. dorothy told me about your giving mr. rivington a full partnership, in order that mr. ogden should give his consent." peter laughed. "ray swore that he wouldn't tell. and dorothy has always appeared ignorant. and yet she knew it on her wedding trip." "she couldn't help it. she said she must tell some one, she was so happy. so she told mamma and me. she showed us your photograph. papa and mamma said it was like you, but i don't think it is." again leonore looked up at him. leonore, when she glanced at a man, had the same frank, fearless gaze that her mother had of yore. but she did not look as often nor as long, and did not seem so wrapped up in the man's remarks when she looked. we are afraid even at seventeen that leonore had discovered that she had very fetching eyes, and did not intend to cheapen them, by showing them too much. during the whole of this dialogue, peter had had only "come-and-go" glimpses of those eyes. he wanted to see more of them. he longed to lean over and turn the face up and really look down into them. still, he could see the curly hair, and the little ear, and the round of the cheek, and the long lashes. for the moment peter did not agree with mr. weller that "life isn't all beer and skittles." "i've been so anxious to meet you. i've begged papa ever since we landed to take me to see you. and he's promised me, over and over again, to do it, but something always interfered. you see, i felt very strange and--and queer, not knowing people of my own country, and i felt that i really knew you, and wouldn't have to begin new as i do with other people. i do so dread next winter when i'm to go into society. i don't know what i shall do, i'll not know any one." "you'll know me." "but you don't go into society." "oh, yes, i do. sometimes, that is. i shall probably go more next winter. i've shut myself up too much." this was a discovery of peter's made in the last ten seconds. "how nice that will be! and will you promise to give me a great deal of attention?" "you'll probably want very little. i don't dance." peter suddenly became conscious that mr. weller was right. "but you can learn. please. i do so love valsing." peter almost reeled again at the thought of waltzing with leonore. was it possible life had such richness in it? then he said with a bitter note in his voice very unusual to him: "i'm afraid i'm too old to learn." "not a bit," said leonore. "you don't look any older than lots of men i've seen valsing. young men i mean. and i've seen men seventy years old dancing in europe." whether peter could have kept his seat much longer is to be questioned. but fortunately for him, the horses here came to a stop in front of a stable. "why," said leonore, "here we are already! what a short ride it has been." peter thought so too, and groaned over the end of it. but then he suddenly remembered that leonore was to be lifted from her horse. he became cold with the thought that she might jump before he could get to her, and he was off his horse and by her side with the quickness of a military training. he put his hands up, and for a moment had--well, peter could usually express himself but he could not put that moment into words. and it was not merely that leonore had been in his arms for a moment, but that he had got a good look up into her eyes. "i wish you would take my horse round to the riding club," he told the groom. "i wish to see miss d'alloi home." "thank you very much, but my maid is here in the brougham, so i need not trouble you. good-bye, and thank you. oh, thank you so much!" she stood very close to peter, and looked up into his eyes with her own. "there's no one i would rather have had save me." she stepped into the brougham, and peter closed the door. he mounted his horse again, and straightening himself up, rode away. "hi thought," remarked the groom to the stableman, "that 'e didn't know 'ow to sit 'is 'orse, but 'e's all right, arter all. 'e rides like ha 'orse guards capting, w'en 'e don't 'ave a girl to bother 'im." would that girl bother him? chapter xxxvii. "friends." at first blush, judging from peter's behavior, the girl was not going to bother him. peter left his horse at the stable, and taking a hansom, went to his club. there he spent a calm half hour over the evening papers. his dinner was eaten with equal coolness. not till he had reached his study did he vary his ordinary daily routine. then, instead of working or reading, he rolled a comfortable chair up to the fire, put on a fresh log or two, opened a new box of bock's, and lighting one, settled back in the chair. how many hours he sat and how many cigars he smoked are not recorded, lest the statement should make people skeptical of the narrative. of course peter knew that life had not lost its troubles. he was not fooling himself as to what lay before him. he was not callous to the sufferings already endured. but he put them, past, and to come, from him for one evening, and sat smoking lazily with a dreamy look on his face. he had lately been studying the subject of asiatic cholera, but he did not seem to be thinking of that. he had just been through what he called a "revolting experience," but it is doubtful if he was thinking of that. whatever his thoughts were, they put a very different look on his face than that which it used to wear while he studied blank walls. when peter sat down, rather later than usual at his office desk the next morning, he took a sheet of paper, and wrote, "dear sir," upon it. then he tore it up. he took another and wrote, "my dear mr. d'alloi." he tore that up. another he began, "dear watts." a moment later it was in the paper basket. "my dear friend," served to bring a similar fate to the fourth. then peter rose and strolled about his office aimlessly. finally he went out into a gallery running along the various rooms, and, opening a door, put his head in. "you hypocritical scoundrel," he said. "you swore to me that you would never tell a living soul." "well?" came a very guilty voice back. "and dorothy's known all this time." dead silence. "and you've both been as innocent as--as you were guilty." "look here, peter, i can't make you understand, because you've--you've never been on a honeymoon. really, old fellow, i was so happy over your generosity in giving me a full share, when i didn't bring a tenth of the business, and so happy over dorothy, that if i hadn't told her, i should have simply--bust. she swore she'd never tell. and now she's told you!" "no, but she told some one else." "never!" "yes." "then she's broken her word. she--" "the pot called the kettle black." "but to tell one's own wife is different. i thought she could keep a secret." "how can you expect a person to keep a secret when you can't keep it yourself?" peter and ray were both laughing. ray said to himself, "peter has some awfully knotty point on hand, and is resting the brain tissue for a moment." ray had noticed, when peter interrupted him during office hours, on matters not relating to business, that he had a big or complex question in hand. peter closed the door and went back to his room. then he took a fifth sheet of paper, and wrote: "watts: a day's thought has brought a change of feeling on my part. neither can be the better for alienation or unkind thoughts. i regret already my attitude of yesterday. let us cancel all that has happened since our college days, and put aside as if it had never occurred. "peter" just as he had finished this, his door opened softly. 'peter did not hear it, but took the letter up and read it slowly. "boo!" peter did not jump at the boo. he looked up very calmly, but the moment he looked up, jump he did. he jumped so that he was shaking hands before the impetus was lost. "this is the nicest kind of a surprise," he said. "bother you, you phlegmatic old cow," cried a merry voice. "here we have spent ten minutes palavering your boy, in order to make him let us surprise you, and then when we spring it on you, you don't budge. wasn't it shabby treatment, dot?" "you've disappointed us awfully, mr. stirling." peter was shaking hands more deliberately with leonore than he had with watts. he had been rather clever in shaking hands with him first, so that he need not hurry himself over the second. so he had a very nice moment--all too short--while leonore's hand lay in his. he said, in order to prolong the moment, without making it too marked, "it will take something more frightful than you, miss d'alloi, to make me jump." then peter was sorry he had said it, for leonore dropped her eyes. "now, old man, give an account of yourself." watts was speaking jauntily, but not quite as easily as he usually did. "here leonore and i waited all last evening, and you never came. so she insisted that we come this morning." "i don't understand?" peter was looking at leonore as if she had made the remark. leonore was calmly examining peter's room. "why, even a stranger would have called last night to inquire about dot's health, after such an accident. but for you not to do it, was criminal. if you have aught to say why sentence should not now be passed on you, speak now or forever--no--that's the wedding ceremony, isn't it? not criminal sentence--though, on second thought, there's not much difference." "did you expect me, miss d'alloi?" miss d'alloi was looking at a shelf of law books with her back to peter, and was pretending great interest in them. she did not turn, but said "yes." "i wish i had known that," said peter, with the sincerest regret in his voice. miss d'alloi's interest in legal literature suddenly ceased. she turned and peter had a momentary glimpse of those wonderful eyes. either his words or tone had evidently pleased miss d'alloi. the corners of her mouth were curving upwards. she made a deep courtesy to him and said: "you will be glad to know, mr. stirling, that miss d'alloi has suffered no serious shock from her runaway, and passed a good night. it seemed to miss d'alloi that the least return she could make for mr. stirling's kindness, was to save him the trouble of coming to inquire about miss d'alloi's health, and so leave mr. stirling more time to his grimy old law books." "there, sir, i hope you are properly crushed for your wrong-doing," cried watts. "i'm not going to apologize for not coming," said peter, "for that is my loss; but i can say that i'm sorry." "that's quite enough," said leonore. "i thought perhaps you didn't want to be friends. and as i like to have such things right out, i made papa bring me down this morning so that i could see for myself." she spoke with a frankness that seemed to peter heavenly, even while he grew cold at the thought that she should for a moment question his desire to be friends. "of course you and peter will be friends," said watts. "but mamma told me last night--after we went upstairs, that she was sure mr. stirling would never call." "never, dot?" cried watts. "yes. and when i asked her why, she wouldn't tell me at first, but at last she said it was because he was so unsociable. i shan't be friends with any one who won't come to see me." leonore was apparently looking at the floor, but from under her lashes she was looking at something else. whatever peter may have felt, he looked perfectly cool. too cool, leonore thought. "i'm not going to make any vows or protestations of friendship," he said, "i won't even pledge myself to come and see you, miss d'alloi. remember, friendship comes from the word free. if we are to be friends, we must each leave the other to act freely." "well," said leonore, "that is, i suppose, a polite way of saying that you don't intend to come. now i want to know why you won't?" "the reasons will take too long to explain to you now, so i'll defer the telling till the first time i call on you." peter was smiling down at her. miss d'alloi looked up at peter, to see what meaning his face gave his last remark. then she held out her two hands. "of course we are to be the best of friends," she said. peter got a really good look down into those eyes as they shook hands. the moment this matter had been settled, leonore's manner changed. "so this is the office of the great peter stirling?" she said, with the nicest tone of interest in her voice, as it seemed to peter. "it doesn't look it," said watts. "by george, with the business people say your firm does, you ought to do better than this. it's worse even than our old harvard quarters, and those were puritanical enough." "there is a method in its plainness. if you want style, go into ogden's and rivington's rooms." "why do you have the plain office, mr. stirling?" "i have a lot of plain people to deal with, and so i try to keep my room simple, to put them at their ease. i've never heard of my losing a client yet, because my room is as it is, while i should have frightened away some if i had gone in for the same magnificence as my partners." "but i say, chum, i should think that is the sort you would want to frighten away. there can't be any money in their business?" "we weren't talking of money. we were talking of people. i am very glad to say, that with my success, there has been no change in my relations with my ward. they all come to me here, and feel perfectly at home, whether they come as clients, as co-workers, or merely as friends." "ho, ho," laughed watts. "you wily old fox! see the four bare walls. the one shelf of law books. the one cheap cabinet of drawers. the four simple chairs, and the plain desk. behold the great politician! the man of the people." peter made no reply. but leonore said to him, "i'm glad you help the poor people still, mr. stirling," and gave peter another glimpse of those eyes. peter didn't mind after that. "look here, dot," said watts. "you mustn't call chum mr. stirling. that won't do. call him--um--call him uncle peter." "i won't," said leonore, delighting peter thereby. "let me see. what shall i call you?" she asked of peter. "honey," laughed watts. "what shall i call you?" miss d'alloi put her head on one side, and looked at peter out of the corners of her eyes. "you must decide that, miss d'alloi." "i suppose i must. i--think--i--shall--call--you--peter." she spoke hesitatingly till she said his name, but that went very smoothly. peter on the spot fell in love with the five letters as she pronounced them. "plain peter?" inquired watts. "now what will you call me?" "miss d'alloi," said peter. "no. you--are--to--call--me--call--me--" "miss d'alloi," re-affirmed peter. "then i will call you mr. stirling, peter." "no, you won't." "why?" "because you said you'd call me peter." "but not if you won't--" "you made no condition at the time of promise. shall i show you the law?" "no. and i shall not call you peter, any more, peter." "then i shall prosecute you." "but i should win the case, for i should hire a friend of mine to defend me. a man named peter." leonore sat down in peter's chair. "i'm going to write him at once about it." she took one of his printed letter sheets and his pen, and, putting the tip of the holder to her lips (peter has that pen still), thought for a moment. then she wrote: dear peter: i am threatened with a prosecution. will you defend me? address your reply to "dear leonore." leonore d'alloi. "now" she said to peter, "you must write me a letter in reply. then you can have this note." leonore rose with the missive in her hand. "i never answer letters till i've received them." peter took hold of the slender wrist, and possessed himself of the paper. then he sat down at his desk and wrote on another sheet: dear miss d'alloi: i will defend you faithfully and always. peter stirling "that isn't what i said," remarked miss d'alloi. "but i suppose it will have to do." "you forget one important thing." "what is that?" "my retaining fee." "oh, dear," sighed leonore. "my allowance is nearly gone. don't you ever do work for very, very poor people, for nothing?" "not if their poverty is pretence." "oh, but mine isn't. really. see. here is my purse. look for yourself. that's all i shall have till the first of the month." she gave peter her purse. he was still sitting at his desk, and he very deliberately proceeded to empty the contents out on his blotter. he handled each article. there was a crisp ten-dollar bill, evidently the last of those given by the bank at the beginning of the month. there were two one-dollar bills. there was a fifty-cent piece, two quarters and a dime. a gold german twenty-mark piece, about eight inches of narrow crimson ribbon, and a glove button, completed the contents. peter returned the american money and the glove button to the purse and handed it back to miss d'alloi. "you've forgotten the ribbon and the gold piece," said leonore. "you were never more mistaken in your life," replied peter, with anything but legal guardedness concerning unprovable statements. he folded up the ribbon neatly and put it, with the coin, in his waistcoat pocket. "oh," said leonore, "i can't let you have that that's my luck-piece." "is it?" peter expressed much surprise blended with satisfaction in his tone. "yes. you don't want to take my good luck." "i will think it over, and write you a legal opinion later. "please!" miss d'alloi pleaded. "that is just what i have succeeded in doing--for myself." "but i want my luck-piece. i found it in a crack of the rocks crossing the ghemi. and i must have the ribbon. i need it to match for a gown it goes with." miss d'alloi put true anxiety into her voice, whatever she really felt. "i shall be glad to help you match it," said peter, "and any time you send me word, i will go shopping with you. as for your luck, i shall keep that for the present." "now i know," said leonore crossly, "why lawyers have such a bad reputation. they are perfect thieves!" she looked at peter with the corners of her mouth drawn down. he gazed at her with a very grave look on his face. they eyed each other steadily for a moment, and then the corners of leonore's mouth suddenly curled upwards. she tried hard for a moment to keep serious. then she gave up and laughed. then they both laughed. many people will only see an amusing side to the dialogue here so carefully recorded. if so, look back to the time when everything that he or she said was worth listening to. or if there has never been a he or a she, imitate peter, and wait. it is worth waiting for. chapter xxxviii. the hermitage. it is not to be supposed from this last reflection of ours, that leonore was not heart-whole. leonore had merely had a few true friends, owing to her roving life, and at seventeen a girl craves friends. when, therefore, the return to america was determined upon, she had at once decided that peter and she would be the closest of friends. that she would tell him all her confidences, and take all her troubles to him. miss de voe and dorothy had told her about peter, and from their descriptions, as well as from her father's reminiscences, leonore had concluded that peter was just the friend she had wanted for so long. that leonore held her eyes down, and tried to charm yet tantalize her intended friend, was because leonore could not help it, being only seventeen and a girl. if leonore had felt anything but a friendly interest and liking, blended with much curiosity, in peter, she never would have gone to see him in his office, and would never have talked and laughed so frankly with him. as for peter, he did not put his feelings into good docketed shape. he did not attempt to label them at all. he had had a delicious half-hour yesterday. he had decided, the evening before, that he must see those slate-colored eyes again, if he had to go round the world in pursuit of them. how he should do it, he had not even thought out, till the next morning. he had understood very clearly that the owner of those slate-colored eyes was really an unknown quantity to him. he had understood, too, that the chances were very much against his caring to pursue those eyes after he knew them better. but he was adamant that he must see those eyes again, and prove for himself whether they were but an _ignis fatuus_, or the radiant stars that providence had cast for the horoscope of peter stirling. he was studying those eyes, with their concomitants, at the present time. he was studying them very coolly, to judge from his appearance and conduct. yet he was enjoying the study in a way that he had never enjoyed the study of somebody "on torts." somebody "on torts," never looked like that. somebody "on torts," never had luck-pieces, and silk ribbons. somebody "on torts," never wrote letters and touched the end of pens to its lips. somebody "on torts," never courtesied, nor looked out from under its eyelashes, nor called him peter. while this investigation had been progressing, watts had looked at the shelf of law books, had looked out of the window, had whistled, and had yawned. finally, in sheer _ennui_ he had thrown open a door, and looked to see what lay beyond. "ha, ha!" he cried. "all is discovered. see! here sits peter stirling, the ward politician, enthroned in jeffersonian simplicity. but here, behind the arras, sits peter stirling, the counsellor of banks and railroads, in the midst of all the gorgeousness of the golden east." watts passed into the room beyond. "what does he mean, peter?" "he has gone into my study. would you like--" he was interrupted by watts calling, "come in here, dot, and see how the unsociable old hermit bestows himself." so leonore and peter followed watts's lead. the room into which they went was rather a curious one. it was at least twenty-five feet square, having four windows, two looking out on broadway, and two on the side street. it had one other door besides that by which they had entered. here the ordinary quality ended. except for the six openings already noted and a large fireplace, the walls were shelved from floor to ceiling (which was not a low one), with dusky oak shelving. the ceiling was panelled in dark oak, and the floor was covered with a smooth surface of the same wood. yet though the shelves were filled with books, few could be seen, for on every upright of the shelving, were several frames of oak, hinged as one sees them in public galleries occasionally, and these frames contained etchings, engravings, and paintings. some were folded back against the shelves. others stood out at right angles to them and showed that the frames were double ones, both sides containing something. four easy-chairs, three less easy chairs, and a large table desk, likewise of dusky oak were the sole other fittings of the room, if we except two large polar bear skins. "oh," cried leonore looking about, "i'm so glad to see this. people have told me so much about your rooms. and no two of them ever agreed." "no," said peter. "it seems a continual bone of contention with my friends. they scold me because i shelved it to the ceiling, because i put in one-colored wood, because i framed my pictures and engravings this way, and because i haven't gone in for rugs, and bric-à-brac, and the usual furnishings. at times i have really wondered, from their determination to change things, whether it was for them to live in, or for my use?" "it is unusual," said leonore, reluctantly, and evidently selecting a word that should not offend peter. "you ought to be hung for treating fine pictures so," said watts. "i had to give them those broad flat mats, because the books gave no background." "it's--it's--" leonore hesitated. "it's not so startling, after a moment." "you see they had to hang this way, or go unhung. i hadn't wall space for both pictures and books. and by giving a few frames a turn, occasionally, i can always have fresh pictures to look at." "look here, dot, here's a genuine rembrandt's 'three crosses,'" called watts. "i didn't know, old man, that you were such a connoisseur." "i'm not," said peter. "i'm fond of such things, but i never should have had taste or time to gather these." "then how did you get them?" "a friend of mine--a man of exquisite taste--gathered them. he lost his money, and i bought them of him." "that was mr. le grand?" asked leonore, ceasing her study of the "three crosses." "yes." "mrs. rivington told me about it." "it must have been devilish hard for him to part with such a collection," said watts. "he hasn't really parted with them. he comes down here constantly, and has a good time over them. it was partly his scheme to arrange them this way." "and are the paintings his, too, peter?" peter could have hugged her for the way she said peter. "no," he managed to remark. "i bought some of them, and miss de voe and lispenard ogden the others. people tell me i spoil them by the flat framing, and the plain, broad gold mats. but it doesn't spoil them to me. i think the mixture of gold mats and white mats breaks the monotony. and the variation just neutralizes the monotone which the rest of the room has. but of course that is my personal equation." "then this room is the real taste of the 'plain man,' eh?" inquired watts. "really, papa, it is plain. just as simple as can be." "simple! yes, sweet simplicity! three-thousand-dollar-etching simplicity! millet simplicity! oh, yes. peter's a simple old dog." "no, but the woodwork and the furniture. isn't this an enticing chair? i must try it." and leonore almost dissolved from view in its depths. peter has that chair still. he would probably knock the man down who offered to buy it. it occurred to peter that since leonore was so extremely near the ground, and was leaning back so far, that she could hardly help but be looking up. so he went and stood in front of the fireplace, and looked down at her. he pretended that his hands were cold. watts perhaps was right. peter was not as simple as people thought. it seemed to peter that he had never had so much to see, all at once, in his life. there were the occasional glimpses of the eyes (for leonore, in spite of her position, did manage to cover the larger part of them) not one of which must be missed. then there was her mouth. that would have been very restful to the eye; if it hadn't been for the distracting chin below it. then there were the little feet, just sticking out from underneath the tailor-made gown, making peter think of herrick's famous lines. finally there were those two hands! leonore was very deliberately taking off her gloves. peter had not seen those hands ungloved yet, and waited almost breathlessly for the unveiling. he decided that he must watch and shake hands at parting before leonore put those gloves on again. "i say," said watts, "how did you ever manage to get such a place here?" "i was a tenant for a good many years of the insurance company that owns the building, and when it came to rebuild, it had the architect fit this floor for me just as i wished it. so i put our law-offices in front and arranged my other rooms along the side street. would you like to see them?" peter asked this last question very obviously of leonore. "very much." so they passed through the other door, to a little square hall, lighted by a skylight, with a stairway going up to the roof. "i took the upper floor, so as to get good air and the view of the city and the bay, which is very fine," peter said. "and i have a staircase to the roof, so that in good weather i can go up there." "i wondered what the great firm was doing up ten stories," said watts. "ogden and rivington have been very good in yielding to my idiosyncracies. this is my mealing closet." it was a room nine feet square, panelled, ceiled and floored in mahogany, and the table and six chairs were made of the same material. "so this is what the papers call the 'stirling political incubator?' it doesn't look like a place for hatching dark plots," said watts. "sometimes i have a little dinner here. never more than six, however, for it's too small." "i say, dot, doesn't this have a jolly cosy feeling? couldn't one sit here blowy nights, with the candles lit, eating nuts and telling stories? it makes me think of the expression, 'snug as a bug.'" "miss leroy told me, peter, what a reputation your dinners had, and how every one was anxious to be invited just once," said leonore. "but not a second time, old man. you caught dot's inference, i hope? once is quite enough." "peter, will you invite me some day?" "would he?" peter longed to tell her that the place and everything it contained, including its owner--then peter said to himself, "you really don't know anything about her. stop your foolishness." still peter knew that--that foolishness was nice. he said, "people only care for my dinners because they are few and far between, and their being way down here in the city, after business hours, makes them something to talk about. society wants badly something to talk about most of the time. of course, my friends are invited." peter looked down at leonore, and she understood, without, his saying so, that she was to be a future guest. "how do you manage about the prog, chum?" "mr. le grand had a man--a maryland darky--whom he turned over to me. he looks after me generally, but his true forte is cooking. for oysters and fish and game i can't find his equal. and, as i never attempt very elaborate dinners, he cooks and serves for a party of six in very good shape. we are not much in haste down here after six, because it's so still and quiet. the hurry's gone up-town to the social slaves. suppose you stay and try his skill at lunch to-day? my partners generally are with me, and jenifer always has something good for them." "by all means," said watts. but leonore said: "no. we mustn't make a nuisance of ourselves the first time we come." peter and watts tried to persuade her, but she was not persuadable. leonore had no intention, no matter how good a time it meant, of lunching sola with four men. "i think we must be going," she said. "you mustn't go without seeing the rest of my quarters," said peter, hoping to prolong the visit. leonore was complaisant to that extent. so they went into the pantry, and leonore proceeded, apparently, to show her absolute ignorance of food matters under the pretext that she was displaying great housekeeping knowledge. she told peter that he ought to keep his champagne on ice. "that champagne will spoil if it isn't kept on ice." she complained because some bottles of burgundy had dust on them. "that's not merely untidy," she said, "but it's bad for the wine. it ought to be stood on end, so that the sediment can settle." she criticised the fact that a brace of canvas-backs were on ice. "all your game should be hung," she said. she put her finger or her eyes into every drawer and cupboard, and found nothing to praise. she was absolutely grave over it, but before long peter saw the joke and entered into it. it was wonderful how good some of the things that she touched tasted later. then they went into peter's sleeping-room, leonore said it was very ordinary, but promptly found two things to interest her. "do you take care of your window flowers?" "no, mrs. costell comes down to lunch with me once a week, and potters with them. she keeps all the windows full of flowers--perhaps you have noticed them in the other rooms, as well?" "yes. i liked them, but i didn't think they could be yours. they grow too well for a man." "it seems as if mrs. costell had only to look at a plant, and it breaks out blossoming," peter replied. "what a nice speech," said leonore. "it's on a nice subject," peter told her. "when you have that, it's very easy to make a nice speech." "i want to meet mrs. costell. i've heard all about her." the second point of interest concerned the contents of what had evidently been planned as an umbrella-stand. "why do you have three swords?" she asked, taking the handsomest from its resting place. "so that i can kill more people." "why, dot, you ought to know that an officer wants a service sword and a dress-sword." "but these are all dress-swords. i'm afraid you are very proud of your majorship." peter only smiled a reply down at her. "yes," said leonore, "i have found out your weakness at last. you like gold lace and fixings." still peter only smiled. "this sword is presented to captain peter stirling in recognition of his gallant conduct at hornellsville, july , ," leonore read on the scabbard. "what did you do at hornellsville?" "various things." "but what did you do to get the sword?" "my duty!" "tell me?" "i thought you knew all about me." "i don't know this." peter only smiled at her. "tell me. if you don't, somebody else will. please." "why, dot, these are all presentation swords." "yes," said peter; "and so gorgeous that i don't dare use them. i keep the swords i wear at the armory." "are you going to tell me what you did to get them?" "that one was given me by my company when i was made captain. that was subscribed for by some friends. the one you have was given me by a railroad." "for what?" "for doing my duty." "come, papa. we'll go home." peter surrendered. "there were some substitutes for strikers in freight cars that were fitted up with bunks. the strikers fastened the doors on them, and pushed them into a car-shed." "and what did you do?" "we rolled the cars back." "i don't think that was much. nothing to give a sword for. now, have you anything more to show us?" "no. i have a spare room, and jenifer has a kitchen and sleeping place beyond, but they are not worth showing." they went out into the little square hall, and so into the study. leonore began unfolding her gloves. "i've had a very nice time," she said. "i think i shall come again very often, i like down-town new york." leonore was making her first trip to it, so that she spoke from vast knowledge. "i can't tell you how pleasant it has been to me. it isn't often that such sunshine gets in here," said peter. "then you do prefer sunshine to grimy old law books?" inquired leonore, smiling demurely. "some sunshine," said peter, meaningly. "wherever there has been sunshine there ought to be lots of flowers. i have a good mind--yes, i will--leave you these violets," leonore took a little bunch that she had worn near her throat and put them and her hand in peter's. and she hadn't put her glove on yet! then she put her gloves on, and peter shook hands. then he remembered that he ought to see them to the elevator, so he took them out--and shook hands again. after that he concluded it was his duty to see them to the carriage--and he shook hands again. peter was not an experienced hand, but he was doing very well. chapter xxxix. the dude. just as peter came back to his office, his lunch was announced. "what makes you look so happy?" asked ray. "being so," said peter, calmly. "what a funny old chap he is?" ray remarked to ogden, as they went back to work. "he brought me his opinion, just after lunch, in the hall-seelye case. i suppose he had been grubbing all the morning over those awful figures, and a tougher or dryer job, you couldn't make. yet he came in to lunch looking as if he was walking on air." when peter returned to his office, he would have preferred to stop work and think for a bit. he wanted to hold those violets, and smell them now and then. he wished to read that letter over again. he longed to have a look at that bit of ribbon and gold. but he resisted temptation. he said: "peter stirling, go to work." so all the treasures were put in a drawer of his study table, and peter sat down at his office desk. first, after tearing up his note to watts, he wrote another, as follows: watts: you can understand why i did not call last night, or bind myself as to the future. i shall hope to receive an invitation to call from mrs. d'alloi. how, i must leave to you; but you owe me this much, and it is the only payment i ask of you. otherwise let us bury all that has occurred since our college days, forever. peter. then he ground at the law till six, when he swung his clubs and dumb-bells for ten minutes; took a shower; dressed himself, and dined. then he went into his study, and opened a drawer. did he find therein a box of cigars, or a bunch of violets, gold-piece, ribbon and sheet of paper? one thing is certain. peter passed another evening without reading or working. and two such idle evenings could not be shown in another week of his life for the last twenty years. the next day peter was considerably nearer earth. not that he didn't think those eyes just as lovely, and had he been thrown within their radius, he would probably have been as strongly influenced as ever. but he was not thrown within their influence, and so his strong nature and common sense reasserted themselves. he took his coffee, his early morning ride, and then his work, in their due order. after dinner, that evening, he only smoked one cigar. when he had done that, he remarked to himself--apropos of the cigars, presumably--"peter, keep to your work. don't burn yourself again." then his face grew very firm, and he read a frivolous book entitled: "neun atiologische und prophylactische satze ... uber die choleræpidemien in ostindien," till nearly one o'clock. the following day was sunday. peter went to church, and in the afternoon rode out to westchester to pass the evening there with mrs. costell. peter thought his balance was quite recovered. other men have said the same thing. the fact that they said so, proved that they were by no means sure of themselves. this was shown very markedly on monday in peter's case, for after lunch he did not work as steadily as he had done in the morning hours. he was restless. twice he pressed his lips, and started in to work very, very hard--and did it for a time. then the restlessness would come on again. presently he took to looking at his watch. then he would snap it to, and go to work again, with a great determination in his face, only to look at the watch again before long. finally he touched his bell. "jenifer," he said, "i wish you would rub off my spurs, and clean up my riding trousers." "for lohd, sar, i done dat dis day yesserday." "never mind, then," said peter. "tell curzon to ring me up a hansom." when peter rode into the park he did not vacillate. he put his horse at a sharp canter, and started round the path. but he had not ridden far when he suddenly checked his horse, and reined him up with a couple of riders. "i've been looking for you," he said frankly. peter had not ceased to be straightforward. "hello! this is nice," said watts. "don't you think it's about time?" said leonore. leonore had her own opinion of what friendship consisted. she was not angry with peter--not at all. but she did not look at him. peter had drawn his horse up to the side on which leonore was riding. "that is just what i thought," he said deliberately, "and that's why i'm here now." "how long ago did that occur to you, please?" said leonore, with dignity. "about the time it occurred to me that you might ride here regularly afternoons." "don't you?" leonore was mollifying. "no. i like the early morning, when there are fewer people." "you unsociable old hermit," exclaimed watts. "but now?" asked leonore. when leonore said those two words peter had not yet had a sight of those eyes. and he was getting desperately anxious to see them. so he replied: "now i shall ride in the afternoons." he was rewarded by a look. the sweetest kind of a look. "now, that is very nice, peter," said leonore. "if we see each other every day in the park, we can tell each other everything that we are doing or thinking about. so we will be very good friends for sure." leonore spoke and looked as if this was the pleasantest of possibilities, and peter was certain it was. "i say, peter," said watts. "what a tremendous dude we have come out. i wanted to joke you on it the first time i saw you, but this afternoon it's positively appalling. i would have taken my bible oath that it was the last thing old peter would become. just look at him, dot. doesn't he fill you with 'wonder, awe and praise?'" leonore looked at peter a little shyly, but she said frankly: "i've wondered about that, peter. people told me you were a man absolutely without style." peter smiled. "do you remember what friar bacon's brass head said?" "time is: time was: time will never be again?" asked leonore. "that fits my lack of style, i think." "pell and ogden, and the rest of them, have made you what i never could, dig at you as i would. so you've yielded to the demands of your toney friends?" "of course i tried to dress correctly for my up-town friends, when i was with them. but it was not they who made me careful, though they helped me to find a good tailor, when i decided that i must dress better." "then it was the big law practice, eh? must keep up appearances?" "i fancy my dressing would no more affect my practice, than does the furnishing of my office." "then who is she? out with it, you sly dog." "of course i shan't tell you that" "peter, will you tell me?" asked leonore. peter smiled into the frank eyes. "who she is?" "no. why you dress so nicely. please?" "you'll laugh when i tell you it is my ward." "oh, nonsense," laughed watts. "that's too thin. come off that roof. unless you're guardian of some bewitching girl?" "your ward, peter?" "yes. i don't know whether i can make you understand it. i didn't at first. you see i became associated with the ward, in people's minds, after i had been in politics for a few years. so i was sometimes put in positions to a certain extent representative of it. i never thought much how i dressed, and it seems that sometimes at public meetings, and parades, and that sort of thing, i wasn't dressed quite as well as the other men. so when the people of my ward, who were present, were asked to point me out to strangers, they were mortified about the way i looked. it seemed to reflect on the ward. the first inkling i had of it was after one of these parades, in which, without thinking, i had worn a soft hat. i was the only man who did not wear a silk one, and my ward felt very badly about it. so they made up a purse, and came to me to ask me to buy a new suit and silk hat and gloves. of course that set me asking questions, and though they didn't want to hurt my feelings, i wormed enough out of them to learn how they felt. since then i've spent a good deal of money on tailors, and dress very carefully." "good for 'de sixt'! hurrah for the unwashed democracy, where one man's as good as another! so a 'mick' ward wants its great man to put on all the frills? i tell you, chum, we may talk about equality, but the lower classes can't but admire and worship the tinsel and flummery of aristocracy." "you are mistaken. they may like to see brilliant sights. soldiers, ball-rooms or the like, and who does not? beauty is aesthetic, not aristocratic. but they judge people less by their dress or money than is usually supposed. far less than the people up-town do. they wanted me to dress better, because it was appropriate. but let a man in the ward try to dress beyond his station, and he'd be jeered out of it, or the ward, if nothing worse happened." "oh, of course they'd hoot at their own kind," said watts. "the hardest thing to forgive in this world is your equal's success. but they wouldn't say anything to one of us." "if you, or pell, or ogden should go into blunkers's place in my ward, this evening, dressed as you are, or better, you probably would be told to get out. i don't believe you could get a drink. and you would stand a chance of pretty rough usage. last week i went right from a dinner to blunkers's to say a word to him. i was in evening dress, newcastle, and crush hat--even a bunch of lilies of the valley--yet every man there was willing to shake hands and have me sit down and stay. blunkers couldn't have been dressed so, because it didn't belong to him. for the same reason, you would have no business in blunkers's place, because you don't belong there. but the men know i dressed for a reason, and came to the saloon for a reason. i wasn't putting on airs. i wasn't intruding my wealth on them." "look here, chum, will you take me into blunkers's place some night, and let me hear you powwow the 'b'ys?' i should like to see how you do it." "yes," peter said deliberately, "if some night you'll let me bring blunkers up to watch one of your formal dinners. he would enjoy the sight, i'm sure." leonore cocked her little nose up in the air, and laughed merrily. "oh, but that's very different," said watts. "it's just as different as the two men with the toothache," said peter. "they both met at the dentist's, who it seems had only time to pull one tooth. the question arose as to which it should be. 'i'm so brave,' said one, 'that i can wait till to-morrow.' 'i'm such a coward,' said the other, 'that i don't dare have it done to-day.'" "haven't you ever taken people to those places, peter?" asked leonore. "no. i've always refused. it's a society fad now to have what are called 'slumming parties,' and of course i've been asked to help. it makes my blood tingle when i hear them talk over the 'fun' as they call it. they get detectives to protect them, and then go through the tenements--the homes of the poor--and pry into their privacy and poverty, just out of curiosity. then they go home and over a chafing dish of lobster or terrapin, and champagne, they laugh at the funny things they saw. if the poor could get detectives, and look in on the luxury and comfort of the rich, they wouldn't see much fun in it, and there's less fun in a down-town tenement than there is in a fifth avenue palace. i heard a girl tell the other night about breaking in on a wake by chance. 'weren't we lucky?' she said. 'it was so funny to see the poor people weeping and drinking whisky at the same time. isn't it heartless?' yet the dead--perhaps the bread-winner of the family, fallen in the struggle--perhaps the last little comer, not strong enough to fight this earth's battle--must have lain there in plain view of that girl. who was the most heartless? the family and friends who had gathered over that body, according to their customs, or the party who looked in on them and laughed?" peter had forgotten where he was, or to whom he was talking. leonore had listened breathlessly. but the moment he ceased speaking, she bowed her head and began to sob. peter came down from his indignant tirade like a flash. "miss d'alloi," he cried, "forgive me. i forgot. don't cry so." peter was pleading in an anxious voice. he felt as if he had committed murder. "there, there, dot. don't cry. it's nothing to cry about." miss d'alloi was crying and endeavoring at the same time to solve the most intricate puzzle ever yet propounded by man or woman--that is, to find a woman's pocket. she complicated things even more by trying to talk. "i--i--know i'm ver--ver--very fooooooolish," she managed to get out, however much she failed in a similar result with her pocket-handkerchief. "since i caused the tears, you must let me stop them," said peter. he had produced his own handkerchief, and was made happy by seeing leonore bury her face in it, and re-appear not quite so woe-begone. "i--only--didn't--know--you--could--talk--like--like that," explained leonore. "let this be a lesson for you," said watts. "don't come any more of your jury-pathos on my little girl." "papa! you--i--peter, i'm so glad you told me--i'll never go to one." watts laughed. "now i know why you charm all the women whom i hear talking about you. i tell you, when you rear your head up like that, and your eyes blaze so, and you put that husk in your voice, i don't wonder you fetch them. by george, you were really splendid to look at." that was the reason why leonore had not cried till peter had finished his speech. we don't charge women with crying whenever they wish, but we are sure that they never cry when they have anything better to do. chapter xl. opinions. when the ride was ended, leonore was sent home in the carriage, watts saying he would go with peter to his club. as soon as they were in the cab, he said: "i wanted to see you about your letter." "well?" "everything's going as well as can be expected. of course the little woman's scandalized over your supposed iniquity, but i'm working the heavy sentimental 'saved-our-little-girl's life' business for all it's worth. i had her crying last night on my shoulder over it, and no woman can do that and be obstinate long. she'll come round before a great while." peter winced. he almost felt like calling watts off from the endeavor. but he thought of leonore. he must see her--just to prove to himself that she was not for him, be it understood--and how could he see enough of her to do that--for peter recognized that it would take a good deal of that charming face and figure and manner to pall on him--if he was excluded from her home? so he justified the continuance of the attempt by saying to himself: "she only excludes me because of something of which i am guiltless, and i've saved her from far greater suffering than my presence can ever give her. i have earned the privilege if ever man earned it" most people can prove to themselves what they wish to prove. the successful orator is always the man who imposes his frame of mind on his audience. we call it "saying what the people want said." but many of the greatest speakers first suggest an idea to their listeners, and when they say it in plain english, a moment later, the audience say, mentally, "that's just what we thought a moment ago," and are convinced that the speaker is right. peter remained silent, and watts continued: "we get into our own house to-morrow, and give leonore a birthday dinner tuesday week as a combined house-warming and celebration. save that day, for i'm determined you shall be asked. only the invitation may come a little late. you won't mind that?" "no. but don't send me too many of these formal things. i keep out of them as much as i can. i'm not a society man and probably won't fit in with your friends." "i should know you were not _de societé_ by that single speech. if there's one thing easy to talk to, or fit in with, it's a society man or woman. it's their business to be chatty and pleasant, and they would be polite and entertaining to a kangaroo, if they found one next them at dinner. that's what society is for. we are the yolk of the egg, which holds and blends all the discordant, untrained elements. the oil, vinegar, salt, and mustard we don't add much flavor to life, but people wouldn't mix without us." "i know," said peter, "if you want to talk petty personalities and trivialities, that it's easy enough to get through endless hours of time. but i have other things to do." "exactly. but we have a purpose, too. you mustn't think society is all frivolity. it's one of the hardest working professions." "and the most brainless." "no. don't you see, that society is like any other kind of work, and that the people who will centre their whole life on it must be the leaders of it? to you, the spending hours over a new _entrée_, or over a cotillion figure, seems rubbish, but it's the exact equivalent of your spending hours over who shall be nominated for a certain office. because you are willing to do that, you are one of the 'big four.' because we are willing to do our task, we differentiate into the 'four hundred.' you mustn't think society doesn't grind up brain-tissue. but we use so much in running it, that we don't have enough for other subjects, and so you think we are stupid. i remember a woman once saying she didn't like conversazioni, 'because they are really brain-parties, and there is never enough to go round, and give a second help,' any way, how can you expect society to talk anything but society, when men like yourself stay away from it." "i don't ask you to talk anything else. but let me keep out of it." "'he's not the man for galway'," hummed watts. "he prefers talking to 'heelers,' and 'b'ys,' and 'toughs,' and other clever, intellectual men." "i like to talk to any one who is working with a purpose in life." "i say, peter, what do those fellows really say of us?" "i can best describe it by something miss de voe once said. we were at a dinner together, where there was a chicago man who became irritated at one or two bits of ignorance displayed by some of the other guests over the size and prominence of his abiding place. finally he said: 'why, look here, you people are so ignorant of my city, that you don't even know how to pronounce its name.' he turned to miss de voe and said, 'we say chicawgo. now, how do you pronounce it in new york?' miss de voe put on that quiet, crushing manner she has when a man displeases her, and said, 'we never pronounce it in new york.'" "good for our dutch-huguenot stock! i tell you, peter, blood does tell." "it wasn't a speech i should care to make, because it did no good, and could only mortify. but it does describe the position of the lower wards of new york towards society. i've been working in them for nearly sixteen years, and i've never even heard the subject mentioned." "but i thought the anarchists and socialists were always taking a whack at us?" "they cry out against over-rich men--not against society. don't confuse the constituents with the compound. citric acid is a deadly poison, but weakened down with water and sugar, it is only lemonade. they growl at the poison, not at the water and sugar. before there can be hate, there must be strength." the next day peter turned up in the park about four, and had a ride--with watts. the day after that, he was there a little earlier, and had a ride--with the groom. the day following he had another ride--with the groom. peter thought they were very wonderful rides. some one told him a great many interesting things. about some one's european life, some one's thoughts, some one's hopes, and some one's feelings. some one really wanted a friend to pour it all out to, and peter listened well, and encouraged well. "he doesn't laugh at me, as papa does," some one told herself, "and so it's much easier to tell him. and he shows that he really is interested. oh, i always said he and i should be good friends, and we are going to be." this put some one in a very nice frame of mind, and peter thought he had never met such a wonderful combination of frankness, of confluence, and yet of a certain girlish shyness and timidity. some one would tell him something, and then appeal to him, if he didn't think that was so? peter generally thought it was. some one did not drop her little touch of coquetry, for that was ingrain, as it is in most pretty girls. but it was the most harmless kind of coquetry imaginable. someone was not thinking at all of winning men's hearts. that might come later. at present all she wanted was that they should think her pretty, and delightful, so that--that they should want to be friend. when peter joined watts and leonore, however, on the fourth day, there was a noticeable change in leonore's manner to him. he did not get any welcome except a formal "good-afternoon," and for ten minutes watts and he had to sustain the conversation by firing remarks at each other past a very silent intermediary. peter had no idea what was wrong, but when he found that she did not mollify at the end of that time, he said to her; "what is the matter?" "matter with what?" asked leonore, calmly. "with you." "nothing." "i shan't take that for an answer. remember, we have sworn to be friends." "friends come to see each other." peter felt relieved; and smiled, "they do," he said, "when they can." "no, they don't, sometimes," said leonore severely. then she unbent a little. "why haven't you been to see us? you've had a full week." "yes," said peter, "i have had a very full week." "are you going to call on us, mr. stirling?" "to whom are you talking?" "to you." "my name's peter." "that depends. are you going to call on us?" "that is my hope and wish." leonore unbent a little more. "if you are," she said, "i wish you would do it soon, because mamma said to-day she thought of asking you to my birthday dinner next tuesday, but i said you oughtn't to be asked till you had called." "did you know that bribery is unlawful?" "are you going to call?" "of course i am." "that's better. when?" "what evening are you to be at home?" "to-morrow," said leonore, beginning to curl up the corners of her mouth. "well," said peter, "i wish you had said this evening, because that's nearer, but to-morrow isn't so far away." "that's right. now we'll be friends again." "i hope so." "are you willing to be good friends--not make believe, or half friends, but--real friends?" "absolutely." "don't you think friends should tell each other everything?" "yes." peter was quite willing, even anxious, that leonore should tell him everything. "you are quite sure?" "yes." "then," said leonore, "tell me about the way you got that sword." watts laughed. "she's been asking every one she's met about that. do tell her, just for my sake." "i've told you already." "not the way i want it. i know you didn't try to make it interesting. some of the people remembered there was something very fine, but i haven't found anybody yet who could really tell it to me. please tell about it nicely, peter." leonore was looking at peter with the most pleading of looks. "it was during the great railroad strike. the erie had brought some men up from new york to fill the strikers' places. the new hands were lodged in freight cars, when off work, for it wasn't safe for them to pass outside the guard lines of soldiers. some of the strikers applied for work, and were reinstated. they only did it to get inside our lines. at night, when the substitutes in the cars were fast asleep, tired out with the double work they had done, the strikers locked the car-doors. they pulled the two cars into a shed full of freight, broke open a petroleum tank, and with it wet the cars and some others loaded with jute. they set fire to the cars and barricaded the shed doors. of course we didn't know till the flames burst through the roof of the shed, when by the light, one of the superintendents found the bunk cars gone. the fire-department was useless, for the strikers two days before, had cut all the hose. so we were ordered up to get the cars out. some strikers had concealed themselves in buildings where they could overlook the shed, and while we were working at the door, they kept firing on us. we were in the light of the blazing shed, and they were in the dark, which gave them a big advantage over us, and we couldn't spare the time to attend to them. we tore up some rails and with them smashed in the door. the men in the cars were screaming, so we knew which to take, and fortunately they were the nearest to the door. we took our muskets--for the frames of the cars were blazing, and the metal part too hot to touch--and fixing bayonets, drove them into the woodwork and so pushed the cars out. when we were outside, we used the rails again, to smash an opening in the ends of the cars which were burning the least. we got the men out unharmed, but pretty badly frightened." "and were you not hurt?" "we had eight wounded and a good many badly burned." "and you?" "i had my share of the burn." "i wish you would tell me what you did--not what the others did." peter would have told her anything while she looked like that at him. "i was in command at that point. i merely directed things, except taking up the rails. i happened to know how to get a rail up quickly, without waiting to unscrew the bolts. i had read it, years before, in a book on railroad construction. i didn't think that paragraph would ever help me to save forty lives--for five minutes' delay would have been fatal. the inside of the shed was one sheet of flame. after we broke the door down, i only stood and superintended the moving of the cars. the men did the real work." "but you said the inside of the shed was a sheet of flame." "yes. the railroad had to give us all fresh uniforms. so we made new toggery out of that night's work. i've heard people say militia are no good. if they could have stood by me that night, and seen my company working over those blazing cars, in that mass of burning freight, with the roof liable to fall any minute, and the strikers firing every time a man showed himself, i think they would have altered their opinion." "oh," said leonore, her eyes flashing with enthusiasm. "how splendid it is to be a man, and be able to do real things! i wish i had known about it in europe." "why?" "because the officers were always laughing about our army. i used to get perfectly wild at them, but i couldn't say anything in reply. if i could only have told them about that." "hear the little frenchwoman talk," said watts. "i'm not french." "yes you are, dot." "i'm all american. i haven't a feeling that isn't all american. doesn't that make me an american, peter, no matter where i was born?" "i think you are an american under the law." "am i really?" said leonore, incredulously. "yes. you were born of american parents, and you will be living in this country when you become of age. that constitutes nationality." "oh, how lovely! i knew i was an american, really, but papa was always teasing me and saying i was a foreigner. i hate foreigners." "confound you, chum, you've spoiled one of my best jokes! it's been such fun to see dot bristle when i teased her. she's the hottest little patriot that ever lived." "i think miss d'alloi's nationality is akin to that of a case of which i once heard," said peter, smiling. "a man was bragging about the number of famous men who were born in his native town. he mentioned a well-known personage, among others, and one of his auditors said: 'i didn't know he was born there,' 'oh, yes, he was,' replied the man. 'he was born there, but during the temporary absence of his parents!'" "peter, how much does a written opinion cost?" asked leonore, eagerly. "it has a range about equal to the woman's statement that a certain object was as long as a piece of string." "but your opinions?" "i have given an opinion for nothing. the other day i gave one to a syndicate, and charged eight thousand dollars." "oh, dear!" said leonore. "i wonder if i can afford to get your opinion on my being an american? i should like to frame it and hang it in my room. would it be expensive?" "it is usual with lawyers," said peter gravely, "to find out how much a client has, and then make the bill for a little less. how much do you have?" "i really haven't any now. i shall have two hundred dollars on the first. but then i owe some bills." "you forget your grandmamma's money, dot." "oh! of course. i shall be rich, peter, i come into the income of my property on tuesday. i forget how much it is, but i'm sure i can afford to have an opinion." "why, dot, we must get those papers out, and you must find some one to put the trust in legal shape, and take care of it for you," said watts. "i suppose," said leonore to peter, "if you have one lawyer to do all your work, that he does each thing cheaper, doesn't he?" "yes. because he divides what his client has, on several jobs, instead of on one," peter told her. "then i think i'll have you do it all. we'll come down and see you about it. but write out that opinion at once, so that i can prove that i'm an american." "very well. but there's a safer way, even, of making sure that you're an american." "what is that?" said leonore, eagerly. "marry one," said peter. "oh, yes," said leonore, "i've always intended to do that, but not for a great many years." chapter xli. calls. peter dressed himself the next evening with particular care, even for him. as peter dressed, he was rather down on life. he had been kept from his ride that afternoon by taking evidence in a referee case. "i really needed the exercise badly," he said. he had tried to work his dissatisfaction off on his clubs and dumb-bells, but whatever they had done for his blood and tissue, they had not eased his frame of mind. dinner made him a little pleasanter, for few men can remain cross over a proper meal. still, he did not look happy, when, on rising from his coffee, he glanced at his watch and found that it was but ten minutes past eight. he vacillated for a moment, and then getting into his outside trappings, he went out and turned eastward, down the first side street. he walked four blocks, and then threw open the swing door of a brilliantly lighted place, stepping at once into a blaze of light and warmth which was most attractive after the keen march wind blowing outside. he nodded to the three barkeepers. "is dennis inside?" he asked. "yes, misther stirling. the regulars are all there." peter passed through the room, and went into another without knocking. in it were some twenty men, sitting for the most part in attitudes denoting ease. two, at a small table in the corner, were playing dominoes. three others, in another corner, were amusing themselves with "high, low, jack." two were reading papers. the rest were collected round the centre table, most of them smoking. some beer mugs and tumblers were standing about, but not more than a third of the twenty were drinking anything. the moment peter entered, one of the men jumped to his feet. "b'ys," he cried, "here's misther stirling. begobs, sir, it's fine to see yez. it's very scarce yez been lately." he had shaken hands, and then put a chair in place for peter. the cards, papers, and dominoes had been abandoned the moment dennis announced peter's advent, and when peter had finished shaking the hands held out to him, and had seated himself, the men were all gathered round the big table. peter laid his hat on the table, threw back his newcastle and lit a cigar. "i've been very short of time, dennis. but i had my choice this evening before going uptown, of smoking a cigar in my own quarters, or here. so i came over to talk with you all about denton." "an' what's he been doin'?" inquired dennis. "i saw him to-day about the hummel franchise that comes up in the board next tuesday. he won't vote for it, he says. i told him i thought it was in the interest of the city to multiply means of transit, and asked him why he refused. he replied that he thought the hummel gang had been offering money, and that he would vote against bribers." "he didn't have the face to say that?" shouted one of the listeners. "yes." "oi never!" said dennis. "an' he workin' night an' day to get the board to vote the rival road." "i don't think there's much doubt that money is being spent by both sides," said peter. "i fear no bill could ever pass without it. but the hummel crowd are really responsible people, who offer the city a good percentage. the other men are merely trying to get the franchise, to sell it out at a profit to hummel. i don't like the methods of either, but there's a road needed, and there'll be a road voted, so it's simply a choice between the two. i shouldn't mind if denton voted against both schemes, but to say he'll vote against hummel for that reason, and yet vote for the other franchise shows that he's not square. i didn't say so to him, because i wanted to talk it over with the ward a little first to see if they stood with me." "that we do, sir," said dennis, with a sureness which was cool, if nothing more. fortunately for the boldness of the speaker, no one dissented, and two or three couples nodded heads or pipes at each other. peter looked at his watch. "then i can put the screws on him safely, you think?" "yes," cried several. peter rose. "dennis, will you see blunkers and driscoll this evening, or some time to-morrow, and ask if they think so too? and if they don't, tell them to drop in on me, when they have leisure." "begobs, sir, oi'll see them inside av ten minutes. an' if they don't agree widus, shure, oi'll make them." "thank you. good-night." "good-night, mr. stirling," came a chorus, and peter passed into the street by the much maligned side-door. dennis turned to the group with his face shining with enthusiasm. "did yez see him, b'ys? there was style for yez. isn't he somethin' for the ward to be proud av?" peter turned to broadway, and fell into a long rapid stride. in spite of the cold he threw open his coat, and carried his outer covering on his arm. peter had no intention of going into an up-town drawing-room with any suggestion of "sixt" ward tobacco. so he walked till he reached madison square, when, after a glance at his watch, he jumped into a cab. it was a quarter-past nine when the footman opened the door of the fifty-seventh street house, in reply to peter's ring. yet he was told that, "the ladies are still at dinner." peter turned and went down the stoop. he walked to the avenue, and stopped at a house not far off. "is mrs. pell at home?" he asked, and procured entrance for both his pasteboard and himself. "welcome, little stranger," was his greeting. "and it is so nice that you came this evening. here is van, on from washington for two days." "i was going to look you up, and see what 'we, the people' were talking about, so that i could enlighten our legislators when i go back," said a man of forty. "i wrote pope a long letter to-day, which i asked him to show you," said peter. "things are in a bad shape, and getting worse." "but, peter," queried the woman, "if you are the leader, why do you let them get so?" "so as to remain the leader," said peter, smiling quietly. "now that's what comes of ward politics," cried mrs. pell, "you are beginning to make irish bulls." "no," replied peter, "i am serious, and because people don't understand what i mean, they don't understand american politics." "but you say in effect that the way you retain your leadership, is by not leading. that's absurd!" "no. contradiction though it may seem the way to lose authority, is to exercise it too much. christ enunciated the great truth of democratic government, when he said, 'he that would be the greatest among you, shall be the servant of all'" "i hope you won't carry your theory so far as to let them nominate maguire?" said mr. pell, anxiously. "now, please don't begin on politics," said the woman. "here is van, whom i haven't seen for nine weeks, and here is peter whom i haven't seen for time out of mind, and just as i think i have a red-letter evening before me, you begin your everlasting politics." "i merely stopped in to shake hands," said peter. "i have a call to make elsewhere, and can stay but twenty minutes. for that time we choose you speaker, and you can make us do as it pleases you." twenty minutes later peter passed into the d'alloi drawing-room. he shook mrs. d'alloi's hand steadily, which was more than she did with his. then he was made happy for a moment, with that of leonore. then he was introduced to a madame mellerie, whom he placed at once as the half-governess, half-companion, who had charge of leonore's education; a mr. maxwell, and a marquis de somebody. they were both good-looking young fellows; and greeted peter in a friendly way. but peter did not like them. he liked them less when mrs. d'alloi told him to sit in a given place, and then put madame mellerie down by him. peter had not called to see madame mellerie. but he made a virtue of necessity, and he was too instinctively courteous not to treat the frenchwoman with the same touch of deference his manner towards women always had. after they had been chatting for a little on french literature, it occurred to peter that her opinion of him might have some influence with leonore, so he decided that he would try and please her. but this thought turned his mind to leonore, and speaking of her to her governess, he at once became so interested in the facts she began to pour out to him, that he forgot entirely about his diplomatic scheme. this arrangement continued half an hour, when a dislocation of the _statu quo_ was made by the departure of mr. maxwell. when the exit was completed, mrs. d'alloi turned to place her puppets properly again. but she found a decided bar to her intentions. peter had formed his own conclusions as to why he had been set to entertain madame mellerie, not merely from the fact itself, but from the manner in which it had been done, and most of all, from the way mrs. d'alloi had managed to stand between leonore and himself, as if protecting the former, till she had been able to force her arrangements. so with the first stir peter had risen, and when the little bustle had ceased he was already standing by leonore, talking to her. mrs. d'alloi did not look happy, but for the moment she was helpless. peter had had to skirt the group to get to leonore, and so had stood behind her during the farewells. she apparently had not noticed his advent, but the moment she had done the daughter-of-the-house duty, she turned to him, and said: "i wondered if you would go away without seeing me. i was so afraid you were one of the men who just say, 'how d'ye do' and 'good-bye,' and think they've paid a call." "i called to see you to-night, and i should not have gone till i had seen you. i'm rather a persistent man in some things." "yes," said leonore, bobbing her head in a very knowing manner, "miss de voe told me." "mr. stirling," said mrs. d'alloi, "can't you tell us the meaning of the latin motto on this seal?" mrs. d'alloi held a letter towards him, but did not stir from her position across the room. peter understood the device. he was to be drawn off, and made to sit by mrs. d'alloi, not because she wanted to see him, but because she did not want him to talk to leonore. peter had no intention of being dragooned. so he said: "madame mellerie has been telling me what a good latin scholar miss d'alloi is. i certainly shan't display my ignorance, till she has looked at it." then he carried the envelope over to leonore, and in handing it to her, moved a chair for her, not neglecting one for himself. mrs. d'alloi looked discouraged, the more when peter and leonore put their heads close together, to examine the envelope. "'_in bonam partem_,'" read leonore. "that's easy, mamma. it's--why, she isn't listening!" "you can tell her later. i have something to talk to you about." "what is that?" "your dinner in my quarters. whom would you like to have there?" "will you really give me a dinner?" "yes." "and let me have just whom i want?" "yes." "oh, lovely! let me see. mamma and papa, of course." "that's four. now you can have two more." "peter. would you mind--i mean----" leonore hesitated a moment and then said in an apologetic tone--"would you like to invite madame? i've been telling her about your rooms--and you--and i think it would please her so." "that makes five," said peter. "oh, goody!" said leonore, "i mean," she said, correcting herself, "that that is very kind of you." "and now the sixth?" "that must be a man of course," said leonore, wrinkling up her forehead in the intensity of puzzlement. "and i know so few men." she looked out into space, and peter had a moment's fear lest she should see the marquis, and name him. "there's one friend of yours i'm very anxious to meet. i wonder if you would be willing to ask him?" "who is that?" "mr. moriarty." "no, i can't ask him, i don't want to cheapen him by making a show of him." "oh! i haven't that feeling about him. i----" "i think you would understand him and see the fine qualities. but do you think others would?" peter mentioned no names, but leonore understood. "no," she said. "you are quite right." "you shall meet him some day," said peter, "if you wish, but when we can have only people who won't embarrass or laugh at him." "really, i don't know whom to select." "perhaps you would like to meet le grand?" "very much. he is just the man." "then we'll consider that settled. are you free for the ninth?" "yes. i'm not going out this spring, and mamma and papa haven't really begun yet, and it's so late in the season that i'm sure we are free." "then i will ice the canvas-backs and champagne and dust off the burgundy for that day, if your mamma accedes." "peter, i wanted to ask you the other day about that. i thought you didn't drink wine." "i don't. but i give my friends a glass, when they are good enough to come to me. i live my own life, to please myself, but for that very reason, i want others to live their lives to please themselves. trying to live other people's lives for them, is a pretty dog-in-the-manger business." just then mrs. d'alloi joined them. "were you able to translate it?" she asked, sitting down by them. "yes, indeed," said leonore. "it means 'towards the right side,' or as a motto it might be translated, 'for the right side.'" mrs. d'alloi had clearly, to use a western expression, come determined to "settle down and grow up with the country." so peter broached the subject of the dinner, and when she hesitated, leonore called watts into the group. he threw the casting ballot in favor of the dinner, and so it was agreed upon. peter was asked to come to leonore's birthday festival, "if you don't mind such short notice," and he didn't mind, apparently. then the conversation wandered at will till peter rose. in doing so, he turned to leonore, and said: "i looked the question of nationality up to-day, and found i was right. i've written out a legal opinion in my best hand, and will deliver it to you, on receiving my fee." "how much is that?" said leonore, eagerly. "that you come and get it." chapter xlii. down-town new york. peter had not been working long the next morning when he was told that "the honorable terence denton wishes to see you," "very well," he said, and that worthy was ushered in. "good-morning, denton. i'm glad to see you. i was going down to the hall to-day to say something, but you've saved me the trouble." "i know you was. so i thought i'd get ahead of you," said denton, with a surly tone and manner. "sit down," said peter. peter had learned that, with a certain class of individuals, a distance and a seat have a very dampening effect on anger. it is curious, man's instinctive desire to stand up to and be near the object for which anger is felt. "you've been talking against me in the ward, and makin' them down on me." "no, i didn't talk against you. i've spoken with some of the people about the way you think of voting on the franchises." "yes. i wasn't round, but a friend heard dennis and blunkers a-going over it last night. and it's you did it." "yes. but you know me well enough to be sure, after my talk with you yesterday, that i wouldn't stop there." "so you try to set the pack on me." "no. i try to see how the ward wants its alderman to vote on the franchises." "look a-here. what are you so set on the hummel crowd for?" "i'm not." "is it because hummel's a big contractor and gives you lots of law business?" "no," said peter, smiling. "and you don't think it is, either." "has they offered you some stock cheap?" "come, come, denton. you know the _tu quoque_ do here." denton shifted in his seat uneasily, not knowing what reply to make. those two little latin words had such unlimited powers of concealment in them. he did not know whether _tu quoque_ meant something about votes, an insulting charge, or merely a reply, and feared to make himself ridiculous by his response to them. he was not the first man who has been hampered and floored by his own ignorance. he concluded he must make an entire change of subject to be safe. so he said, "i ain't goin' to be no boss's puppy dog." "no," said peter, finding it difficult not to smile, "you are not that kind of a man." "i takes my orders from no one." "denton, no one wants you to vote by order. we elected you alderman to do what was best for the ward and city, as it seems to you. you are responsible for your votes to us, and no other man can be. i don't care who orders you or advises you; in the end, you must vote yourself, and you yourself will be held to account by us." "yes. but if i don't vote as you wants, you'll sour the boys on me." "i shall tell them what i think. you can do the same. it's a fair game between us." "no, it ain't. you're rich and you can talk more." "you know my money has nothing to do with it. you know i don't try to deceive the men in talking to them. if they trust what i tell them, it's because it's reasonable, and because i haven't tricked them before." "well, are you goin' to drive me out?" "i hope not. i think you've made a good alderman, denton, and you'll find i've said so." "but now?" "if you vote for that franchise, i shall certainly tell the ward that i think you've done wrong. then the ward will do as they please." "as you please, you mean." "no. you've been long enough in politics to know that unless i can make the ward think as i do, i couldn't do anything. what would you care for my opinion, if you didn't know that the votes are back of it?" just then the door swung open, and dennis came in. "tim said yez was alone wid denton, sir, so oi came right in. it's a good-mornin', sir. how are yez, terence?" "you are just the man i want, dennis. tell denton how the ward feels about the franchises." "shure. it's one man they is. an' if denton will step down to my place this night, he'll find out how they think." "they never would have felt so, if mister stirling hadn't talked to them. not one in twenty knew the question was up." "that's because they are most of them too hard working to keep track of all the things. come, denton; i don't attempt to say how you shall vote. i only tell you how it seems to me. go round the ward, and talk with others. then you can tell whether i can give you trouble in the future or not. i don't want to fight you. we've been good friends in the past, and we can do more by pulling in double harness than by kicking, i don't know a man i would rather see at the hall." peter held out his hand, and denton took it. "all right, mister stirling. i'll do my best to stay friends," he said, and went out. peter turned and smiled at dennis. "they can't find out that it's not i, but the ward. so every time there's trouble they lay it against me, and it's hard to keep them friendly. and i hate quarrels and surliness." "it's yezself can do it, though. shure, denton was in a great state av mind this mornin', they was tellin' me, but he's all right now, an' will vote right, or my name isn't dennis moriarty." "yes. he doesn't know it yet, but he'll vote square on tuesday." just then tim brought in the cards of watts and leonore, and strangely enough, peter said they were to be shown in at once. in they came, and after the greetings, peter said: "miss d'alloi, this is my dear friend, dennis moriarty. dennis, miss d'alloi has wanted to know you because she's heard of your being such a friend to me." "shure," said dennis, taking the little hand so eagerly offered him, "oim thinkin' we're both lucky to be in the thoughts at all, at all, av such a sweet young lady." "oh, mr. moriarty, you've kissed the blarney stone." "begobs," responded dennis, "it needs no blarney stone to say that. it's afther sayin' itself." "peter, have you that opinion?" "yes." peter handed her out a beautifully written sheet of script, all in due form, and given an appearance of vast learning, by red ink marginal references to such solid works as "wheaton," "story," and "cranch's" and "wallace's" reports. peter had taken it practically from a "digest," but many apparently learned opinions come from the same source. and the whole was given value by the last two lines, which read, "respectfully submitted, peter stirling." peter's name had value at the bottom of a legal opinion, or a check, if nowhere else. "look, mr. moriarty," cried leonore, too full of happiness over this decision of her nationality not to wish for some one with whom to share it, "i've always thought i was french--though i didn't feel so a bit--and now mr. stirling has made me an american, and i'm so happy. i hate foreigners." watts laughed. "why, dot. you mustn't say that to mr. moriarty. he's a foreigner himself." "oh, i forgot. i didn't think that----" poor leonore stopped there, horrified at what she had said. "no," said peter, "dennis is not a foreigner. he's one of the most ardent americans i know. as far as my experience goes, to make one of dennis's bulls, the hottest american we have to-day, is the irish-american." "oh, come," said watts. "you know every irishman pins his loyalty to the 'owld counthry.'" "shure," said dennis, "an' if they do, what then? sometimes a man finds a full-grown woman, fine, an' sweet, an' strong, an' helpful to him, an' he comes to love her big like. but does that make him forget his old weak mother, who's had a hard life av it, yet has done her best by him? begobs! if he forgot her, he wouldn't be the man to make a good husband. oi don't say oi'm a good american, for its small oi feel besides misther stirling. but oi love her, an' if she ever wants the arm, or the blood, or the life, av dennis moriarty, she's only got to say so." "well," said watts, "this is very interesting, both as a point of view and as oratory; but it isn't business. peter, we came down this morning to take whatever legal steps are necessary to put dot in possession of her grandmother's money, of which i have been trustee. here is a lot of papers about it. i suppose everything is there relating to it." "papa seemed to think it would be very wise to ask you to take care of it, and pay me the income, i can't have the principal till i'm twenty-five." "you must tie it up some way, peter, or dot will make ducks and drakes of it. she has about as much idea of the value of money as she has of the value of foreigners. when we had our villa at florence, she supported the entire pauper population of the city." peter had declined heretofore the care of trust funds. but it struck him that this was really a chance--from a business standpoint, entirely! it is true, the amount was only ninety two thousand, and, as a trust company would handle that sum of money for four hundred and odd dollars, he was bound to do the same; and this would certainly not pay him for his time. "sometimes, however," said peter to himself, "these, trusteeships have very handsome picking's, aside from the half per cent." peter did not say that the "pickings," as they framed themselves in his mind, were sundry calls on him at his office, and a justifiable reason at all times for calling on leonore; to say nothing of letters and other unearned increment. so peter was not obstinate this time. "it's such a simple matter that i can have the papers drawn while you wait, if you've half an hour to spare." peter did this, thinking it would keep them longer, but later it occurred to him it would have been better to find some other reason, and leave the papers, because then leonore would have had to come again soon. peter was not quite as cool and far-seeing as he was normally. he regretted his error the more when they all took his suggestion that they go into his study. peter rang for his head clerk, and explained what was needed with great rapidity, and then left the latter and went into the study. "i wonder what he's in such a hurry for?" said the clerk, retiring with the papers. when peter entered the library he found leonore and watts reposing in chairs, and dennis standing in front of them, speaking. this was what dennis was saying: "'schatter, boys, an' find me a sledge.' shure, we thought it was demented he was, but he was the only cool man, an' orders were orders. dooley, he found one, an' then the captain went to the rails an' gave it a swing, an' struck the bolts crosswise like, so that the heads flew off, like they was shootin' stars. then he struck the rails sideways, so as to loosen them from the ties. then says he: 'half a dozen av yez take off yez belts an' strap these rails together!' even then we didn't understand, but we did it all this time the dirty spal--oi ask yez pardon, miss--all this time the strikers were pluggin' at us, an' bullets flyin' like fun. 'drop your muskets,' says the captain, when we had done; 'fall in along those rails. pick them up, and double-quick for the shed door,' says he, just as if he was on parade. then we saw what he was afther, and double-quick we went. begobs, that door went down as if it was paper. he was the first in. 'stand back,' says he, 'till oi see what's needed.' yez should have seen him walk into that sheet av flame, an' stand theer, quiet-like, thinkin', an' it so hot that we at the door were coverin' our faces to save them from scorchin'. then he says: 'get your muskets!' we went, an' moike says to me: 'it's no good. no man can touch them cars. he's goin' to attind to the strikers,' but not he. he came out, an' he says: 'b'ys, it's hot in there, but, if you don't mind a bit av a burn, we can get the poor fellows out. will yez try?' 'yes!' we shouted. so he explained how we could push cars widout touchin' them. 'fall in,' says he. 'fix bayonets. first file to the right av the cars, second rank to the left. forward, march!' an' we went into that hell, an' rolled them cars out just as if we was marchin' down broadway, wid flags, an' music, an' women clappin' hands." "but weren't you dreadfully burnt?" "oh, miss, yez should have seen us! we was blacker thin the divil himsilf. hardly one av us but didn't have the hair burnt off the part his cap didn't cover; an', as for eyelashes, an' mustaches, an' blisters, no one thought av them the next day. shure, the whole company was in bed, except them as couldn't lie easy." "and mr. stirling?" "shure, don't yez know about him?" "no." "why, he was dreadful burnt, an' the doctors thought it would be blind he'd be; but he went to paris, an' they did somethin' to him there that saved him. oh, miss, the boys were nearly crazy wid fear av losin' him. they'd rather be afther losin' the regimental cat." peter had been tempted to interrupt two or three times, but it was so absorbing to watch leonore's face, and its changing expression, as, unconscious of his presence, she listened to dennis, that peter had not the heart to do it. but now watts spoke up. "do you hear that, peter? there's value for you! you're better than the cat." so the scenes were shifted, and they all sat and chatted till dennis left. then the necessary papers were brought in and looked over at peter's study-table, and miss d'alloi took another of his pens. peter hoped she'd stop and think a little, again, but she didn't. just as she had begun an l she hesitated, however. "why," she said, "this paper calls me 'leonore d'alloi, spinster!' i'm not going to sign that." "that is merely the legal term," peter explained. leonore pouted for some time over it, but finally signed. "i shan't be a spinster, anyway, even if the paper does say so," she said. peter agreed with her. "see what a great blot i've made on your clean blotter," said leonore, who had rested the pen-point there. "i'm very sorry." then she wrote on the blotter, "leonore d'alloi. her very untidy mark." "that was what madame mellerie always made me write on my exercises." then they said "good-bye." "i like down-town new york better and better," said leonore. so did peter. chapter xliii. a birthday evening. peter went into ray's office on monday. "i want your advice," he said. "i'm going to a birthday dinner to-morrow. a girl for whom i'm trustee. now, how handsome a present may i send her?" "h'm. how well do you know her?" "we are good friends." "just about what you please, i should say, if you know her well, and make money out of her?" "that is, jewelry?" "ye--es." "thanks." peter turned. "who is she, peter? i thought you never did anything so small as that. nothing, or four figures, has always seemed your rule?" "this had extenuating circumstances," smiled peter. so when peter shook hands, the next evening, with the very swagger young lady who stood beside her mother, receiving, he was told: "it's perfectly lovely! look." and the little wrist was held up to him. "and so were the flowers. i couldn't carry a tenth of them, so i decided to only take papa's. but i put yours up in my room, and shall keep them there." then peter had to give place to another, just as he had decided that he would have one of the flowers from the bunch she was carrying, or--he left the awful consequences of failure blank. peter stood for a moment unconscious of the other people, looking at the pretty rounded figure in the dainty evening dress of french open-work embroidery. "i didn't think she could be lovelier than she was in her street and riding dresses but she is made for evening dress," was his thought. he knew this observation wasn't right, however, so he glanced round the room, and then walked up to a couple. "there, i told mr. beekman that i was trying to magnetize you, and though your back was turned, you came to me at once." "er--really, quite wonderful, you know," said mr. beekman. "i positively sharn't dare to be left alone with you, miss de voe." "you needn't fear me. i shall never try to magnetize you, mr. beekman," said miss de voe. "i was so pleased," she continued, turning to peter, "to see you take that deliberate survey of the room, and then come over here." peter smiled. "i go out so little now, that i have turned selfish. i don't go to entertain people. i go to be entertained. tell me what you have been doing?" but as peter spoke, there was a little stir, and peter had to say "excuse me." he crossed the room, and said, "i am to have the pleasure, mrs. grinnell," and a moment later the two were walking towards the dining-room. miss de voe gave her arm to beekman calmly, but her eyes followed peter. they both could have made a better arrangement. most dinner guests can. it was a large dinner, and so was served in the ball-room. the sixty people gathered were divided into little groups, and seated at small tables holding six or eight. peter knew all but one at his table, to the extent of having had previous meetings. they were all fashionables, and the talk took the usual literary-artistic-musical turn customary with that set. "men, not principles" is the way society words the old cry, or perhaps "personalities, not generalities" is a better form. so peter ate his dinner quietly, the conversation being general enough not to force him to do more than respond, when appealed to. he was, it is true, appealed to frequently. peter had the reputation, as many quiet men have, of being brainy. furthermore he knew the right kind of people, was known to enjoy a large income, was an eligible bachelor, and was "interesting and unusual." so society no longer rolled its juggernaut over him regardlessly, as of yore. a man who was close friends with half a dozen exclusives of the exclusives, was a man not to be disregarded, simply because he didn't talk. society people applied much the same test as did the little "angle" children, only in place of "he's frinds wid der perlice," they substituted "he's very intimate with miss de voe, and the ogdens and the pells." peter had dimly hoped that he would find himself seated at leonore's table--he had too much self depreciation to think for a moment that he would take her in--but hers was a young table, he saw, and he would not have minded so much if it hadn't been for that marquis. peter began to have a very low opinion of foreigners. then he remembered that leonore had the same prejudice, so he became more reconciled to the fact that the marquis was sitting next her. and when leonore sent him a look and a smile, and held up the wrist, so as to show the pearl bracelet, peter suddenly thought what a delicious _rissole_ he was eating. as the dinner waned, one of the footmen brought him a card, on which watts had written: "they want me to say a few words of welcome and of dot. will you respond?" peter read the note and then wrote below it: "dear miss d'alloi: you see the above. may i pay you a compliment? only one? or will it embarrass you?" when the card came back a new line said: "dear peter: i am not afraid of your compliment, and am very curious to hear it." peter said, "tell mr. d'alloi that i will with pleasure." then he tucked the card in his pocket. that card was not going to be wasted. so presently the glasses were filled up, even peter saying, "you may give me a glass," and watts was on his feet. he gave "our friends" a pleasant welcome, and after apologizing for their absence, said that at least, "like the little wife in the children's play, 'we too have not been idle,' for we bring you a new friend and introduce her to you to-night." then peter rose, and told the host: "your friends have been grieved at your long withdrawal from them, as the happy faces and welcome we tender you this evening, show. we feared that the fascination of european art, with its beauty and ease and finish, had come to over-weigh the love of american nature, despite its life and strength and freshness; that we had lost you for all time. but to-night we can hardly regret even this long interlude, if to that circumstance we owe the happiest and most charming combination of american nature and european art--miss d'alloi." then there was applause, and a drinking of miss d'alloi's health, and the ladies passed out of the room--to enjoy themselves, be it understood, leaving the men in the gloomy, quarrelsome frame of mind it always does. peter apparently became much abstracted over his cigar, but the abstraction was not perhaps very deep, for he was on his feet the moment watts rose, and was the first to cross the hall into the drawing-room. he took a quick glance round the room, and then crossed to a sofa. dorothy and--and some one else were sitting on it. "speaking of angels," said dorothy. "i wasn't speaking of you," said peter. "only thinking." "there," said leonore. "now if mrs. grinnell had only heard that." peter looked a question, so leonore continued: "we were talking about you. i don't understand you. you are so different from what i had been told to think you. every one said you were very silent and very uncomplimentary, and never joked, but you are not a bit as they said, and i thought you had probably changed, just as you had about the clothes. but mrs. grinnell says she never heard you make a joke or a compliment in her life, and that at the knickerbocker they call you 'peter, the silent.' you are a great puzzle." dorothy laughed. "here we four women--mrs. grinnell, and mrs. winthrop and leonore and myself--have been quarrelling over you, and each insisting you are something different. i believe you are not a bit firm and stable, as people say you are, but a perfect chameleon, changing your tint according to the color of the tree you are on. leonore was the worst, though! she says that you talk and joke a great deal. we could have stood anything but that!" "i am sorry my conversation and humor are held in such low estimation." "there," said leonore, "see. didn't i tell you he joked? and, peter, do you dislike women?" "unquestionably," said peter. "please tell me. i told them of your speech about the sunshine, and mrs. winthrop says that she knows you didn't mean it. that you are a woman-hater and despise all women, and like to get off by yourself." "that's the reason i joined you and dorothy," said peter. "do you hate women?" persisted leonore. "a man is not bound to incriminate himself," replied peter, smiling. "then that's the reason why you don't like society, and why you are so untalkative to women. i don't like men who think badly of women. now, i want to know why you don't like them?" "supposing," said peter, "you were asked to sit down to a game of whist, without knowing anything of the game. do you think you could like it?" "no. of course not!" "well, that is my situation toward women. they have never liked me, nor treated me as they do other men. and so, when i am put with a small-talk woman, i feel all at sea, and, try as i may, i can't please her. they are never friendly with me as they are with other men." "rubbish!" said dorothy. "it's what you do, not what she does, that makes the trouble. you look at a woman with those grave eyes and that stern jaw of yours, and we all feel that we are fools on the spot, and really become so. i never stopped being afraid of you till i found out that in reality you were afraid of me. you know you are. you are afraid of all women." "he isn't a bit afraid of women," affirmed leonore. just then mr. beekman came up. "er--mrs. rivington. you know this is--er--a sort of house-warming, and they tell me we are to go over the house, don't you know, if we wish. may i harve the pleasure?" dorothy conferred the boon. peter looked down at leonore with a laugh in his eyes. "er--miss d'alloi," he said, with the broadest of accents, "you know this,--er--is a sort of a house-warming and--" he only imitated so far and then they both laughed. leonore rose. "with pleasure. i only wish mrs. grinnell had heard you. i didn't know you could mimic?" "i oughtn't. it's a small business. but i am so happy that i couldn't resist the temptation." leonore asked, "what makes you so happy?" "my new friend," said peter. leonore went on up the stairs without saying anything. at the top, however, she said, enthusiastically: "you do say the nicest things! what room would you like to see first?" "yours," said peter. so they went into the little bedroom, and boudoir, and looked over them. of course peter found a tremendous number of things of interest. there were her pictures, most of them her own purchases in europe; and her books and what she thought of them; and her thousand little knick-knacks of one kind and another. peter wasn't at all in a hurry to see the rest of the house. "these are the photographs of my real friends," said leonore, "except yours. i want you to give me one to complete my rack." "i haven't had a photograph taken in eight years, and am afraid i have none left." "then you must sit." "very well. but it must be an exchange." peter almost trembled at his boldness, and at the thought of a possible granting. "do you want mine?" "very much." "i have dozens," said leonore, going over to her desk, and pulling open a drawer. "i'm very fond of being taken. you may have your choice." "that's very difficult," said peter, looking at the different varieties. "each has something the rest haven't. you don't want to be generous, and let me have these four?" "oh, you greedy!" said leonore, laughing. "yes, if you'll do something i'm going to ask you." peter pocketed the four. "that is a bargain," he said, with a brashness simply disgraceful in a good business man. "now, what is it?" "miss de voe told me long ago about your savings-bank fund for helping the poor people. now that i have come into my money, i want to do what she does. give a thousand dollars a year to it--and then you are to tell me just what you do with it." "of course i'm bound to take it, if you insist. but it won't do any good. even miss de voe has stopped giving now, and i haven't added anything to it for over five years." "why is that?" "you see, i began by loaning the fund to people who were in trouble, or who could be boosted a little by help, and for three or four years, i found the money went pretty fast. but by that time people began to pay it back, with interest often, and there has hardly been a case when it hasn't been repaid. so what with miss de voe's contributions, and the return of the money, i really have more than i can properly use already. there's only about eight thousand loaned at present, and nearly five thousand in bank." "i'm so sorry!" said leonore. "but couldn't you give some of the money, so that it wouldn't come back?" "that does more harm than good. it's like giving opium to kill temporary pain. it stops the pain for the moment, but only to weaken the system so as to make the person less able to bear pain in the future. that's the trouble with most of our charity. it weakens quite as much as it helps." "i have thought about this for five years as something i should do. i'm so grieved." and leonore looked her words. peter could not stand that look. "i've been thinking of sending a thousand dollars of the fund, that i didn't think there was much chance of using, to a fresh air fund and the day nursery. if you wish i'll send two thousand instead and then take your thousand? then i can use that for whatever i have a chance." "that will do nicely. but i thought you didn't think regular charities did much good?" "some don't. but it's different with children. they don't feel the stigma and are not humiliated or made indolent by help. we can't do too much to help them. the future of this country depends on its poor children. if they are to do right, they must be saved from ill-health, and ignorance, and vice; and the first step is to give them good food and air, so that they shall have strong little bodies. a sound man, physically, may not be a strong man in other ways, but he stands a much better chance." "oh, it's very interesting," said leonore. "tell me some more about the poor people." "what shall i tell you?" said peter. "how to help them." "i'll speak about something i have had in mind for a long time, trying to find some way to do it. i think the finest opportunity for benevolence, not already attempted, would be a company to lend money to the poor, just as i have attempted, on a small scale, in my ward. you see there are thousands of perfectly honest people who are living on day wages, and many of them can lay up little or no money. then comes sickness, or loss of employment, or a fire which burns up all their furniture and clothes, or some other mischance, and they can turn only to pawnbrokers and usurers, with their fearful charges; or charity, with its shame. then there are hundreds of people whom a loan of a little money would help wonderfully. this boy can get a place if he had a respectable suit of clothes. another can obtain work by learning a trade, but can't live while he learns it. a woman can support herself if she can buy a sewing-machine, but hasn't the money to buy it. another can get a job at something, but is required to make a deposit to the value of the goods intrusted to her. now, if all these people could go to some company, and tell their story, and get their notes discounted, according to their reputation, just as the merchant does at his bank, don't you see what a help it would be?" "how much would it take, peter?" "one cannot say, because, till it is tested, there would be no way of knowing how much would be asked for. but a hundred thousand dollars would do to start with." "why, that's only a hundred people giving a thousand each," cried leonore eagerly. "peter, i'll give a thousand, and i'll make mamma and papa give a thousand, and i'll speak to my friends and--" "money isn't the difficult part," said peter, longing to a fearful degree to take leonore in his arms. "if it were only money, i could do it myself--or if i did not choose to do it alone, miss de voe and pell would help me." "what is it, then?" "it's finding the right man to run such a company. i can't give the time, for i can do more good in other directions. it needs a good business man, yet one who must have many other qualities which rarely go with a business training. he must understand the poor, because he must look into every case, to see if it is a safe risk--or rather if the past life of the applicant indicates that he is entitled to help. now if your grandfather, who is such an able banker, were to go into my ward, and ask about the standing of a man in it, he wouldn't get any real information. but if i ask, every one will tell me what he thinks. the man in control of such a bank must be able to draw out the truth. unless the management was just what it ought to be, it would be bankrupt in a few months, or else would not lend to one quarter of the people who deserve help. yet from my own experience, i know, that money can be loaned to these people, so that the legal interest more than pays for the occasional loss, and that most of these losses are due to inability, more than to dishonesty." "i wish we could go on talking," sighed leonore. "but the people are beginning to go downstairs. i suppose i must go, so as to say good-bye. i only wish i could help you in charity." "you have given _me_ a great charity this evening," said peter. "you mean the photographs," smiled leonore. "no." "what else?" "you have shown me the warmest and most loving of hearts," said peter, "and that is the best charity in the world." on the way down they met lispenard coming up. "i've just said good-night to your mother. i would have spoken to you while we were in your room, but you were so engrossed that miss winthrop and i thought we had better not interrupt." "i didn't see you," said leonore. "indeed!" said lispenard, with immense wonderment. "i can't believe that. you know you were cutting us." then he turned to peter. "you old scamp, you," he whispered, "you are worse than the standard oil." "i sent for you some time ago, leonore," said her mother, disapprovingly. "the guests have been going and you were not here." "i'm sorry, mamma. i was showing peter the house." "good-night," said that individual. "i dread formal dinners usually, but this one has been the pleasantest of my life." "that's very nice. and thank you, peter, for the bracelet, and the flowers, and the compliment. they were all lovely. would you like a rose?" would he? he said nothing, but he looked enough to get it. "can't we put you down?" said a man at the door. "it's not so far from washington square to your place, that your company won't repay us." "thank you," said peter, "but i have a hansom here." yet peter did not ride. he dismissed cabby, and walked down the avenue. peter was not going to compress his happiness inside a carriage that evening. he needed the whole atmosphere to contain it. as he strode along he said: "it isn't her beauty and grace alone"--(it never is with a man, oh, no!)--"but her truth and frankness and friendliness. and then she doesn't care for money, and she isn't eaten up with ambition. she is absolutely untouched by the world yet. then she is natural, yet reserved, with other men. she's not husband-hunting, like so many of them. and she's loving, not merely of those about her, but of everything." musicians will take a simple theme and on it build unlimited variations. this was what peter proceeded to do. from fifty-seventh street to peter's rooms was a matter of four miles. peter had not half finished his thematic treatment of leonore when he reached his quarters. he sat down before his fire, however, and went on, not with hope of exhausting all possible variations, but merely for his own pleasure. finally, however, he rose and put photographs, rose, and card away. "i've not allowed myself to yield to it," he said (which was a whopper) "till i was sure she was what i could always love. now i shall do my best to make her love me." chapter xliv. a good day. the next day it was raining torrents, but despite this, and to the utter neglect of his law business, peter drove up-town immediately after lunch, to the house in fifty-seventh street. he asked for watts, but while he was waiting for the return of the servant, he heard a light foot-step, and turning, he found leonore fussing over some flowers. at the same moment she became conscious of his presence. "good-day," said peter. "it isn't a good day at all," said leonore, in a disconsolate voice, holding out her hand nevertheless. "why not?" "it's a horrid day, and i'm in disgrace." "for what?" "for misbehaving last night. both mamma and madame say i did very wrong. i never thought i couldn't be real friends with you." the little lips were trembling slightly. peter felt a great temptation to say something strong. "why can't the women let such an innocent child alone?" he thought to himself. aloud he said, "if any wrong was done, which i don't think, it was my fault. can i do anything?" "i don't believe so," said leonore, with a slight unsteadiness in her voice. "they say that men will always monopolize a girl if she will allow it, and that a really well-mannered one won't permit it for a moment." peter longed to take her in his arms and lay the little downcast head against his shoulder, but he had to be content with saying: "i am so sorry they blame you. if i could only save you from it." he evidently said it in a comforting voice, for the head was raised a trifle. "you see," said leonore, "i've always been very particular with men, but with you it seemed different. yet they both say i stayed too long upstairs, and were dreadfully shocked about the photographs. they said i ought to treat you like other men. don't you think you are different?" yes. peter thought he was very different. "mr. d'alloi will see you in the library," announced the footman at this point. peter turned to go, but in leaving he said: "is there any pleasure or service i can do, to make up for the trouble i've caused you?" leonore put her head on one side, and looked a little less grief-stricken. "may i save that up?" she asked. "yes." a moment later peter was shaking hands with watts. "this is nice of you. quite like old times. will you smoke?" "no. but please yourself. i've something to talk about." "fire away." "watts, i want to try and win the love of your little girl." "dear old man," cried watts, "there isn't any one in god's earth whom i would rather see her choose, or to whom i would sooner trust her." "thank you, watts," said peter, gratefully. "watts is weak, but he is a good fellow," was his mental remark. peter entirely forgot his opinion of two weeks ago. it is marvellous what a change a different point of view makes in most people. "but if i give you my little dot, you must promise me one thing." "what is that?" "that you will never tell her? ah! peter, if you knew how i love the little woman, and how she loves me. from no other man can she learn what will alter that love. don't make my consent bring us both suffering?" "watts, i give my word she shall never know the truth from me." "god bless you, peter. true as ever. then that is settled. you shall have a clear field and every chance." "i fear not. there's something more. mrs. d'alloi won't pardon that incident--nor do i blame her. i can't force my presence here if she does not give her consent. it would be too cruel, even if i could hope to succeed in spite of her. i want to see her this morning. you can tell better than i whether you had best speak to her first, or whether i shall tell her." "h'm. that is a corker, isn't it? don't you think you had better let things drift?" "no. i'm not going to try and win a girl's love behind the mother's back. remember, watts, the mother is the only one to whom a girl can go at such a time. we mustn't try to take advantage of either." "well, i'll speak to her, and do my best. then i'll send her to you. help yourself to the tobacco if you get tired of waiting _tout seul_." watts went upstairs and knocked at a door. "yes," said a voice. watts put his head in. "is my rosebud so busy that she can't spare her lover a few moments?" "watts, you know i live for you." watts dropped down on the lounge. "come here, then, like a loving little wife, and let me say my little say." no woman nearing forty can resist a little tenderness in her husband, and mrs. d'alloi snuggled up to watts in the pleasantest frame of mind. watts leaned over and kissed her cheek. then mrs. d'alloi snuggled some more. "now, i want to talk with you seriously, dear," he said. "who do you think is downstairs?" "who?" "dear old peter. and what do you think he's come for!" "what?" "dot." "for what?" "he wants our consent, dear, to pay his addresses to leonore." "oh, watts!" mrs. d'alloi ceased to snuggle, and turned a horrified face to her husband. "i've thought she attracted him, but he's such an impassive, cool old chap, that i wasn't sure." "that's what i've been so afraid of. i've worried so over it." "you dear, foolish little woman. what was there to worry over?" "watts! you won't give your consent?" "of course we will. why, what more do you want? money, reputation, brains, health." (that was the order in which peter's advantages ranged themselves in watts's mind). "i don't see what more you can ask, short of a title, and titles not only never have all those qualities combined, but they are really getting decidedly _nouveau richey_ and not respectable enough for a huguenot family, who've lived two hundred and fifty years in new york. what a greedy mamma she is for her little girl." "oh, watts! but think!" "it's hard work, dear, with your eyes to look at. but i will, if you'll tell me what to think about." "my husband! you cannot have forgotten? oh, no! it is too horrible for you to have forgotten that day." "you heavenly little puritan! so you are going to refuse peter as a son-in-law, because he--ah--he's not a catholic monk. why, rosebud, if you are going to apply that rule to all dot's lovers, you had better post a sign: 'wanted, a husband. p.s. no man need apply.'" "watts! don't talk so." "dear little woman. i'm only trying to show you that we can't do better than trust our little girl to peter." "with that stain! oh, watts, give him our pure, innocent, spotless child!" "oh, well. if you want a spotless wedding, let her marry the church. she'll never find one elsewhere, my darling." "watts! how can you talk so? and with yourself as an example. oh, husband! i want our child--our only child--to marry a man as noble and true as her father. surely there must be others like you?" "yes. i think there are a great many men as good as i, rosebud! but i'm no better than i should be, and it's nothing but your love that makes you think i am." "i won't hear you say such things of yourself. you know you are the best and purest man that ever lived. you know you are." "if there's any good in me, it's because i married you." "watts, you couldn't be bad if you tried." and mrs. d'alloi put her arms round watts's neck and kissed him. watts fondled her for a moment in true lover's fashion. then he said, "dear little wife, a pure woman can never quite know what this world is. i love dot next to you, and would not give her to a man whom i believe would not be true to her, or make her happy. i know every circumstance of peter's connection with that woman, and he is as blameless as man ever was. such as it was, it was ended years ago, and can never give him more trouble. he is a strong man, and will be true to dot. she might get a man who would make her life one long torture. she may be won by a man who only cares for her money, and will not even give her the husks of love. but peter loves her, and has outgrown his mistakes. and don't forget that but for him we might now have nothing but some horribly mangled remains to remember of our little darling. dear, i love dot twenty times more than i love peter. for her sake, and yours, i am trying to do my best for her." so presently mrs. d'alloi came into the library, where peter sat. she held out her hand to him, but peter said: "let me say something first. mrs. d'alloi, i would not have had that occurrence happen in your home or presence if i had been able to prevent it. it grieves me more than i can tell you. i am not a roué. in spite of appearances i have lived a clean life. i shall never live any other in the future. i--i love leonore. love her very dearly. and if you will give her to me, should i win her, i pledge you my word that i will give her the love, and tenderness, and truth which she deserves. now, will you give me your hand?" "he is speaking the truth," thought mrs. d'alloi, as peter spoke. she held out her hand. "i will trust her to you if she chooses you." half an hour later, peter went back to the drawing-room, to find leonore reposing in an exceedingly undignified position before the fire on a big tiger-skin, and stroking a persian cat, who, in delight at this enviable treatment, purred and dug its claws into the rug. peter stood for a time watching the pretty tableau, wishing he was a cat. "yes, tawney-eye," said leonore, in heartrending tones, "it isn't a good day at all." "i'm going to quarrel with you on that," said peter. "it's a glorious day." leonore rose from the skin. "tawney-eye and i don't think so." "but you will. in the first place i've explained about the monopoly and the photographs to your mamma, and she says she did not understand it, and that no one is to blame. secondly, she says i'm to stay to dinner and am to monopolize you till then. thirdly, she says we may be just as good friends as we please. fourthly, she has asked me to come and stay for a week at grey-court this summer. now, what kind of a day is it?" "simply glorious! isn't it, tawney-eye?" and the young lady again forgot her "papas, proprieties, potatoes, prunes and prisms," and dropping down on the rug, buried her face in the cat's long silky hair. then she reappeared long enough to say: "you are such a comforting person! i'm so glad you were born." chapter xlv. the boss. after this statement, so satisfying to both, leonore recovered her dignity enough to rise, and say, "now, i want to pay you for your niceness. what do you wish to do?" "suppose we do what pleases you." "no. i want to please you." "that _is_ the way to please me," said peter emphatically. just then a clock struck four. "i know," said leonore. "come to the tea-table, and we'll have afternoon tea together. it's the day of all others for afternoon tea." "i just said it was a glorious day." "oh? yes. it's a nice day. but it's dark and cold and rainy all the same." "but that makes it all the better. we shan't be interrupted." "do you know," said leonore, "that miss de voe told me once that you were a man who found good in everything, and i see what she meant." "i can't hold a candle to dennis. he says its 'a foine day' so that you feel that it really is. i never saw him in my life, when it wasn't 'a foine day.' i tell him he carries his sunshine round in his heart." "you are so different," said leonore, "from what every one said. i never knew a man pay such nice compliments. that's the seventh i've heard you make." "you know i'm a politician, and want to become popular." "oh, peter! will you let me ask you something?" "anything," said peter, rashly, though speaking the absolute truth. peter just then was willing to promise anything. perhaps it was the warm cup of tea; perhaps it was the blazing logs; perhaps it was the shade of the lamp, which cast such a pleasant rosy tint over everything; perhaps it was the comfortable chair; perhaps it was that charming face; perhaps it was what mr. mantalini called the "demd total." "you see," said leonore, shaking her head in a puzzled way, "i've begun to read the papers--the political part, i mean--and there are so many things i don't understand which i want to ask you to explain." "that is very nice," said peter, "because there are a great many things of which i want to tell you." "goody!" said leonore, forgetting again she was now bound to conduct herself as befit a society girl. "and you'll not laugh at me if i ask foolish questions?" "no." "then what do the papers mean by calling you a boss?" "that i am supposed to have sufficient political power to dictate to a certain extent." "but don't they speak of a boss as something not nice?" asked leonore, a little timidly, as if afraid of hurting peter's feelings. "usually it is used as a stigma," said peter, smiling. "at least by the kind of papers you probably read." "but you are not a bad boss, are you?" said leonore, very earnestly. "some of the papers say so." "that's what surprised me. of course i knew they were wrong, but are bosses bad, and are you a boss?" "you are asking me one of the biggest questions in american politics. i probably can't answer it, but i'll try to show you why i can't. are there not friends whose advice or wish would influence you?" "yes. like you," said leonore, giving peter a glimpse of her eyes. "really," thought peter, "if she does that often, i can't talk abstract politics." then he rallied and said: "well, that is the condition of men as well, and it is that condition, which creates the so-called boss. in every community there are men who influence more or less the rest. it may be that one can only influence half a dozen other intimates. another may exert power over fifty. a third may sway a thousand. one may do it by mere physical superiority. another by a friendly manner. a third by being better informed. a fourth by a deception or bribery. a fifth by honesty. each has something that dominates the weaker men about him. take my ward. burton is a prize-fighter, and physically a splendid man. so he has his little court. driscoll is a humorist, and can talk, and he has his admirers. sloftky is popular with the jews, because he is of their race. burrows is a policeman, who is liked by the whole ward, because of his kindness and good-nature. so i could go on telling you of men who are a little more marked than the rest, who have power to influence the opinions of men about them, and therefore have power to influence votes. that is the first step in the ladder." "but isn't mr. moriarty one?" "he comes in the next grade. each of the men i have mentioned can usually affect an average of twenty-five votes. but now we get to another rung of the ladder. here we have dennis, and such men as blunkers, denton, kennedy, schlurger and others. they not merely have their own set of followers, but they have more or less power to dominate the little bosses of whom i have already spoken. take dennis for instance. he has fifty adherents who stick to him absolutely, two hundred and fifty who listen to him with interest, and a dozen of the smaller bosses, who pass his opinions to their followers. so he can thus have some effect on about five hundred votes. of course it takes more force and popularity to do this and in this way we have a better grade of men." "yes. i like mr. moriarty, and can understand why others do. he is so ugly, and so honest, and so jolly. he's lovely." "then we get another grade. usually men of a good deal of brain force, though not of necessity well educated. they influence all below them by being better informed, and by being more far-seeing. such men as gallagher and dummer. they, too, are usually in politics for a living, and so can take the trouble to work for ends for which the men with other work have no time. they don't need the great personal popularity of those i have just mentioned, but they need far more skill and brain. now you can see, that these last, in order to carry out their intentions, must meet and try to arrange to pull together, for otherwise they can do nothing. naturally, in a dozen or twenty men, there will be grades, and very often a single man will be able to dominate them all, just as the smaller bosses dominate the smaller men. and this man the papers call a boss of a ward. then when these various ward bosses endeavor to unite for general purposes, the strongest man will sway them, and he is boss of the city." "and that is what you are?" "yes. by that i mean that nothing is attempted in the ward or city without consultation with me. but of course i am more dependent on the voters than they are on me, for if they choose to do differently from what i advise, they have the power, while i am helpless." "you mean the smaller bosses?" "not so much them as the actual voters. a few times i have shot right over the heads of the bosses and appealed directly to the voters." "then you can make them do what you want?" "within limits, yes. as i told you, i am absolutely dependent on the voters. if they should defeat what i want three times running, every one would laugh at me, and my power would be gone. so you see that a boss is only a boss so long as he can influence votes." "but they haven't defeated you?" "no, not yet." "but if the voters took their opinions from the other bosses how did you do anything?" "there comes in the problem of practical politics. the question of who can affect the voters most. take my own ward. suppose that i want something done so much that i insist. and suppose that some of the other leaders are equally determined that it shan't be done. the ward splits on the question and each faction tries to gain control in the primary. when i have had to interfere, i go right down among the voters and tell them why and what i want to do. then the men i have had to antagonize do the same, and the voters decide between us. it then is a question as to which side can win the majority of the voters. because i have been very successful in this, i am the so-called boss. that is, i can make the voters feel that i am right." "how?" "for many reasons. first, i have always tried to tell the voters the truth, and never have been afraid to acknowledge i was wrong, when i found i had made a mistake, so people trust what i say. then, unlike most of the leaders in politics, i am not trying to get myself office or profit, and so the men feel that i am disinterested. then i try to be friendly with the whole ward, so that if i have to do what they don't like, their personal feeling for me will do what my arguments never could. with these simple, strong-feeling, and unreasoning folk, one can get ten times the influence by a warm handshake and word that one can by a logical argument. we are so used to believing what we read, if it seems reasonable, that it is hard for us to understand that men who spell out editorials with difficulty, and who have not been trained to reason from facts, are not swayed by what to us seems an obvious argument. but, on the contrary, if a man they trust, puts it in plain language to them, they see it at once. i might write a careful editorial, and ask my ward to read it, and unless they knew i wrote it, they probably wouldn't be convinced in the least. but let me go into the saloons, and tell the men just the same thing, and there isn't a man who wouldn't be influenced by it." "you are so popular in the ward?" asked leonore. "i think so, i find kind words and welcome everywhere. but then i have tried very hard to be popular. i have endeavored to make a friend of every man in it with whom one could be friendly, because i wished to be as powerful as possible, so that the men would side with me whenever i put my foot down on something wrong." "do you ever tell the ward how they are to vote?" "i tell them my views. but never how to vote. once i came very near it, though." "how was that?" "i was laid up for eight months by my eyes, part of the time in paris. the primary in the meantime had put up a pretty poor man for an office. a fellow who had been sentenced for murder, but had been pardoned by political influence. when i was able to take a hand, i felt that i could do better by interfering, so i came out for the republican candidate, who was a really fine fellow. i tried to see and talk to every man in the ward, and on election day i asked a good many men, as a personal favor, to vote for the republican, and my friends asked others. even dennis moriarty worked and voted for what he calls a 'dirty republican,' though he said 'he never thought he'd soil his hands wid one av their ballots.' that is the nearest i ever came to telling them how to vote." "and did they do as you asked?" "the only republican the ward has chosen since was elected in that year. it was a great surprise to every one--even to myself--for the ward is democratic by about four thousand majority. but i couldn't do that sort of thing often, for the men wouldn't stand it. in other words, i can only do what i want myself, by doing enough else that the men wish. that is, the more i can do to please the men, the more they yield their opinions to mine." "then the bosses really can't do what they want?" "no. or at least not for long. that is a newspaper fallacy. a relic of the old idea that great things are done by one-man power. if you will go over the men who are said to control--the bosses, as they are called--in this city, you will find that they all have worked their way into influence slowly, and have been many years kept in power, though they could be turned out in a single fight. yet this power is obtained only by the wish of a majority, for the day they lose the consent of a majority of the voters that day their power ends. we are really more dependent than the representatives, for they are elected for a certain time, while our tenure can be ended at any moment. why am i a power in my ward? because i am supposed to represent a given number of votes, which are influenced by my opinions. it would be perfectly immaterial to my importance how i influenced those votes, so long as i could control them. but because i can influence them, the other leaders don't dare to antagonize me, and so i can have my way up to a certain point. and because i can control the ward i have made it a great power in city politics." "how did you do that?" "by keeping down the factional feeling. you see there are always more men struggling for power or office, than can have it, and so there cannot but be bad blood between the contestants. for instance, when i first became interested in politics, moriarty and blunkers were quite as anxious to down each other as to down the republicans. now they are sworn friends, made so in this case, by mere personal liking for me. some have been quieted in this way. others by being held in check. still others by different means. each man has to be studied and understood, and the particular course taken which seems best in his particular case. but i succeeded even with some who were pretty bitter antagonists at first, and from being one of the most uncertain wards in the city, the sixth has been known at headquarters for the last five years as 'old reliability' from the big majority it always polls. so at headquarters i am looked up to and consulted. now do you understand why and what a boss is?" "yes, peter. except why bosses are bad." "don't you see that it depends on what kind of men they are, and what kind of voters are back of them. a good man, with honest votes back of him, is a good boss, and _vice versa_." "then i know you are a good boss. it's a great pity that all the bosses can't be good?" "i have not found them so bad. they are quite as honest, unselfish, and reasonable as the average of mankind. now and then there is a bad man, as there is likely to be anywhere. but in my whole political career, i have never known a man who could control a thousand votes for five years, who was not a better man, all in all, than the voters whom he influenced. more one cannot expect. the people are not quick, but they find out a knave or a demagogue if you give them time." "it's the old saying; 'you can fool all of the people, some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time,'" laughed a voice. peter took his eyes off leonore's face, where they had been resting restfully, and glanced up. watts had entered the room. "go on," said watts. "don't let me interrupt your political disquisitions; i have only come in for a cup of tea." "miss d'alloi and i were merely discussing bosses," said peter. "miss d'alloi, when women get the ballot, as i hope they will, i trust you will be a good boss, for i am sure you will influence a great many votes." "oh!" said leonore, laughing, "i shan't be a boss at all. you'll be my boss, i think, and i'll always vote for you." peter thought the day even more glorious than he had before. chapter xlvi. the better element. the evening after this glorious day, peter came in from his ride, but instead of going at once to his room, he passed down a little passage, and stood in a doorway. "is everything going right, jenifer?" he queried. "yissah!" "the flowers came from thorley's?" "yissah!" "and the candies and ices from maillard?" "yissah!" "and you've _frappé_ the champagne?" "yissah?" "jenifer, don't put quite so much onion juice as usual in the queen isabella dressing. ladies don't like it as much as men." "yissah!" "and you stood the burgundy in the sun?" "yissah! wha foh yo' think i doan do as i ginl'y do?" jenifer was combining into a stuffing bread crumbs, chopped broiled oysters, onions, and many other mysterious ingredients, and was becoming irritated at such evident doubt of his abilities. peter ought to have been satisfied, but he only looked worried. he glanced round the little closet that served as a kitchen, in search of possible sources for slips, but did not see them. all he was able to say was, "that broth smells very nice, jenifer." "yissah. dar ain't nuffin in dat sup buh a quart a thick cream, and de squeezin's of a hunerd clams, sah. dat sup will make de angels sorry dey died. dey'll just tink you'se dreful unkine not to offer dem a secon' help. buh doan yo' do it, sah, foh when dey gits to dem prayhens, dey'll be pow'ful glad yo' didn't." to himself, jenifer remarked: "who he gwine hab dis day? he neber so anxious befoh, not even when de presidint an guv'nor pohter dey dun dine hyah." peter went to his room and, after a due course of clubbing and tubbing, dressed himself with the utmost care. truth compels the confession that he looked in his glass for some minutes. not, however, apparently with much pleasure, for an anxious look came into his face, and he remarked aloud, as he turned away, "i don't look so old, but i once heard watts say that i should never take a prize for my looks, and he was right. i wonder if she cares for handsome men?" peter forgot his worry in the opening of a box in the dining-room and the taking out of the flowers. he placed the bunches at the different places, raising one of the bouquets of violets to his lips, before he laid it down. then he took the cut flowers, and smilax, and spread them loosely in the centre of the little table, which otherwise had nothing on it, except the furnishings placed at each seat. after that he again kissed a bunch of violets. history doesn't state whether it was the same bunch. peter must have been very fond of flowers! "peter," called a voice. "is that you, le grand? go right into my room." "i've done that already. you see i feel at home. how are you?" he continued, as peter joined him in the study. "as always." "i thought i would run in early, so as to have a bit of you before the rest. peter, here's a letter from muller. he's got that 'descent' in its first state, in the most brilliant condition. you had better get it, and trash your present impression. it has always looked cheap beside the rest." "very well. will you attend to it?" just then came the sound of voices and the rustle of draperies in the little hall. "hello! ladies?" said le grand. "this is to be one of what lispenard calls your 'often, frequently, only once' affairs, is it?" "i'm afraid we are early," said mrs. d'alloi. "we did not know how much time to allow." "no. such old friends cannot come too soon." "and as it is, i'm really starved," said another personage, shaking hands with peter as if she had not seen him for a twelve-month instead of parting with him but two hours before. "what an appetite riding in the park does give one! especially when afterwards you drive, and drive, and drive, over new york stones." "ah," cried madame. "_c'est tres bien_!" "isn't it jolly?" responded leonore. "but it is not american. it is parisian." "oh, no, it isn't! it's all american. isn't it, peter?" but peter was telling jenifer to hasten the serving of dinner. so leonore had to fight her country's battles by herself. "what's all this to-day's papers are saying, peter?" asked watts, as soon as they were seated. "that's rather a large subject even for a slow dinner." "i mean about the row in the democratic organization over the nomination for governor?" "the papers seem to know more about it than i do," said peter calmly. le grand laughed. "miss de voe, ogden, rivington--all of us, have tried to get peter, first and last, to talk politics, but not a fact do we get. they say it's his ability to hold his tongue which made costell trust him and push him, and that that was the reason he was chosen to fill costells place." "_i_ don't fill his place," said peter. "no one can do that. i merely succeeded him. and miss d'alloi will tell you that the papers calling me 'taciturnity junior' is a libel. am i not a talker, miss d'alloi?" "_i_ really can't find out," responded leonore, with a puzzled look. "people say you are not." "i didn't think you would fail me after the other night." "ah," said madame. "the quiet men are the great men. look at the french." "oh, madame!" exclaimed leonore. "you are joking" cried mrs. d'alloi. "that's delicious," laughed watts. "whew," said le grand, under his breath. "ah! why do you cry out? mr. stirling, am i not right?" madame appealed to the one face on which no amusement or skepticism was shown. "i think it is rather dangerous to ascribe any particular trait to any nationality. it is usually misleading. but most men who think much, talk little, and the french have many thinkers" "i always liked von moltke, just for it being said of him that he could be silent in seven languages," said le grand. "yes," said leonore. "it's so restful. we crossed on the steamer with a french marquis who can speak six languages, and can't say one thing worth listening to in any." peter thought the soup all jenifer had cracked it up to be. "peter," said leonore, turning to him, "mr. le grand said that you never will talk politics with anybody. that doesn't include me, of course?" "no," said peter promptly. "i thought it didn't," said leonore, her eyes dancing with pleasure, however, at the reply. "we had mr. pell to lunch to-day and i spoke to him as to what you said about the bosses, and he told me that bosses could never be really good, unless the better element were allowed to vote, and not the saloon-keepers and roughs. i could see he was right, at once." "from his point of view. or rather the view of his class." "don't you think so?" "no." "why not?" "broadly speaking, all persons of sound mind are entitled to vote on the men and the laws which are to govern them. aside from this, every ounce of brain or experience you can add to the ballot, makes it more certain. suppose you say that half the people are too ignorant to vote sensibly. don't you see that there is an even chance, at least, that they'll vote rightly, and if the wrong half carries the election, it is because more intelligent people have voted wrongly, have not voted, or have not taken the trouble to try and show the people the right way, but have left them to the mercies of the demagogue. if we grant that every man who takes care of himself has some brain, and some experience, his vote is of some value, even if not a high one. suppose we have an eagle, and a thousand pennies. are we any better off by tossing away the coppers, because each is worth so little. that is why i have always advocated giving the franchise to women. if we can add ten million voters to an election, we have added just so much knowledge to it, and made it just so much the harder to mislead or buy enough votes to change results." "you evidently believe," said watts, "in the saying, 'everybody knows more than anybody?'" peter had forgotten all about his company in his interest over--over the franchise. so he started slightly at this question, and looked up from--from his subject. "yes," said le grand. "we've been listening and longing to ask questions. when we see such a fit of loquacity, we want to seize the opportunity." "no," said leonore, "i haven't finished. tell me. can't you make the men do what you want, so as to have them choose only the best men?" "if i had the actual power i would not," said peter. "why?" "because i would not dare to become responsible for so much, and because a government of the 'best' men is not an american government." "why not?" "that is the aristocratic idea. that the better element, so called, shall compel the masses to be good, whether they wish it or no. just as one makes a child behave without regard to its own desires. with grown men, such a system only results in widening the distance between the classes and masses, making the latter more dependent and unthinking. whereas, if we make every man vote he must think a little for himself, because different people advise him contrarily, and thus we bring him nearer to the more educated. he even educates himself by his own mistakes; for every bad man elected, and every bad law passed, make him suffer the results, and he can only blame himself. of course we don't get as good a government or laws, but then we have other offsetting advantages." "what are those?" "we get men and laws which are the wish of the majority. such are almost self-supporting and self-administering. it is not a mere combination of words, printing-ink, and white paper which makes a law. it is the popular sentiment back of it which enforces it, and unless a law is the wish of a majority of the people who are to be governed by it, it is either a dead letter, or must be enforced by elaborate police systems, supported oftentimes with great armies. even then it does not succeed, if the people choose to resist. look at the attempt to govern ireland by force, in the face of popular sentiment. then, too, we get a stability almost unknown in governments which do not conform to the people. this country has altered its system of government less than any other great country in the last hundred years. and there is less socialistic legislation and propaganda here than anywhere else. that is, less discontent." "but, peter, if the american people are as sensible as you think, how do you account for the kind of men who exercise control?" said le grand. "by better men not trying." "but we have reform movements all the time, led by good men. why aren't these men elected?" "who are as absolutely inexperienced and blind as to the way to influence votes, as well can be. look at it, as a contest, without regard to the merit of the cause. on one side we have bosses, who know and understand the men in their wards, have usually made themselves popular, are in politics for a living, have made it a life-study, and by dear experience have learned that they must surrender their own opinions in order to produce harmony and a solid vote. the reformer, on the contrary, is usually a man who has other occupations, and, if i may say so, has usually met with only partial success in them. by that i mean that the really successful merchant, or banker, or professional man cannot take time to work in politics, and so only the less successful try. each reformer, too, is sure that he himself is right, and as his bread and butter is not in the issue, he quarrels to his heart's content with his associates, so that they rarely can unite all their force. most of the reform movements in this city have been attempted in a way that is simply laughable. what should we say if a hundred busy men were to get together to-morrow, and decide that they would open a great bank, to fight the clearing-house banks of new york? yet this, in effect, is what the reformers have done over and over again in politics. they say to the men who have been kept in power for years by the people, 'you are scoundrels. the people who elected you are ignorant we know how to do it better. now we'll turn you out.' in short, they tell the majority they are fools, but ask their votes. the average reformer endorses thoroughly the theory 'that every man is as good as another, and a little better.' and he himself always is the better man. the people won't stand that. the 'holier than thou' will defeat a man quicker in this country than will any rascality he may have done." "but don't you think the reformer is right in principle?" "in nine cases out of ten. but politics does not consist in being right. it's in making other people think you are. men don't like to be told that they are ignorant and wrong, and this assumption is the basis of most of the so-called educational campaigns. to give impetus to a new movement takes immense experience, shrewdness, tact, and many other qualities. the people are obstructive--that is conservative--in most things, and need plenty of time." "unless _you_ tell them what they are to do," laughed watts. "then they know quick enough." "well, that has taken them fifteen years to learn. don't you see how absurd it is to suppose that the people are going to take the opinions of the better element off-hand? at the end of a three months' campaign? men have come into my ward and spoken to empty halls; they've flooded it with campaign literature, which has served to light fires; their papers have argued, and nobody read them. but the ward knows me. there's hardly a voter who doesn't. they've tested me. most of them like me. i've lived among them for years. i've gone on their summer excursions. i've talked with them all over the district. i have helped them in their troubles. i have said a kind word over their dead. i'm godfather to many. with others i've stood shoulder to shoulder when the bullets were flying. why, the voters who were children when i first came here, with whom i use to sit in the angle, are almost numerous enough now to carry an election as i advise. do you suppose, because speakers, unknown to them, say i'm wrong, and because the three-cent papers, which they never see, abuse me, that they are going to turn from me unless i make them? that is the true secret of the failure of reformers. a logical argument is all right in a court of appeals, but when it comes to swaying five thousand votes, give me five thousand loving hearts rather than five thousand logical reasons." "yet you have carried reforms." "i have tried, but always in a practical way. that is, by not antagonizing the popular men in politics, but by becoming one of them and making them help me. i have gained political power by recognizing that i could only have my own way by making it suit the voters. you see there are a great many methods of doing about the same thing. and the boss who does the most things that the people want, can do the most things that the people don't want. every time i have surrendered my own wishes, and done about what the people desire, i have added to my power, and so have been able to do something that the people or politicians do not care about or did not like." "and as a result you are called all sorts of names." "yes. the papers call me a boss. if the voters didn't agree with me, they would call me a reformer." "but, peter," said le grand, "would you not like to see such a type of man as george william curtis in office?" "mr. curtis probably stood for the noblest political ideas this country has ever produced. but he held a beacon only to a small class. a man who writes from an easy-chair, will only sway easy-chair people. and easy-chair people never carried an election in this country, and never will. this country cannot have a government of the best. it will always be a government of the average. mr. curtis was only a leader to his own grade, just as tim sullivan is the leader of his. mr. curtis, in his editorials, spoke the feelings of one element in america. sullivan, in germania hall, voices another. each is representative, the one of five per cent. of new york; the other of ninety-five per cent. if the american people have decided one thing, it is that they will not be taken care of, nor coercively ruled, by their better element, or minorities." "yet you will acknowledge that curtis ought to rule, rather than sullivan?" "not if our government is to be representative. i need not say that i wish such a type as mr. curtis was representative." "i suppose if he had tried to be a boss he would have failed?" "i think so. for it requires as unusual a combination of qualities to be a successful boss, as to be a successful merchant or banker. yet one cannot tell. i myself have never been able to say what elements make a boss, except that he must be in sympathy with the men whom he tries to guide, and that he must be meeting them. mr. curtis had a broad, loving nature and sympathies, and if the people had discovered them, they would have liked him. but the reserve which comes with culture makes one largely conceal one's true feelings. super-refinement puts a man out of sympathy with much that is basic in humanity, and it needs a great love, or a great sacrifice of feeling, to condone it. it is hard work for what watts calls a tough, and such a man, to understand and admire one another." "but don't you think," said mrs. d'alloi, "that the people of our class are better and finer?" "the expression 'noblesse oblige' shows that," said madame. "my experience has led me to think otherwise," said peter. "of course there is a difference of standards, of ideals, and of education, in people, and therefore there are differences in conduct. but for their knowledge of what is right and wrong, i do not think the so-called better classes, which should, in truth, be called the prosperous classes, live up to their own standards of right any more than do the poor." "oh, i say, draw it mild. at least exclude the criminal classes," cried watts. "they know better." "we all know better. but we don't live up to our knowledge. i crossed on one of the big atlantic liners lately, with five hundred other saloon passengers. they were naturally people of intelligence, and presumably of easy circumstances. yet at least half of those people were plotting to rob our government of money by contriving plans to avoid paying duties truly owed. to do this all of them had to break our laws, and in most cases had, in addition, to lie deliberately. many of them were planning to accomplish this theft by the bribery of the custom-house inspectors, thus not merely making thieves of themselves, but bribing other men to do wrong. in this city i can show you blocks so densely inhabited that they are election districts in themselves. blocks in which twenty people live and sleep in a single room, year after year; where the birth of a little life into the world means that all must eat less and be less warm; where man and woman, old and young, must shiver in winter, and stifle in summer; where there is not room to bury the people who live in the block within the ground on which they dwell. but i cannot find you, in the poorest and vilest parts of this city, any block where the percentage of liars and thieves and bribe-givers is as large as was that among the first-class passengers of that floating palace. each condition of society has its own mis-doings, and i believe varies little in the percentage of wrong-doers to the whole." "to hear peter talk you would think the whole of us ought to be sentenced to life terms," laughed watts. "i believe it's only an attempt on his part to increase the practice of lawyers." "do you really think people are so bad, peter?" asked leonore, sadly. "no. i have not, ten times in my life, met a man whom i should now call bad. i have met men whom i thought so, but when i knew them better i found the good in them more than balancing the evil. our mistake is in supposing that some men are 'good' and others 'bad,' and that a sharp line can be drawn between them. the truth is, that every man has both qualities in him and in very few does the evil overbalance the good. i marvel at the goodness i find in humanity, when i see the temptation and opportunity there is to do wrong." "some men are really depraved, though," said mrs. d'alloi. "yes," said madame. "think of those strikers!" peter felt a thrill of pleasure pass through him, but he did not show it. "let me tell you something in connection with that. a high light in place of a dark shadow. there was an attempt to convict some of the strikers, but it failed, for want of positive evidence. the moral proof, however, against a fellow named connelly was so strong that there could be no doubt that he was guilty. two years later that man started out in charge of a long express, up a seven-mile grade, where one of our railroads crosses the alleghanies. by the lay of the land every inch of that seven miles of track can be seen throughout its entire length, and when he had pulled half way up, he saw a section of a freight train coming down the grade at a tremendous speed. a coupling had broken, and this part of the train was without a man to put on the brakes. to go on was death. to stand still was the same. no speed which he could give his train by backing would enable it to escape those uncontrolled cars. he sent his fireman back to the first car, with orders to uncouple the engine. he whistled 'on brakes' to his train, so that it should be held on the grade safely. and he, and the engine alone, went on up that grade, and met that flying mass of freight. he saved two hundred people's lives. yet that man, two years before, had tried to burn alive forty of his fellow-men. was that man good or bad?" "really, chum, if you ask it as a conundrum, i give it up. but there are thoroughly and wholly good things in this world, and one of them is this stuffing. would it be possible for a fellow to have a second help?" peter smiled. "jenifer always makes the portions according to what is to follow, and i don't believe he'll think you had better. jenifer, can mr. d'alloi have some more stuffing?" "yissah," said jenifer, grinning the true darkey grin, "if de gentmun want't sell his ap'tite foh a mess ob potash." "never mind," said watts. "i'm not a dyspeptic, and so don't need potash. but you might wrap the rest up in a piece of newspaper, and i'll take it home." "peter, you must have met a great many men in politics whom you knew to be dishonest?" said mrs. d'alloi. "no. i have known few men whom i could call dishonest. but then i make a great distinction between the doer of a dishonest act and a dishonest man." "that is what the english call 'a fine-spun' distinction, i think," said madame. "i hope not. a dishonest man i hold to be one who works steadily and persistently with bad means and motives. but there are many men whose lives tell far more for good than for evil in the whole, yet who are not above doing wrong at moments or under certain circumstances. this man will lie under given conditions of temptations. another will bribe, if the inducement is strong enough. a third will merely trick. almost every man has a weak spot somewhere. yet why let this one weakness--a partial moral obliquity or imperfection--make us cast him aside as useless and evil. as soon say that man physically is spoiled, because he is near-sighted, lame or stupid. if we had our choice between a new, bright, keen tool, or a worn, dull one, of poor material, we should not hesitate which to use. but if we only have the latter, how foolish to refuse to employ it as we may, because we know there are in the world a few better ones." "is not condoning a man's sins, by failing to blame him, direct encouragement to them?" said mrs. d'alloi. "one need not condone the sin. my rule has been, in politics, or elsewhere, to fight dishonesty wherever i found it. but i try to fight the act, not the man. and if i find the evil doer beyond hope of correction, i do not antagonize the doer of it. more can be done by amity and forbearance than by embittering and alienating. man is not bettered by being told that he is bad. i had an alderman in here three or four days ago who was up to mischief. i could have called him a scoundrel, without telling him untruth. but i didn't. i told him what i thought was right, in a friendly way, and succeeded in straightening him out, so that he dropped his intention, yet went away my friend. if i had quarrelled with him, we should have parted company, he would have done the wrong, i should have fought him when election time came--and defeated him. but he, and probably fifty of his adherents in the ward would have become my bitter enemies, and opposed everything i tried in the future. if i quarrelled with enough such men, i should in time entirely lose my influence in the ward, or have it generally lessened. but by dealing as a friend with him, i actually prevented his doing what he intended, and we shall continue to work together. of course a man can be so bad that this course is impossible, but they are as few in politics as they are elsewhere." "taciturnity stirling in his great circus feat of riding a whole ward at once," said watts. "i don't claim that i'm right," said peter. "i once thought very differently. i started out very hotly as a reformer when i began life. but i have learned that humanity is not reformed with a club, and that if most people gave the energy they spend in reforming the world, or their friends, to reforming themselves, there would be no need of reformers." "the old english saying that 'people who can't mind their own business invariably mind some one's else,' seems applicable," said watts. "but is it not very humiliating to you to have to be friends with such men?" said mrs. d'alloi. "you know mr. drewitt?" asked peter. "yes," said all but madame. "do you take pleasure in knowing him?" "of course," said watts. "he's very amusing and a regular parlor pet." "that is the reason i took him. for ten years that man was notoriously one of the worst influences in new york state politics. at albany, in the interest of a great corporation, he was responsible for every job and bit of lobbying done in its behalf. i don't mean to say that he really bribed men himself, for he had lieutenants for the actual dirty work, but every dollar spent passed through his hands, and he knew for what purpose it was used. at the end of that time, so well had he done his work, that he was made president of the corporation. because of that position, and because he is clever, new york society swallowed him and has ever since delighted to fête him. i find it no harder to shake hands and associate with the men he bribed, than you do to shake hands and associate with the man who gave the bribe." "even supposing the great breweries, and railroads, and other interests to be chiefly responsible for bribery, that makes it all the more necessary to elect men above the possibility of being bribed," said le grand. "why not do as they do in parliament? elect only men of such high character and wealth, that money has no temptation for them." "the rich man is no better than the poor man, except that in place of being bribed by other men's money, he allows his own money to bribe him. look at the course of the house of lords on the corn-laws. the slave-holders' course on secession. the millionaire silver senators' course on silver. the one was willing to make every poor man in england pay a half more for his bread than need be, in order that land might rent for higher prices. the slave-owner was willing to destroy his own country, rather than see justice done. the last are willing to force a great commercial panic, ruining hundreds and throwing thousands out of employment, if they can only get a few cents more per ounce for their silver. were they voting honestly in the interest of their fellow-men? or were their votes bribed?" mrs. d'alloi rose, saying, "peter. we came early and we must go early. i'm afraid we've disgraced ourselves both ways." peter went down with them to their carriage. he said to leonore in the descent, "i'm afraid the politics were rather dull to you. i lectured because i wanted to make some things clear to you." "why?" questioned leonore. "because, in the next few months you'll see a great deal about bosses in the papers, and i don't want you to think so badly of us as many do." "i shan't think badly of you, peter," said leonore, in the nicest tone. "thank you," said peter. "and if you see things said of me that trouble you, will you ask me about them?" "yes. but i thought you wouldn't talk politics?" "i will talk with you, because, you know, friends must tell each other everything." when leonore had settled back in the carriage for the long drive, she cogitated: "mr. le grand said that he and miss de voe, and mr. ogden had all tried to get peter to talk about politics, but that he never would. yet, he's known them for years, and is great friends with them. it's very puzzling!" probably leonore was thinking of american politics. chapter xlvii. the blue-peter. leonore's puzzle went on increasing in complexity, but there is a limit to all intricacy, and after a time leonore began to get an inkling of the secret. she first noticed that peter seemed to spend an undue amount of time with her. he not merely turned up in the park daily, but they were constantly meeting elsewhere. leonore went to a gallery. there was peter! she went to a concert. ditto, peter! she visited the flower-show. so did peter! she came out of church. behold peter! in each case with nothing better to do than to see her home. at first leonore merely thought these meetings were coincidences, but their frequency soon ended this theory, and then leonore noticed that peter had a habit of questioning her about her plans beforehand, and of evidently shaping his accordingly. nor was this all. peter seemed to be constantly trying to get her to spend time with him. though the real summer was fast coming, he had another dinner. he had a box at the theatre. he borrowed a drag from mr. pell, and took them all up for a lunch at mrs. costell's in westchester. then nothing would do but to have another drive, ending in a dinner at the country club. flowers, too, seemed as frequent as their meetings. peter had always smiled inwardly at bribing a girl's love with flowers and bon-bons, but he had now discovered that flowers are just the thing to send a girl, if you love her, and that there is no bribing about it. so none could be too beautiful and costly for his purse. then leonore wanted a dog--a mastiff. the legal practice of the great firm and the politics of the city nearly stopped till the finest of its kind had been obtained for her. another incriminating fact came to her through dorothy. "i had a great surprise to-day," she told leonore. "one that fills me with delight, and that will please you." "what is that?" "peter asked me at dinner, if we weren't to have anneke's house at newport for the summer, and when i said 'yes,' he told me that if i would save a room for him, he would come down friday nights and stay over sunday, right through the summer. he has been a simply impossible man hitherto to entice into a visit. ray and i felt like giving three cheers." "he seemed glad enough to be invited to visit grey-court," thought leonore. but even without all this, peter carried the answer to the puzzle about with him in his own person. leonore could not but feel the difference in the way he treated, and talked, and looked at her, as compared to all about her. it is true he was no more demonstrative, than with others; his face held its quiet, passive look, and he spoke in much the usual, quiet, even tone of voice. yet leonore was at first dimly conscious, and later certain, that there was a shade of eagerness in his manner, a tenderness in his voice, and a look in his eye, when he was with her, that was there in the presence of no one else. so leonore ceased to puzzle over the problem at a given point, having found the answer. but the solving did not bring her much apparent pleasure. "oh, dear!" she remarked to herself. "i thought we were going to be such good friends! that we could tell each other everything. and now he's gone and spoiled it. probably, too, he'll be bothering me later, and then he'll be disappointed, and cross, and we shan't be good friends any more. oh, dear! why do men have to behave so? why can't they just be friends?" it is a question which many women have asked. the query indicates a degree of modesty which should make the average masculine blush at his own self-love. the best answer to the problem we can recommend to the average woman is a careful and long study of a mirror. as a result of this cogitation leonore decided that she would nip peter's troublesomeness in the bud, that she would put up a sign, "trespassing forbidden;" by which he might take warning. many women have done the same thing to would-be lovers, and have saved the lovers much trouble and needless expense. but leonore, after planning out a dialogue in her room, rather messed it when she came to put it into actual public performance. few girls of eighteen are cool over a love-affair. and so it occurred thusly: leonore said to peter one day, when he had dropped in for a cup of afternoon tea after his ride with her: "if i ask you a question, i wonder if you will tell me what you think, without misunderstanding why i tell you something?" "i will try." "well," said leonore, "there is a very nice englishman whom i knew in london, who has followed me over here, and is troubling me. he's dreadfully poor, and papa says he thinks he is after my money. do you think that can be so?" so far the public performance could not have gone better if it had been rehearsed. but at this point, the whole programme went to pieces. peter's cup of tea fell to the floor with a crash, and he was leaning back in his chair, with a look of suffering on his face. "peter," cried leonore, "what is it?" "excuse me," said peter, rallying a little. "ever since an operation on my eyes they sometimes misbehave themselves. it's neuralgia of the optic nerve. sometimes it pains me badly. don't mind me. it will be all right in a minute if i'm quiet." "can't i do anything?" "no. i have an eye-wash which i used to carry with me, but it is so long since i have had a return of my trouble that i have stopped carrying it." "what causes it?" "usually a shock. it's purely nervous." "but there was no shock now, was there?" said leonore, feeling so guilty that she felt it necessary to pretend innocence. peter pulled himself together instantly and, leaning over, began deliberately to gather up the fragments of the cup. then he laid the pieces on the tea-table and said: "i was dreadfully frightened when i felt the cup slipping. it was very stupid in me. will you try to forgive me for breaking one of your pretty set?" "that's nothing," said leonore. to herself that young lady remarked, "oh, dear! it's much worse than i thought. i shan't dare say it to him, after all" but she did, for peter helped her, by going back to her original question, saying bravely: "i don't know enough about mr. max ---- the englishman, to speak of him, but i think i would not suspect men of that, even if they are poor." "why not?" "because it would be much easier, to most men, to love you than to love your money." "you think so?" "yes." "i'm so glad. i felt so worried over it. not about this case, for i don't care for him, a bit. but i wondered if i had to suspect every man who came near me." peter's eyes ceased to burn, and his second cup of tea, which a moment before was well-nigh choking him, suddenly became nectar for the gods. then at last leonore made the remark towards which she had been working. at twenty-five leonore would have been able to say it without so dangerous a preamble. "i don't want to be bothered by men, and wish they would let me alone," she said. "i haven't the slightest intention of marrying for at least five years, and shall say no to whomever asks me before then,"' five years! peter sipped his tea quietly, but with a hopeless feeling. he would like to claim that bit of womanhood as his own that moment, and she could talk of five years! it was the clearest possible indication to peter that leonore was heart-whole. "no one, who is in love," he thought, "could possibly talk of five years, or five months even." when peter got back to his chambers that afternoon, he was as near being despairing as he had been since--since--a long time ago. even the obvious fact, that, if leonore was not in love with him, she was also not in love with any one else, did not cheer him. there is a flag in the navy known as the blue-peter. that evening, peter could have supplied our whole marine, with considerable bunting to spare. but even worse was in store for him on the morrow. when he joined leonore in the park that day, she proved to him that woman has as much absolute brutality as the lowest of prize-fighters. women get the reputation of being less brutal, because of their dread of blood-letting. yet when it comes to torturing the opposite sex in its feelings, they are brutes compared with their sufferers. "do you know," said leonore, "that this is almost our last ride together?" "don't jerk the reins needlessly, peter," said mutineer, crossly. "i hope not," said peter. "we have changed our plans. instead of going to newport next week, i have at last persuaded papa to travel a little, so that i can see something of my own country, and not be so shamefully ignorant. we are going to washington on saturday, and from there to california, and then through the yellowstone, and back by niagara. we shan't be in newport till the middle of august" peter did not die at once. he caught at a life-preserver of a most delightful description. "that will be a very enjoyable trip," he said. "i should like to go myself." "there is no one i would rather have than you," said leonore, laying her little hand softly on the wound she had herself just made, in a way which women have. then she stabbed again. "but we think it pleasanter to have it just a party of four." "how long shall you be in washington?" asked peter, catching wildly at a straw this time. "for a week. why?" "the president has been wanting to see me, and i thought i might run down next week," '"dear me," thought leonore. "how very persistent he is!" "where will you put up?" said peter. "we haven't decided. where shall you stay?" she had the brutality to ask. "the president wants me with him, but i may go to a hotel. it leaves one so much freer." peter was a lawyer, and saw no need of committing himself. "if i am there when you are, i can perhaps help you enjoy yourself. i think i can get you a lunch at the white house, and, as i know most of the officials, i have an open sesame to some other nice things." poor peter! he was trying to tempt leonore to tolerate his company by offering attractions in connection therewith. a chromo with the pound of tea. and this from the man who had thought flowers and bon-bons bribery! "why does the president want to see you?" "to talk politics." "about the governorship?" "yes. though we don't say so." "is it true, peter, that you can decide who it is to be as the papers say?" "no, i would give twenty-five thousand dollars to-day if i could name the democratic nominee." "why?" "would you mind my not telling you?" "yes. i want to know. and you are to tell me," said her majesty, calmly. "i will tell you, though it is a secret, if you will tell me a secret of yours which i want to know." "no," said leonore. "i don't think that's necessary. you are to tell me without making me promise anything." leonore might deprecate a man's falling in love with her, but she had no objection to the power and perquisites it involved. "then i shan't tell you," said peter, making a tremendous rally. leonore looked out from under her lashes to see just how much of peter's sudden firmness was real and how much pretence. then she became unconscious of his presence. peter said something. silence. peter said something else. silence. "are you really so anxious to know?" he asked, surrendering without terms. he had a glorious look at those glorious eyes. "yes," said the dearest of all mouths. "the great panic," said peter, "has led to the formation of a so-called labor party, and, from present indications, they are going to nominate a bad man. now, there is a great attempt on foot to get the democratic convention to endorse whomever the labor party nominates." "who will that be?'" "a stephen maguire." "and you don't want him?" "no. i have never crossed his path without finding him engaged in something discreditable. but he's truckled himself into a kind of popularity and power, and, having always been 'a democrat,' he hopes to get the party to endorse him." "can't you order the convention not to do it?" peter smiled down into the eyes. "we don't order men in this country with any success." "but can't you prevent them?" "i hope so. but it looks now as if i should have to do it in a way very disagreeable to myself." "how?" "this is a great secret, you understand?" "yes," said leonore, all interest and eagerness. "i can keep a secret splendidly." "you are sure?" asked peter. "sure." "so can i," said peter. leonore perfectly bristled with indignation. "i won't be treated so," she said. "are you going to tell me?" she put on her severest manner. "no," said peter. "he is obstinate," thought leonore to herself. then aloud she said: "then i shan't be friends any more?" "that is very nice," said peter, soberly. "what?" said leonore, looking at him in surprise. "i have come to the conclusion," said peter, "that there is no use in our trying to be friends. so we had better give up at once. don't you think so?" "what a pretty horse miss winthrop has?" said leonore. and she never obtained an answer to her question, nor answered peter's. chapter xlviii. a mutineer. after peter's return from washington, there was a settled gloom about him positively appalling. he could not be wooed, on any plea, by his closest friends, to journey up-town into the social world. he failed entirely to avail himself of the room in the rivington's newport villa, though dorothy wrote appealingly, and cited his own words to him. even to his partners he became almost silent, except on law matters. jenifer found that no delicacy, however rare or however well cooked and served, seemed to be noticed any more than if it was mess-pork. the only moments that this atmosphere seemed to yield at all was when peter took a very miscellaneous collection of rubbish out of a little sachet, meant for handkerchiefs, which he now carried in his breast-pocket, and touched the various articles to his lips. then for a time he would look a little less suicidal. but it was astonishing the amount of work he did, the amount of reading he got through, the amount of politics he bossed, and the cigars he smoked, between the first of june, and the middle of august the party-leaders had come to the conclusion that peter did not intend to take a hand in this campaign, but, after his return from washington, they decided otherwise. "the president must have asked him to interfere," was their whispered conclusion, "but it's too late now. it's all cut and dried." peter found, as this remark suggested, that his two months' devotion to the dearest of eyes and sweetest of lips, had had serious results. as with mutineer once, he had dropped his bridle, but there was no use in uttering, as he had, then, the trisyllable which had reduced the horse to order. he had a very different kind of a creature with which to deal, than a kentucky gentleman of lengthy lineage, a creature called sometimes a "tiger." yet curiously enough, the same firm voice, and the same firm manner, and a "mutineer," though this time a man instead of a horse, was effective here. all new york knew that something had been done, and wanted to know what, there was not a newspaper in the city that would have refused to give five thousand dollars for an authentic stenographic report of what actually was said in a space of time not longer than three hours in all. indeed, so intensely were people interested, that several papers felt called upon to fabricate and print most absurd versions of what did occur, all the accounts reaching conclusions as absolutely different as the press portraits of celebrities. from three of them it is a temptation to quote the display headlines or "scare-heads," which ushered these reports to the world. the first read: "the bosses at war!" * * * * * "hot words and looks." * * * * * "but they'll crawl later." "there's beauty in the bellow of the blast, there's grandeur in the growling of the gale; but there's eloquence-appalling, when stirling is aroaring, and the tiger's getting modest with his tail" that was a republican account. the second was: "maguire on top!" * * * * * "the old man is friendly. a peace-making dinner at the manhattan club. friends in council. labor and democracy shoulder to shoulder. a united front to the enemy." the third, printed in an insignificant little penny paper, never read and almost unknown by reading people, yet which had more city advertising than all the other papers put together, and a circulation to match the largest, announced: "taciturnity junior's" * * * * * "once more at the bat!" * * * * * "no more nonsense." * * * * * "he puts maguire out on third base." * * * * * "now play ball!" and unintelligible as this latter sounds, it was near enough the truth to suggest inspiration. but there is no need to reprint the article that followed, for now it is possible, for the first time, to tell what actually occurred; and this contribution should alone permit this work to rank, as no doubt it is otherwise fully qualified to, in the dullest class of all books, that of the historical novel. the facts are, that peter alighted from a hansom one evening, in the middle of july, and went into the manhattan club. he exchanged greetings with a number of men in the halls, and with more who came in while he was reading the evening papers. a man came up to him while he still read, and said: "well, stirling. reading about your own iniquity?" "no," said peter, rising and shaking hands. "i gave up reading about that ten years ago. life is too short." "pelton and webber were checking their respectability in the coat-room, as i came up. i suppose they are in the café." peter said nothing, but turned, and the two entered that room. peter shook hands with three men who were there, and they all drew up round one of the little tables. a good many men who saw that group, nudged each other, and whispered remarks. "a reporter from the _sun_ is in the strangers' room. mr. stirling, and asks to see you," said a servant. "i cannot see him," said peter, quietly. "but say to him that i may possibly have something to tell him about eleven o'clock." the four men at the table exchanged glances. "i can't imagine a newspaper getting an interview out of you, stirling," laughed one of them a little nervously. peter smiled. "very few of us are absolutely consistent. i can't imagine any of you, for instance, making a political mistake but perhaps you may some day." a pause of a curious kind came after this, which was only interrupted by the arrival of three more men. they all shook hands, and peter rang a bell. "what shall it be?" he asked. there was a moment's hesitation, and then one said. "order for us. you're host. just what you like." peter smiled. "thomas," he said, "bring us eight apollinaris cocktails." the men all laughed, and thomas said, "beg pardon, mr. stirling?" in a bewildered way. thomas had served the club many years, but he had never heard of that cocktail. "well, thomas," said peter, "if you don't have that in stock, make it seven blackthorns." then presently eight men packed themselves into the elevator, and a moment later were sitting in one of the private dining-rooms. for an hour and a half they chatted over the meal, very much as if it were nothing more than a social dinner. but the moment the servant had passed the cigars and light, and had withdrawn, the chat suddenly ceased, and a silence came for a moment then a man said: "it's a pity it can't please all, but the majority's got to rule." "yes," promptly said another, "this is really a maguire ratification meeting." "there's nothing else to do," affirmed a third. but a fourth said: "then what are we here for?" no one seemed to find an answer. after a moment's silence, the original speaker said: "it's the only way we can be sure of winning." "he gives us every pledge," echoed the second. "and we've agreed, anyways, so we are bound," continued the first speaker. peter took his cigar out of his mouth. "who are bound?" he asked, quietly. "why, the organization is--the party," said number two, with a "deny-it-if-you-dare" in his voice. "i don't see how we can back out now, stirling," said number one. "who wants to?" said another. "the labor party promises to support us on our local nominations, and maguire is not merely a democrat, but he gives us every pledge." "there's no good of talking of anything else anyhow," said number one, "for there will be a clean majority for maguire in the convention." "and no other candidate can poll fifty votes on the first ballot," said number two. then they all looked at peter, and became silent. peter puffed his cigar thoughtfully. "what do you say?" said number one. peter merely shook his head. "but i tell you it's done," cried one of the men, a little excitedly. "it's too late to backslide! we want to please you, stirling, but we can't this time. we must do what's right for the party." "i'm not letting my own feeling decide it," said peter. "i'm thinking of the party. for every vote the labor people give maguire, the support of that party will lose us a democratic vote." "but we can't win with a triangular fight. the republicans will simply walk over the course." if peter had been a hot-headed reformer, he would have said: "better that than that such a scoundrel shall win." but peter was a politician, and so saw no need of saying the unpleasantest thing that occurred to him, even if he felt it. instead, he said: "the labor party will get as many votes from the republicans as from us, and, for every vote the labor party takes from us, we shall get a republican vote, if we put up the right kind of a man." "nonsense," cried number one. "how do you figure that?" asked another. "in these panic times, the nomination of such a man as maguire, with his truckling to the lowest passions and his socialistic speeches, will frighten conservative men enough to make them break party lines, and unite on the most certain candidate. that will be ours." "but why risk it, when, with maguire, it's certain?" peter wanted to say: "maguire shall not be endorsed, and that ends it." instead, he said: "we can win with our own man, and don't need to trade with or endorse the labor party. we can elect maguire by the aid of the worst votes in this city, or we can elect our own man by the aid of the best. the one weakens our party in the future; the other strengthens it." "you think that possible?" asked the man who had sought information as to what they "were here for." "yes. the labor party makes a stir, but it wouldn't give us the oyster and be content with the shells if it really felt strong. see what it offers us. all the local and state ticket except six assemblymen, two senators, and a governor, tied hand and foot to us, whose proudest claim for years has been that he's a democrat." "but all this leaves out of sight the fact that the thing's done," said number one. peter puffed his cigar. "yes. it's too late. the polls are closed," said another. peter stopped puffing. "the convention hasn't met," he remarked, quietly. that remark, however, seemed to have a sting in it, for number two cried: "come. we've decided. now, put up or shut up. no more beating about the bush." peter puffed his cigar. "tell us what you intend, stirling," said number one. "we are committed beyond retreat. come in with us, or stay outside the breastworks." "perhaps," said peter, "since you've taken your own position, without consulting me, you will allow me the same privilege." "go to--where you please," said number six, crossly. peter puffed his cigar. "well, what do you intend to do?" asked number one. peter knocked the ash off his cigar. "you consider yourselves pledged to support maguire?" "yes. we are pledged," said four voices in unison. "so am i," said peter. "how?" "to oppose him," said peter. "but i tell you the majority of the convention is for him," said number one. "don't you believe me?" "yes." "then what good will your opposition do?" "it will defeat maguire." "no power on earth can do that." peter puffed his cigar. "you can't beat him in the convention, stirling. the delegates pledged to him, and those we can give him elect him on the first ballot." "how about november fourth?" asked peter. number one sprang to his feet. "you don't mean?" he cried. "never!" said number three. peter puffed his cigar. "come, stirling, say what you intend!" "i intend," said peter, "if the democratic convention endorses stephen maguire, to speak against him in every ward of this city, and ask every man in it, whom i can influence, to vote for the republican candidate." dead silence reigned. peter puffed his cigar. "you'll go back on the party?" finally said one, in awe-struck tones. "you'll be a traitor?" cried another. "i'd have believed anything but that you would be a dashed mugwump!" groaned the third. peter puffed his cigar. "say you are fooling?" begged number seven. "no," said peter, "nor am i more a traitor to my party than you. you insist on supporting the labor candidate and i shall support the republican candidate. we are both breaking our party." "we'll win," said number one. peter puffed his cigar. "i'm not so sure," said the gentleman of the previous questions. "how many votes can you hurt us, stirling?" "i don't know," peter looked very contented. "you can't expect to beat us single?" peter smiled quietly. "i haven't had time to see many men. but--i'm not single. bohlmann says the brewers will back me, hummel says he'll be guided by me, and the president won't interfere." "you might as well give up," continued the previous questioner. "the sixth is a sure thirty-five hundred to the bad, and between stirling's friends, and the hummel crowd, and bohlmann's people, you'll lose twenty-five thousand in the rest of the city, besides the democrats you'll frighten off by the labor party. you can't put it less than thirty-five thousand, to say nothing of the hole in the campaign fund." the beauty about a practical politician is that votes count for more than his own wishes. number one said: "well, that's ended. you've smashed our slate. what have you got in its place?" "porter?" suggested peter. "no," said three voices. "we can't stand any more of him," said number one. "he's an honest, square man," said peter. "can't help that. one dose of a man who's got as little gumption as he, is all we can stand. he may have education, but i'll be hanged if he has intellect. why don't you ask us to choose a college professor, and have done with it." "come, stirling," said the previous questioner, "the thing's been messed so that we've got to go into convention with just the right man to rally the delegates. there's only one man we can do it with, and you know it." peter rose, and dropped his cigar-stump into the ash-receiver. "i don't see anything else," he said, gloomily. "do any of you?" a moment's silence, and then number one said: "no." "well," said peter, "i'll take the nomination if necessary, but keep it back for a time, till we see if something better can't be hit upon." "no danger," said number one, holding out his hand, gleefully. "there's more ways of killing a pig than choking it with butter," said number three, laughing and doing the same. "it's a pity costell isn't here," added the previous questioner. "after you're not yielding to him, he'd never believe we had forced you to take it." and that was what actually took place at that very-much-talked-about dinner. peter went downstairs with a very serious look on his face. at the door, the keeper of it said: "there are six reporters in the strangers' room, mr. stirling, who wish to see you." a man who had just come in said: "i'm sorry for you, peter." peter smiled quietly. "tell them our wishes are not mutual." then he turned to the newcomer. "it's all right," he said, "so far as the party is concerned, hummel. but i'm to foot the bill to do it." "the devil! you don't mean--?" peter nodded his head. "i'll give twenty-five thousand to the fund," said hummel, gleefully. "see if i don't." "excuse me, mr. stirling," said a man who had just come in. "certainly," said peter promptly, "but i must ask the same favor of you, as i am going down town at once." peter had the brutality to pass out of the front door instantly, leaving the reporter with a disappointed look on his face. "if he only would have said something?" groaned the reporter to himself. "anything that could be spun into a column. he needn't have told me what he didn't care to tell, yet he could have helped me to pay my month's rent as easily as could be." as for peter, he fell into a long stride, and his face nearly equalled his stride in length. after he reached his quarters he sat and smoked, with the same serious look. he did not look cross. he did not have the gloom in his face which had been so fixed an expression for the last month. but he looked as a man might look who knew he had but a few hours to live, yet to whom death had no terror. "i am giving up," peter thought, "everything that has been my true life till now. my profession, my friends, my chance to help others, my books, and my quiet. i shall be misunderstood, reviled and hated. everything i do will be distorted for partisan purposes. friends will misjudge. enemies will become the more bitter. i give up fifty thousand dollars a year in order to become a slave, with toadies, trappers, lobbyists and favor-seekers as my daily quota of humanity. i even sacrifice the larger part of my power." so ran peter's thoughts, and they were the thoughts of a man who had not worked seventeen years in politics for nothing. he saw alienation of friends, income, peace, and independence, and the only return a mere title, which to him meant a loss, rather than a gain of power. yet this was one of the dozen prizes thought the best worth striving for in our politics. is it a wonder that our government and office-holding is left to the foreign element? that the native american should prefer any other work, rather than run the gauntlet of public opinion and press, with loss of income and peace, that he may hold some difficult office for a brief term? but finally peter rose. "perhaps she'll like it," he said aloud, and presumably, since no woman is allowed a voice in american politics, he was thinking of miss columbia. then he looked at some photographs, a scrap of ribbon, a gold coin (peter clearly was becoming a money worshipper), three letters, a card, a small piece of blotting-paper, a handkerchief (which leonore and peter had spent nearly ten minutes in trying to find one day), a glove, and some dried rose-leaves and violets. yet this was the man who had grappled an angry tiger but two hours before and had brought it to lick his hand. he went to bed very happy. chapter xlix. clouds. but a month later he was far happier, for one morning towards the end of august, his mail brought him a letter from watts, announcing that they had been four days installed in their newport home, and that peter would now be welcome any time. "i have purposely not filled grey-court this summer, so that you should have every chance. between you and me and the post, i think there have been moments when mademoiselle missed 'her friend' far more than she confessed." "dat's stronory," thought jenifer. "he dun eat mo' dis yar hot mo'nin' dan he dun in two mumfs." then jenifer was sent out with a telegram, which merely said: "may i come to-day by shore line limited? p.s." "when you get back, jenifer," said peter, "you may pack my trunk and your own. we may start for newport at two." evidently peter did not intend to run any risks of missing the train, in case the answer should be favorable. peter passed into his office, and set to work to put the loose ends in such shape that nothing should go wrong during his absence. he had not worked long, when one of the boys told him that: "mr. cassius curlew wants to see you, mr. stirling." peter stopped his writing, looking up quickly: "did he say on what business?" "no." "ask him, please." and peter went on writing till the boy returned. "he says it's about the convention." "tell him he must be more specific." the boy returned in a moment with a folded scrap of paper. "he said that would tell you, mr. stirling." peter unfolded the scrap, and read upon it: "a message from maguire." "show him in." peter touched a little knob on his desk on which was stamped "chief clerk." a moment later a man opened a door. "samuels," said peter, "i wish you would stay here for a moment. i want you to listen to what's said." the next moment a man crossed the threshold of another door. "good-morning, mr. stirling," he said. "mr. curlew," said peter, without rising and with a cold inclination of his head. "i have a message for you, mr. stirling," said the man, pulling a chair into a position that suited him, and sitting, "but it's private." peter said nothing, but began to write. "do you understand? i want a word with you private," said the man after a pause. "mr. samuels is my confidential clerk. you can speak with perfect freedom before him." peter spoke without raising his eyes from his writing. "but i don't want any one round. it's just between you and me." "when i got your message," said peter, still writing, "i sent for mr. samuels. if you have anything to say, say it now. otherwise leave it unsaid." "well, then," said the man, "your party's been tricking us, and we won't stand it." peter wrote diligently. "and we know who's back of it. it was all pie down to that dinner of yours." "is that maguire's message?" asked peter, though with no cessation of his labors. "nop," said the man. "that's the introduction. now, we know what it means. you needn't deny it. you're squinting at the governorship yourself. and you've made the rest go back on maguire, and work for you on the quiet. oh, we know what's going on." "tell me when you begin on the message," said peter, still writing. "maguire's sent me to you, to tell you to back water. to stop bucking." "tell mr. maguire i have received his message." "oh, that isn't all, and don't you forget it! maguire's in this for fur and feathers, and if you go before the convention as a candidate, we'll fill the air with them." "is that part of the message?" asked peter. "by that we mean that half an hour after you accept the nomination, we'll have a force of detectives at work on your past life, and we'll hunt down and expose every discreditable thing you've ever done." peter rose, and the man did the same instantly, putting one of his hands on his hip-pocket. but even before he did it, peter had begun speaking, in a quiet, self-contained voice: "that sounds so like mr. maguire, that i think we have the message at last. go to him, and say that i have received his message. that i know him, and i know his methods. that i understand his hopes of driving me, as he has some, from his path, by threats of private scandal. that, judging others by himself, he believes no man's life can bear probing. tell him that he has misjudged for once. tell him that he has himself decided me in my determination to accept the nomination. that rather than see him the nominee of the democratic party, i will take it myself. tell him to set on his blood-hounds. they are welcome to all they can unearth in my life." peter turned towards his door, intending to leave the room, for he was not quite sure that he could sustain this altitude, if he saw more of the man. but as his hand was on the knob, curlew spoke again. "one moment," he called. "we've got something more to say to you. we have proof already." peter turned, with an amused look on his face. "i was wondering," he said, "if maguire really expected to drive me with such vague threats." "no siree," said curlew with a self-assured manner, but at the same time putting peter's desk between the clerk and himself, so that his flank could not be turned. "we've got some evidence that won't be sweet reading for you, and we're going to print it, if you take the nomination." "tell mr. maguire he had better put his evidence in print at once. that i shall take the nomination." "and disgrace one of your best friends?" asked curlew. peter started slightly, and looked sharply at the man. "ho, ho," said curlew. "that bites, eh? well, it will bite worse before it's through with." peter stood silent for a moment, but his hands trembled slightly, and any one who understood anatomy could have recognized that every muscle in his body was at full tension. but all he said was: "well?" "it's about that trip of yours on the 'majestic.'" peter looked bewildered. "we've got sworn affidavits of two stewards," curlew continued, "about yours and some one else's goings on. i guess mr. and mrs. rivington won't thank you for having them printed." instantly came a cry of fright, and the crack of a revolver, which brought peter's partners and the clerks crowding into the room. it was to find curlew lying back on the desk, held there by peter with one hand, while his other, clasping the heavy glass inkstand, was swung aloft. there was a look on peter's face that did not become it. an insurance company would not have considered curlew's life at that moment a fair risk. but when peter's arm descended it did so gently, put the inkstand back on the desk, and taking a pocket-handkerchief wiped a splash of ink from the hand that had a moment before been throttling curlew. that worthy struggled up from his back-breaking attitude and the few parts of his face not drenched with ink, were very white, while his hands trembled more than had peter's a moment before. "peter!" cried ogden. "what is it?" "i lost my temper for a moment," said peter. "but who fired that shot?" peter turned to the clerks. "leave the room," he said, "all of you. and keep this to yourselves. i don't think the other floors could have heard anything through the fire-proof brick, but if any one comes, refer them to me." as the office cleared, peter turned to his partners and said: "mr. curlew came here with a message which he thought needed the protection of a revolver. he judged rightly, it seems." "are you hit?" "i felt something strike." peter put his hand to his side. he unbuttoned his coat and felt again. then he pulled out a little sachet from his breast-pocket, and as e did so, a flattened bullet dropped to the floor. peter looked into the sachet anxiously. the bullet had only gone through the lower corner of the four photographs and the glove! peter laughed happily. "i had a gold coin in my pocket, and the bullet struck that. who says that a luck-piece is nothing but a superstition?" "but, peter, shan't we call the police?" demanded ogden, still looking stunned. curlew moved towards the door. "one moment," said peter, and curlew stopped. "ray," peter continued, "i am faced with a terrible question. i want your advice?" "what, peter?" "a man is trying to force me to stand aside and permit a political wrong. to do this, he threatens to publish lying affidavits of worthless scoundrels, to prove a shameful intimacy between a married woman and me." "bosh," laughed ray. "he can publish a thousand and no one would believe them of you." "he knows that. but he knows, too, that no matter how untrue, it would connect her name with a subject shameful to the purest woman that ever lived. he knows that the scavengers of gossip will repeat it, and gloat over it. that the filthy society papers will harp on it for years. that in the heat of a political contest, the partisans will be only too glad to believe it and repeat it. that no criminal prosecution, no court vindication, will ever quite kill the story as regards her. and so he hopes that, rather than entail this on a woman whom i love, and on her husband and family, i will refuse a nomination. i know of such a case in massachusetts, where, rather than expose a woman to such a danger, the man withdrew. what should i do?" "do? fight him. tell him to do his worst." peter put his hand on ray's shoulder. "even if--if--it is one dear to us both?" "peter!" "yes. do you remember your being called home in our spanish trip, unexpectedly? you left me to bring miss de voe, and--well. they've bribed, or forged affidavits of two of the stewards of the 'majestic.'" ray tried to spring forward towards curlew. but peter's hand still rested on his shoulder, and held him back, "i started to kill him," peter said quietly, "but i remembered he was nothing but the miserable go-between." "my god, peter! what can i say?" "ray! the stepping aside is nothing to me. it was an office which i was ready to take, but only as a sacrifice and a duty. it is to prevent wrong that i interfered. so do not think it means a loss to me to retire." "peter, do what you intended to do. we must not compromise with wrong even for her sake." the two shook hands, "i do not think they will ever use it, ray," said peter. "but i may be mistaken, and cannot involve you in the possibility, without your consent." "of course they'll use it," cried ogden. "scoundrels who could think of such a thing, will use it without hesitation." "no," said peter. "a man who uses a coward's weapons, is a coward at heart. we can prevent it, i think." then he turned to curlew. "tell mr. maguire about this interview. tell him that i spared you, because you are not the principal. but tell him from me, that if a word is breathed against mrs. rivington, i swear that i'll search for him till i find him, and when i find him i'll kill him with as little compunction as i would a rattlesnake." peter turned and going to his dressing-room, washed away the ink from his hands. curlew shuffled out of the room, and, black as he was, went straight to the labor headquarters and told his story. "and he'll do it too, mr. maguire," he said. "you should have seen his look as he said it, and as he stood over me. i feel it yet." "do you think he means it?" said ray to ogden, when they were back in ray's room. "i wouldn't think so if i hadn't seen his face as he stood over that skunk. but if ever a man looked murder he did at that moment. and quiet old peter of all men!" "we must talk to him. do tell him that--" "do you dare do it?" "but you--?" "i don't. unless he speaks i shall--" "ray and ogden," said a quiet voice, "i wish you would write out what you have just seen and heard. it may be needed in the future." "peter, let me speak," cried ray. "you mustn't do what you said. think of such an end to your life. no matter what that scoundrel does, don't end your life on a gallows. it--" peter held up his hand. "you don't know the american people, ray. if maguire uses that lying story, i can kill him, and there isn't a jury in the country which, when the truth was told, wouldn't acquit me. maguire knows it, too. we have heard the last of that threat, i'm sure." peter went back to his office. "i don't wonder," he thought, as he stood looking at the ink-stains on his desk and floor, "that people think politics nothing but trickery and scoundrelism. yet such vile weapons and slanders would not be used if there were not people vile and mean enough at heart to let such things influence them. the fault is not in politics. it is in humanity." chapter l. sunshine. but just as peter was about to continue this rather unsatisfactory train of thought, his eye caught sight of a flattened bullet lying on the floor. he picked it up, with a smile. "i knew she was my good luck," he said. then he took out the sachet again, and kissed the dented and bent coin. then he examined the photographs. "not even the dress is cut through," he said gleefully, looking at the full length. "it couldn't have hit in a better place." when he came to the glove, however, he grieved a little over it. even this ceased to trouble him the next moment, for a telegram was laid on his desk. it merely said, "come by all means. w.c.d'a." yet that was enough to make peter drop thoughts, work, and everything for a time. he sat at his desk, gazing at a blank wall, and thinking of a pair of slate-colored eyes. but his expression bore no resemblance to the one formerly assumed when that particular practice had been habitual. nor was this expression the only difference in this day, to mark the change from peter past to peter present. for instead of manoeuvring to make watts sit on the back seat, when he was met by the trap late that afternoon, at newport, he took possession of that seat in the coolest possible manner, leaving the one by the driver to watts. nor did peter look away from the girl on that back seat. quite the contrary. it did not seem to him that a thousand eyes would have been any too much. peter's three months of gloom vanished, and became merely a contrast to heighten his present joy. a sort of "shadow-box." he had had the nicest kind of welcome from his "friend." if the manner had not been quite so absolutely frank as of yore, yet there was no doubt as to her pleasure in seeing peter. "it's very nice to see you again," she had said while shaking hands. "i hoped you would come quickly." peter was too happy to say anything in reply. he merely took possession of that vacant seat, and rested his eyes in silence till watts, after climbing into place, asked him how the journey to newport had been. "lovelier than ever," said peter, abstractedly. "i didn't think it was possible." "eh?" said watts, turning with surprise on his face. but leonore did not look surprised. she only looked the other way, and the corners of her mouth were curving upwards. "the journey?" queried watts. "you mean newport, don't you?" said leonore helpfully, when peter said nothing. leonore was looking out from under her lashes--at things in general, of course. peter said nothing. peter was not going to lie about what he had meant, and leonore liked him all the better for not using the deceiving loophole she had opened. watts said, "oh, of course. it improves every year. but wasn't the journey hot, old man?" "i didn't notice," said peter. "didn't notice! and this one of the hottest days of the year." "i had something else to think about," explained peter. "politics?" asked watts. "oh, peter," said leonore, "we've been so interested in all the talk. it was just as maddening as could be, how hard it was to get new york papers way out west. i'm awfully in the dark about some things. i've asked a lot of people here about it, but nobody seems to know anything. or if they do, they laugh at me. i met congressman pell yesterday at the tennis tournament, and thought he would tell me all about it. but he was horrid! his whole manner said: 'i can't waste real talk on a girl.' i told him i was a great friend of yours, and that you would tell me when you came, but he only laughed and said, he had no doubt you would, for you were famous for your indiscretion. i hate men who laugh at women the moment they try to talk as men do." "i think," said peter, "we'll have to turn pell down. a congressman who laughs at one of my friends won't do." "i really wish you would. that would teach him," said leonore, vindictively. "a man who laughs at women can't be a good congressman." "i tell you what we'll do," said peter. "i don't want to retire him, because--because i like his mother. but i will tell you something for you to tell him, that will astonish him very much, and make him want to know who told you, and so you can tease him endlessly." "oh, peter!" said leonore. "you are the nicest man." "what's that?" asked watts. "it's a great secret," said peter. "i shall only tell it to miss d'alloi, so that if it leaks beyond pell, i shall know whom to blame for it." "goody!" cried leonore, giving a little bounce for joy. "is it about that famous dinner?" inquired watts. "no." "peter, i'm so curious about that. will you tell me what you did?" "i ate a dinner," said peter smiling. "now don't be like mr. pell," said leonore, reprovingly, "or i'll take back what i just said." "did you roar, and did the tiger put its tail between its legs?" asked watts. "that is the last thing our friends, the enemies, have found," said peter. "you will tell me about it, won't you, peter?" said leonore, ingratiatingly. "have you a mount for me, watts, for to-morrow? mutineer comes by boat to-night, but won't be here till noon." "yes. i've one chap up to your weight, i think." "i don't like dodgers," said leonore, the corners of her mouth drawn down. "i was not dodging," said peter. "i only was asking a preliminary question. if you will get up, before breakfast, and ride with me, i will tell you everything that actually occurred at that dinner. you will be the only person, i think, who wasn't there, who knows." it was shameful and open bribery, but bosses are shameful and open in their doings, so peter was only living up to his rôle. the temptation was too strong to be resisted, leonore said, "of coarse i will," and the corners of her mouth reversed their position. but she said to herself: "i shall have to snub you in something else to make up for it." peter was in for a bad quarter of an hour somewhere. leonore had decided just how she was going to treat peter. to begin with, she intended to accentuate that "five years" in various ways. then she would be very frank and friendly, just as long as he, too, would keep within those limits, but if peter even verged on anything more, she intended to leave him to himself, just long enough to show him that such remarks as his "not caring to be friends," brought instant and dire punishment. "and i shan't let him speak," leonore decided, "no matter if he wants to. for if he does, i'll have to say 'no,' and then he'll go back to new york and sulk, and perhaps never come near me again, since he's so obstinate, while i want to stay friends." many such campaigns have been planned by the party of the first part. but the trouble is that, usually, the party of the second part also has a plan, which entirely disconcerts the first. as the darkey remarked: "yissah. my dog he wud a beat, if it hadn't bin foh de udder dog." peter found as much contrast in his evening, as compared with his morning, as there was in his own years. after dinner. leonore said: "i always play billiards with papa. will you play too?" "i don't know how," said peter. "then it's time you learned. i'll take you on my side, because papa always beats me. i'll teach you." so there was the jolliest of hours spent in this way, all of them laughing at peter's shots, and at leonore's attempts to show him how. "every woman ought to play billiards," peter thought, when it was ended. "it's the most graceful sight i've seen in years." leonore said, "you get the ideas very nicely, but you hit much too hard. you can't hit a ball too softly. you pound it as if you were trying to smash it." "it's something i really must learn," said peter, who had refused over and over again in the past. "i'll teach you, while you are here," said leonore. peter did not refuse this time. nor did he refuse another lesson. when they had drifted into the drawing-room, leonore asked: "have you been learning how to valse?" peter smiled at so good an american using so european a word, but said seriously, "no. i've been too busy." "that's a shame," said leonore, "because there are to be two dances this week, and mamma has written to get you cards." "is it very hard?" asked peter. "no," said leonore. "it's as easy as breathing, and much nicer." "couldn't you teach me that, also?" "easily. mamma, will you play a valse? now see." leonore drew her skirts back with one hand, so as to show the little feet, and said: "one, two, three, so. one, two, three, so. now do that." peter had hoped that the way to learn dancing was to take the girl in one's arms. but he recognized that this would follow. so he set to work manfully to imitate that dainty little glide. it seemed easy as she did it. but it was not so easy when he tried it. "oh, you clumsy," said leonore laughing. "see. one, two, three, so. one, two, three, so." peter forgot to notice the step, in his admiration of the little feet and the pretty figure. "well," said leonore after a pause, "are you going to do that?" so peter tried again, and again, and again. peter would have done it all night, with absolute contentment, so long as leonore, after every failure, would show him the right way in her own person. finally she said, "now take my hands. no. way apart, so that i can see your feet. now. we'll try it together. one, two, change. one, two, change." peter thought this much better, and was ready to go on till strength failed. but after a time, leonore said, "now. we'll try it the true way. take my hand so and put your arm so. that's the way. only never hold a girl too close. we hate it. yes. that's it. now, mamma. again. one, two, three. one, two, three." this was heavenly, peter thought, and could have wept over the shortness, as it seemed to him, of this part of the lesson. but it ended, and leonore said: "if you'll practice that in your room, with a bolster, you'll get on very fast." "i always make haste slowly," said peter, not taking to the bolster idea at all kindly. "probably you can find time to-morrow for another lesson, and i'll learn much quicker with you." "i'll see." "and will you give me some waltzes at the dances?" "i'll tell you what i'll do," said leonore. "you shall have the dances the other men don't ask of me. but you don't dance well enough, in case i can get a better partner. i love valsing too much to waste one with a poor dancer." a moment before peter thought waltzing the most exquisite pleasure the world contained. but he suddenly changed his mind, and concluded it was odious. "nevertheless," he decided, "i will learn how." chapter li. the course of true love. peter had his ride the next morning, and had a very interested listener to his account of that dinner. the listener, speaking from vast political knowledge, told him at the end. "you did just right. i thoroughly approve of you." "that takes a great worry off my mind," said peter soberly. "i was afraid, since we were to be such friends, and you wanted my help in the whirligig this winter, that you might not like my possibly having to live in albany." "can't you live in new york?" said leonore, looking horrified. "no." "then i don't like it at all," said leonore. "it's no good having friends if they don't live near one." "that's what i think," said peter. "i suppose i couldn't tempt you to come and keep house for me?" "now i must snub him," thought leonore. "no," she said, "it will be bad enough to do that five years from now, for the man i love." she looked out from under her eyelashes to see if her blow had been fatal, and concluded from the glumness in peter's face, that she really had been too cruel. so she added: "but you may give me a ball, and we'll all come up and stay a week with you." peter relaxed a little, but he said dolefully, "i don't know what i shall do. i shall be in such need of your advice in politics and housekeeping." "well," said leonore, "if you really find that you can't get on without help, we'll make it two weeks. but you must get up toboggan parties, and other nice things." "i wonder what the papers will say," thought peter, "if a governor gives toboggan parties?" after the late breakfast, peter was taken down to see the tournament. he thought he would not mind it, since he was allowed to sit next leonore. but he did. first he wished that she wouldn't pay so much attention to the score. then that the men who fluttered round her would have had the good taste to keep away. it enraged peter to see how perfectly willing she was to talk and chat about things of which he knew nothing, and how more than willing the men were. and then she laughed at what they said! "that's fifteen-love, isn't it?" leonore asked him presently. "he doesn't look over fifteen," actually growled peter. "i don't know whether he's in love or not. i suppose he thinks he is. boys fifteen years old always do." leonore forgot the score, even, in her surprise. "why," she said, "you growl just like bêtise (the mastiff). now i know what the papers mean when they say you roar." "well," said peter, "it makes me cross to see a lot of boys doing nothing but hit a small ball, and a lot more looking at them and thinking that it's worth doing." which was a misstatement. it was not that which made peter mad. "haven't you ever played tennis?" "never. i don't even know how to score." "dear me," said leonore, "you're dreadfully illiterate." "i know it," growled peter, "i don't belong here, and have no business to come. i'm a ward boss, and my place is in saloons. don't hesitate to say it." all this was very foolish, but it was real to peter for the moment, and he looked straight ahead with lines on his face which leonore had never seen before. he ought to have been ordered to go off by himself till he should be in better mood. instead leonore turned from the tennis, and said: "please don't talk that way, peter. you know i don't think that." leonore had understood the misery which lay back of the growl. "poor fellow," she thought, "i must cheer him up." so she stopped looking at the tennis. "see," she said, "there are miss winthrop and mr. pell. do take me over to them and let me spring my surprise. you talk to miss winthrop." "why, peter!" said pell. "when did you come?" "last night. how do you do, miss winthrop?" then for two minutes peter talked, or rather listened, to that young lady, though sighing internally. then, _laus deo!_ up came the poor little chap, whom peter had libelled in age and affections, only ten minutes before, and set peter free. he turned to see how leonore's petard was progressing, to find her and pell deep in tennis. but just as he was going to expose his ignorance on that game, leonore said: "mr. pell, what do you think of the political outlook?" pell sighed internally, "you can read it in the papers," he said. "no. i want your opinion. especially about the great departure the democratic convention is going to make." "you mean in endorsing maguire?" leonore began to visibly swell in importance. "of course not," she said, contemptuously. "every one knows that that was decided against at the manhattan dinner. i mean the unusual resolution about the next senator." pell ceased to sigh. "i don't know what you mean?" he said. "not really?" said leonore incredulously, her nose cocking a little more airily. "i thought of course you would know about it. i'm so surprised!" pell looked at her half quizzingly, and half questioningly. "what is the resolution?" "naming a candidate for the vacancy for the senate." "nonsense," said pell, laughing. "the convention has nothing to do with the senators. the legislature elects them." he thought, "why can't women, if they will talk politics, at least learn the abc." "yes," said leonore, "but this is a new idea. the senate has behaved so badly, that the party leaders think it will be better to make it a more popular body by having the new york convention nominate a man, and then they intend to make the legislature elect him. if the other states will only follow new york's lead, it may make the senate respectable and open to public opinion." pell sniffed obviously. "in what fool paper did you read that?" "i didn't read it," said leonore, her eyes dancing with delight. "the papers are always behind the times. but i didn't think that you would be, since you are to be named in the resolution." pell looked at her blankly. "what do you mean?" "didn't you know that the convention will pass a resolution, naming you for next senator?" said leonore, with both wonder and pity in her face and voice. "who told you that?" said pell, with an amount of interest blended with doubt that was a decided contrast to a moment ago. "that's telling," said leonore. "you know, mr. pell, that one mustn't tell people who are outside the party councils everything." "i believe you are trying to stuff me," said pell, "if it is so, or anything like it, you wouldn't know." "oh," said leonore, tantalizingly, "i could tell you a great deal more than that. but of course you don't care to talk politics with a girl." pell weakened. "tell me who told you about it?" "i think we must go home to lunch," said leonore, turning to peter, who had enjoyed leonore's triumph almost as much as she had. "peter," said pell, "have you heard what miss d'alloi has been saying?" "part of it." "where can she have picked it up? "i met miss d'alloi at a lunch at the white house, last june," said peter seriously, "and she, and the president, and i, talked politics. politically, miss d'alloi is rather a knowing person. i hope you haven't been saying anything indiscreet, miss d'alloi?" "i'm afraid i have," laughed leonore, triumphantly, adding, "but i won't tell anything more." pell looked after them as they went towards the carriage. "how extraordinary!" he said. "she couldn't have it from peter. he tells nothing. where the deuce did she get it, and is it so?" then he said: "senator van brunt pell," with a roll on all the r's. "that sounds well. i wonder if there's anything in it?" "i think," said leonore to peter, triumphantly "that he would like to have talked politics. but he'll get nothing but torture from me if he tries." it began to dawn on peter that leonore did not, despite her frank manner, mean all she said. he turned to her, and asked: "are you really in earnest in saying that you'll refuse every man who asks you to marry him within five years?" leonore's triumph scattered to the four winds. "what an awfully impudent question," she thought, "after my saying it so often. what shall i answer?" she looked peter in the eye with severity. "i shan't refuse," she said, "because i shan't even let him speak. if any man dares to attempt it, i'll tell him frankly i don't care to listen." "she really means it," sighed peter internally. "why is it, that the best girls don't care to marry?" peter became very cross, and, what is worse, looked it. nor was leonore much better, "there," she said, "i knew just how it would be. he's getting sulky already. he isn't nice any more. the best thing will be to let him speak, for then he'll go back to new york, and won't bother me." the corners of her mouth drew away down, and life became very gray. so "the best of friends" rode home from the casino, without so much as looking at each other, much less speaking. clearly peter was right. there was no good in trying to be friends any longer. precedent or habit, however, was too strong to sustain this condition long. first leonore had to be helped out of the carriage. this was rather pleasant, for she had to give peter her hand, and so life became less unworth living to peter. then the footman at the door gave peter two telegraphic envelopes of the bulkiest kind, and leonore too began to take an interest in life again. "what are they about?" she asked. "the convention. i came off so suddenly that some details were left unarranged." "read them out loud," she said calmly, as peter broke the first open. peter smiled at her, and said: "if i do, will you give me another waltzing lesson after lunch?" "don't bargain," said leonore, disapprovingly. "very well," said peter, putting the telegrams in his pocket, and turning towards the stairs. leonore let him go up to the first landing. but as soon as she became convinced that he was really going to his room, she said, "peter." peter turned and looked down at the pretty figure at the foot of the stairs. he came down again. when he had reached the bottom he said, "well?" leonore was half angry, and half laughing. "you ought to want to read them to me," she said, "since we are such friends." "i do," said peter, "and you ought to want to teach me to waltz, since we are such friends." "but i don't like the spirit," said leonore. peter laughed. "nor i," he said. "still, i'll prove i'm the better, by reading them to you." "now i will teach him," said leonore to herself. peter unfolded the many sheets. "this is very secret, of course," he said. "yes." leonore looked round the hall as if she was a conspirator. "come to the window-seat upstairs," she whispered, and led the way. when they had ensconced themselves there, and drawn the curtains, she said, "now." "you had better sit nearer me," said peter, "so that i can whisper it." "no," said leonore. "no one can hear us." she thought, "i'd snub you for that, if i wasn't afraid you wouldn't read it." "you understand that you are not to repeat this to anyone." peter was smiling over something. leonore said, "yes," half crossly and half eagerly. so peter read: "use hudson knowledge counties past not belief local twenty imbecility certified of yet till yesterday noon whose malta could accurately it at seventeen. potomac give throw haymarket estimated moselle thirty-three to into fortify through jurist arrived down right--" "i won't be treated so!" interrupted leonore, indignantly. "what do you mean," said peter, still smiling. "i'm reading it to you, as you asked." "no you are not. you are just making up." "no," said peter. "it's all here." "let me see it." leonore shifted her seat so as to overlook peter. "that's only two pages," said peter, holding them so that leonore had to sit very close to him to see. "there are eighteen more." leonore looked at them. "was it written by a lunatic?" she asked. "no." peter looked at the end. "it's from green. remember. you are not to repeat it to any one." "luncheon is served, miss d'alloi," said a footman. "bother luncheon," thought peter. "please tell me what it means?" said leonore, rising. "i can't do that, till i get the key and decipher it." "oh!" cried leonore, clapping her hands in delight. "it's a cipher. how tremendously interesting! we'll go at it right after lunch and decipher it together, won't we?" "after the dancing lesson, you mean, don't you?" suggested peter. "how did you know i was going to do it?" asked leonore. "you told me." "never! i didn't say a word." "you looked several," said peter. leonore regarded him very seriously. "you are not 'peter simple' a bit," she said. "i don't like deep men." she turned and went to her room. "i really must be careful," she told the enviable sponge as it passed over her face, "he's a man who needs very special treatment. i ought to send him right back to new york. but i do so want to know about the politics. no. i'll keep friends till the campaign's finished. then he'll have to live in albany, and that will make it all right. let me see. he said the governor served three years. that isn't five, but perhaps he'll have become sensible before then." as for peter, he actually whistled during his ablutions, which was something he had not done for many years. he could not quite say why, but it represented his mood better than did his earlier growl. chapter lii. a guardian angel. peter had as glorious an afternoon as he had had a bad morning. first he danced a little. then the two sat at the big desk in the deserted library and worked together over those very complex dispatches till they had them translated. then they had to discuss their import. finally they had to draft answers and translate them into cipher. all this with their heads very close together, and an utter forgetfulness on the part of a certain personage that snubbing rather than politics was her "plan of campaign." but leonore began to feel that she was a political power herself, and so forgot her other schemes. when they had the answering dispatches fairly transcribed, she looked up at peter and said: "i think we've done that very well," in the most approving voice. "do you think they'll do as we tell them?" peter looked down into that dearest of faces, gazing at him so frankly and with such interest, so very near his, and wondered what deed was noble or great enough to win a kiss from those lips. several times that afternoon, it had seemed to him that he could not keep himself from leaning over and taking one. he even went so far now as to speculate on exactly what leonore would do if he did. fortunately his face was not given to expressing his thoughts. leonore never dreamed how narrow an escape she had. "if only she wouldn't be so friendly and confiding," groaned peter, even while absolutely happy in her mood. "i can't do it, when she trusts me so." "well," said leonore, "perhaps when you've done staring at me, you'll answer my question." "i think they'll do as we tell them," smiled peter. "but we'll get word to-morrow about dutchess and steuben. then we shall know better how the land lies, and can talk plainer." "will there be more ciphers, to-morrow?" "yes." to himself peter said, "i must write green and the rest to telegraph me every day." "now we'll have a cup of tea," said leonore. "i like politics." "then you would like albany," said peter, putting a chair for her by the little tea-table. "i wouldn't live in albany for the whole world," said leonore, resuming her old self with horrible rapidity. but just then she burnt her finger with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty vanished in a wail. "oh!" she cried. "how it hurts." "let me see," said peter sympathetically. the little hand was held up. "it does hurt," said leonore, who saw that there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared peter would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered. but peter treated it very seriously. "i'm sure it does," he said, taking possession of the hand. "and i know how it hurts." he leaned over and kissed the little thumb. then he didn't care a scrap whether leonore liked albany or not. "i won't snub you this time," said leonore to herself, "because you didn't laugh at me for it." peter's evening was not so happy. leonore told him as they rose from dinner that she was going to a dance. "we have permission to take you. do you care to go?" "yes. if you'll give me some dances." "i've told you once that i'll only give you the ones not taken by better dancers. if you choose to stay round i'll take you for those." "do you ever have a dance over?" asked peter, marvelling at such a possibility. "i've only been to one dance. i didn't have at that." "well," said peter, growling a little, "i'll go." "oh," said leonore, calmly, "don't put yourself out on my account." "i'm not," growled peter. "i'm doing it to please myself." then he laughed, so leonore laughed too. after a game of billiards they all went to the dance. as they entered the hall, peter heard his name called in a peculiar voice behind. he turned and saw dorothy. dorothy merely said, "peter!" again. but peter understood that explanations were in order. he made no attempt to dodge. "dorothy," he said softly, giving a glance at leonore, to see that she was out of hearing, "when you spent that summer with miss de voe, did ray come down every week?" "yes." "would he have come if you had been travelling out west?" "oh, peter," cried dorothy, below her breath, "i'm so glad it's come at last!" we hope our readers can grasp the continuity of dorothy's mental processes, for her verbal ones were rather inconsequent. "she's lovely," continued the verbal process. "and i'm sure i can help you." "i need it," groaned peter. "she doesn't care in the least for me, and i can't get her to. and she says she isn't going to marry for--" "nonsense!" interrupted dorothy, contemptuously, and sailed into the ladies' dressing-room. peter gazed after her. "i wonder what's nonsense?" he thought. dorothy set about her self-imposed task with all the ardor for matchmaking, possessed by a perfectly happy married woman. but dorothy evidently intended that leonore should not marry peter, if one can judge from the tenor of her remarks to leonore in the dressing-room. peter liked dorothy, and would probably not have believed her capable of treachery, but it is left to masculine mind to draw any other inference from the dialogue which took place between the two, as they prinked before a cheval glass. "i'm so glad to have peter here for this particular evening," said dorothy. "why?" asked leonore, calmly, in the most uninterested of tones. "because miss biddle is to be here. for two years i've been trying to bring those two together, so that they might make a match of it. they are made for each other." leonore tucked a rebellious curl in behind the drawn-back lock. then she said, "what a pretty pin you have." "isn't it? ray gave it to me," said dorothy, giving leonore all the line she wanted. "i've never met miss biddle," said leonore. "she's a great beauty, and rich. and then she has that nice philadelphia manner. peter can't abide the young-girl manner. he hates giggling and talking girls. it's funny too, because, though he doesn't dance or talk, they like him. but miss biddle is an older girl, and can talk on subjects which please him. she is very much interested in politics and philanthropy." "i thought," said leonore, fluffing the lace on her gown, "that peter never talked politics." "he doesn't," said dorothy. "but she has studied political economy. he's willing to talk abstract subjects. she's just the girl for a statesman's wife. beauty, tact, very clever, and yet very discreet. i'm doubly glad they'll meet here, for she has given up dancing, so she can entertain peter, who would otherwise have a dull time of it." "if she wants to," said leonore. "oh," said dorothy, "i'm not a bit afraid about that. peter's the kind of man with whom every woman's ready to fall in love. why, my dear, he's had chance after chance, if he had only cared to try. but, of course, he doesn't care for such women as you and me, who can't enter into his thoughts or sympathize with his ambitions. to him we are nothing but dancing, dressing, prattling flutter-birds." then dorothy put her head on one side, and seemed far more interested in the effect of her own frock than in peter's fate. "he talks politics to me," leonore could not help saying. leonore did not like dorothy's last speech. "oh, peter's such a gentleman that he always talks seriously even to us; but it's only his politeness. i've seen him talk to girls like you, and he is delightfully courteous, and one would think he liked it. but, from little things ray has told me, i know he looks down on society girls." "are you ready, leonore?" inquired mrs. d'alloi. leonore was very ready. watts and peter were ready also; had been ready during the whole of this dialogue. watts was cross; peter wasn't. peter would willingly have waited an hour longer, impatient only for the moment of meeting, not to get downstairs. that is the difference between a husband and a lover. "peter," said leonore, the moment they were on the stairs, "do you ever tell other girls political secrets?" dorothy was coming just behind, and she poked peter in the back with her fan. then, when peter turned, she said with her lips as plainly as one can without speaking: "say yes." peter looked surprised. then he turned to leonore and said, "no. you are the only person, man or woman, with whom i like to talk politics." "oh!" shrieked dorothy to herself. "you great, big, foolish old stupid! just as i had fixed it so nicely!" what dorothy meant is quite inscrutable. peter had told the truth. but, after the greetings were over, dorothy helped peter greatly. she said to him, "give me your arm, peter. there is a girl here whom i want you to meet." "peter's going to dance this valse with me," said leonore. and peter had two minutes of bliss, amateur though he was. then leonore said cruelly, "that's enough; you do it very badly!" when peter had seated her by her mother, he said: "excuse me for a moment. i want to speak to dorothy." "i knew you would be philandering after the young married women. men of your age always do," said leonore, with an absolutely incomprehensible cruelty. so peter did not speak to dorothy. he sat down by leonore and talked, till a scoundrelly, wretched, villainous, dastardly, low-born, but very good-looking fellow carried off his treasure. then he wended his way to dorothy. "why did you tell me to say 'yes'?" he asked. dorothy sighed. "i thought you couldn't have understood me," she said; "but you are even worse than i supposed. never mind, it's done now. peter, will you do me a great favor?" "i should like to," said peter. "miss biddle, of philadelphia, is here. she doesn't know many of the men, and she doesn't dance. now, if i introduce you, won't you try to make her have a good time?" "certainly," said peter, gloomily. "and don't go and desert her, just because another man comes up. it makes a girl think you are in a hurry to get away, and miss biddle is very sensitive. i know you don't want to hurt her feelings." all this had been said as they crossed the room. then: "miss biddle, let me introduce mr. stirling." peter sat down to his duty. "i mustn't look at leonore," he thought, "or i shan't be attentive." so he turned his face away from the room heroically. as for dorothy, she walked away with a smile of contentment. "there, miss," she remarked, "we'll see if you can trample on dear old peter!" "who's that girl to whom mr. stirling is talking?" asked leonore of her partner. "ah, that's the rich miss biddle, of philadelphia," replied the scoundrel, in very gentleman-like accents for one of his class. "they say she's never been able to find a man good enough for her, and so she's keeping herself on ice till she dies, in hopes that she'll find one in heaven. she's a great catch." "she's decidedly good-looking," said leonore. "think so? some people do. i don't. i don't like blondes." when leonore had progressed as far as her fourth partner, she asked: "what sort of a girl is that miss biddle?" "she's really stunning," she was told. "fellows are all wild about her. but she has an awfully snubbing way." "is she clever?" "is she? that's the trouble. she won't have anything to do with a man unless he's clever. look at her to-night! she got her big fish right off, and she's driven away every man who's come near her ever since. she's the kind of a girl that, if she decides on anything, she does it." "who's her big fish?" said leonore, as if she had not noticed. "that big fellow, who is so awfully exclusive--stirling. he doesn't think any people good enough for him but the pells, and miss de voe, and the ogdens. what they can see in him i can't imagine. i sat opposite him once at dinner, this spring, at the william pells, and he only said three things in the whole meal. and he was sitting next that clever miss winthrop." after the fifth dance, dorothy came up to leonore. "it's going beautifully," she said; "do you see how peter has turned his back to the room? and i heard a man say that miss biddle was freezing to every man who tried to interrupt them. i must arrange some affairs this week so that they shall have chances to see each other. you will help me?" "i'm very much engaged for this week," said leonore. "what a pity! never mind; i'll get peter. let me see. she rides beautifully. did peter bring his horses?" "one," said leonore, with a suggestion of reluctance in stating the fact. "i'll go and arrange it at once," said dorothy, thinking that peter might be getting desperate. "mamma," said leonore, "how old mrs. rivington has grown!" "i haven't noticed it, dear," said her mother. dorothy went up to the pair and said: "peter, won't you show miss biddle the conservatories! you know," she explained, "they are very beautiful." peter rose dutifully, but with a very passive look on his face. "and, peter," said dorothy, dolefully, "will you take me in to supper? i haven't found a man who's had the grace to ask me." "yes." "we'll sit at the same table," said dorothy to miss biddle. when peter got into the carriage that evening he was very blue. "i had only one waltz," he told himself, "and did not really see anything else of her the whole evening." "is that miss biddle as clever as people say she is?" asked mrs. d'alloi. "she is a very unusual woman," said peter, "i rarely have known a better informed one." peter's tone of voice carried the inference that he hated unusual and informed women, and as this is the case with most men, his voice presumably reflected his true thoughts. "i should say so," said watts. "at our little table she said the brightest things, and told the best stories. that's a girl as is a girl. i tried to see her afterwards, but found that peter was taking an italian lesson of her." "what do you mean?" asked mrs. d'alloi. "i have a chap who breakfasts with me three times a week, to talk italian, which i am trying to learn," said peter, "and dorothy told mrs. biddle, so she offered to talk in it. she has a beautiful accent and it was very good of her to offer, for i knew very little as yet, and don't think she could have enjoyed it." "what do you want with italian?" asked mrs. d'alloi. "to catch the italian vote," said peter. "oh, you sly-boots," said watts. then he turned. "what makes my dot so silent?" he asked. "oh," said leonore in weary tones, "i've danced too much and i'm very, very tired." "well," said watts, "see that you sleep late." "i shall be all right to-morrow," said leonore, "and i'm going to have an early horseback ride." "peter and i will go too," said watts. "i'm sorry," said peter. "i'm to ride with dorothy and miss biddle." "ha, ha," said watts. "more italian lessons, eh?" two people looked very cross that evening when they got to their rooms. leonore sighed to her maid: "oh, marie, i am so tired! don't let me be disturbed till it's nearly lunch." and peter groaned to nobody in particular, "an evening and a ride gone! i tried to make dorothy understand. it's too bad of her to be so dense." so clearly dorothy was to blame. yet the cause of all this trouble fell asleep peacefully, remarking to herself, just before she drifted into dreamland, "every man in love ought to have a guardian, and i'll be peter's." chapter liii. interference. when peter returned from his ride the next day, he found leonore reading the papers in the big hall. she gave him a very frigid "good-morning," yet instantly relaxed a little in telling him there was another long telegram for him on the mantel. she said nothing of his reading the despatch to her, but opened a new sheet of paper, and began to read its columns with much apparent interest. that particular page was devoted to the current prices of "cotton;" "coffee;" "flour;" "molasses;" "beans;" "butter;" "hogs;" "naval stores;" "ocean freights," and a large number of equally kindred and interesting subjects. peter took the telegram, but did not read it. instead he looked down at all of his pretty "friend" not sedulously hidden by the paper; he recognized that his friend had a distinctly "not-at-home" look, but after a moment's hesitation he remarked, "you don't expect me to read this alone?" silence. "because," continued peter, "it's an answer to those we wrote and sent yesterday, and i shan't dare reply it without your advice." silence. peter coolly put his hand on the paper and pushed it down till he could see leonore's face. when he had done that he found her fairly beaming. she tried to put on a serious look quickly, and looked up at him with it on. but peter said, "i caught you," and laughed. then leonore laughed. then they filled in the space before lunch by translating and answering the telegram. as soon as that meal was over, peter said, "now will you teach me waltzing again?" "no." "why not?" "i'm not going to spend time teaching a man to dance, who doesn't dance." "i was nearly wild to dance last night," said peter. "then why didn't you?" "dorothy asked me to do something." "i don't think much of men who let women control them." "i wanted to please dorothy" said peter, "i was as well off talking to one girl as to another. since you don't like my dancing, i supposed you would hardly choose to dance again with me, or ropes wouldn't have held me." "i can talk italian too," said leonore, with no apparent connection. "will you talk it with me?" said peter eagerly. "you see, there are a good many italians in the district, now, who by their ignorance and their not speaking english, are getting into trouble all the time. i want to learn, so as to help them, without calling in an interpreter." peter was learning to put his requests on grounds other than his own wishes. "yes," said leonore very sweetly, "and i'll give you another lesson in dancing. how did you enjoy your ride?" "i like dorothy," said peter, "and i like miss biddle. but i didn't get the ride i wanted." he got a very nice look from those slate-colored eyes. they set a music-box going, and peter's instruction began. when it was over, leonore said: "you've improved wonderfully." "well enough to dance with you?" "yes," said leonore. "i'll take pity on you unless you'd rather talk to some other girl." peter only smiled quietly. "peter," said leonore, later, as he was sipping his tea, "do you think i'm nothing but a foolish society flutterbird?" "do you want to know what i think of you?" asked peter, eagerly. "no," said leonore hastily. "but do you think of me as nothing but a society girl?" "yes," said peter, truth speaking in voice and face. the corners of leonore's mouth descended to a woeful degree. "i think you are a society girl," continued peter, "because you are the nicest kind of society." leonore fairly filled the room with her smile. then she said, "peter, will you do me a favor?" "yes." "will you tell dorothy that i have helped you translate cipher telegrams and write the replies?" peter was rather astonished, but said, "yes." but he did it very badly, leonore thought, for meeting dorothy the next day at a lawn party, after the mere greetings, he said: "dorothy, miss d'alloi has been helping me translate and write cipher telegrams." dorothy looked startled at the announcement for a moment. then she gave a glance at leonore, who was standing by peter, visibly holding herself in a very triumphant attitude. then she burst out into the merriest of laughs, and kept laughing. "what is it?" asked peter. "such a joke," gasped dorothy, "but i can't tell you." as for leonore, her triumphant manner had fled, and her cheeks were very red. and when some one spoke to dorothy, and took her attention, leonore said to peter very crossly: "you are so clumsy! of course i didn't mean that way." peter sighed internally. "i am stupid, i suppose," he said to himself. "i tried to do just what she asked, but she's displeased, and i suppose she won't be nice for the rest of the day. if it was only law or politics! but women!" but leonore didn't abuse him. she was very kind to him, despite her displeasure. "if dorothy would only let me alone," thought peter, "i should have a glorious time. why can't she let me stay with her when she's in such a nice mood. and why does she insist on my being attentive to her. i don't care for her. it seems as if she was determined to break up my enjoyment, just as i get her to myself." peter mixed his "hers" and "shes" too thoroughly in this sentence to make its import clear. his thoughts are merely reported verbatim, as the easiest way. it certainly indicates that, as with most troubles, there was a woman in it. peter said much this same thing to himself quite often during the following week, and always with a groan. dorothy was continually putting her finger in. yet it was in the main a happy time to peter. his friend treated him very nicely for the most part, if very variably. peter never knew in what mood he should find her. sometimes he felt that leonore considered him as the dirt under her little feet. then again, she could not be too sweet to him. there was an evening--a dinner--at which he sat between miss biddle and leonore when, it seemed to peter, leonore said and looked such nice things, that the millennium had come. yet the next morning, she told him that: "it was a very dull dinner. i talked to nobody but you." fortunately for peter, the d'allois were almost as new an advent in newport, so leonore was not yet in the running. but by the time peter's first week had sped, he found that men were putting their fingers in, as well as dorothy. morning, noon, and night they gathered. then lunches, teas, drives, yachts and innumerable other affairs also plunged their fingers in. peter did not yield to the superior numbers, he went wherever leonore went. but the other men went also, and understood the ropes far better. he fought on, but a sickening feeling began to creep over him of impending failure. it was soon not merely how leonore treated him; it was the impossibility of getting her to treat him at all. even though he was in the same house, it seemed as if there was always some one else calling or mealing, or taking tea, or playing tennis or playing billiards, or merely dropping in. and then leonore took fewer and fewer meals at home, and spent fewer and fewer hours there. one day peter had to translate those despatches all by himself! when he had a cup of tea now, even with three or four men about, he considered himself lucky. he understood at last what miss de voe had meant when she had spoken of the difficulty of seeing enough of a popular girl either to love her or to tell her of it. they prayed for rain in church on sunday, on account of the drought, and peter said "amen" with fervor. anything to end such fluttering. at the end of two weeks, peter said sadly that he must be going. "rubbish," said watts. "you are to stay for a month." "i hope you'll stay," said mrs. d'alloi. peter waited a moment for some one else to speak. some one else didn't. "i think i must," he said. "it isn't a matter of my own wishes, but i'm needed in syracuse." peter spoke as if syracuse was the ultimate of human misery. "is it necessary for you to be there?" asked leonore. "not absolutely, but i had better go." later in the day leonore said, "i've decided you are not to go to syracuse. i shall want you here to explain what they do to me." and that cool, insulting speech filled peter with happiness. "i've decided to stay another week," he told mrs. d'alloi. nor could all the appeals over the telegraph move him, though that day and the next the wires to newport from new york and syracuse were kept hot, the despatches came so continuously. two days after this decision, peter and leonore went to a cotillion. leonore informed him that: "mamma makes me leave after supper, because she doesn't like me to stay late, so i miss the nice part." "how many waltzes are you going to give me?" asked peter, with an eye to his one ball-room accomplishment. "i'll give you the first," said leonore, "and then if you'll sit near me, i'll give you a look every time i see a man coming whom i don't like, and if you are quick and ask me first, i'll give it to you." peter became absolutely happy. "how glad i am," he thought, "that i didn't go to syracuse! what a shame it is there are other dances than waltzes." but after peter had had two waltzes, he overheard his aged friend of fifteen years say something to a girl that raised him many degrees in his mind. "that's a very brainy fellow," said peter admiringly. "that never occurred to me!" so he waited till he saw leonore seated, and then joined her. "won't you sit out this dance with me?" he asked. leonore looked surprised. "he's getting very clever," she thought, never dreaming that peter's cleverness, like so many other people's nowadays, consisted in a pertinent use of quotations. parrot cleverness, we might term it. leonore listened to the air which the musicians were beginning, and finding it the lancers, or dreariest of dances, she made peter happy by assenting. "suppose we go out on the veranda," said peter, still quoting. "now of what are you going to talk?" said leonore, when they were ensconced on a big wicker divan, in the soft half light of the chinese lanterns. "i want to tell you of something that seems to me about a hundred years ago," said peter. "but it concerns myself, and i don't want to bore you." "try, and if i don't like it i'll stop you," said leonore, opening up a line of retreat worthy of a german army. "i don't know what you'll think about it," said peter, faltering a little. "i suppose i can hardly make you understand it, as it is to me. but i want you to know, because--well--it's only fair." leonore looked at peter with a very tender look in her eyes. he could not see it, because leonore sat so that her face was in shadow. but she could see his expression, and when he hesitated, with that drawn look on his face, leonore said softly: "you mean--about--mamma?" peter started. "yes! you know?" "yes," said leonore gently. "and that was why i trusted you, without ever having met you, and why i wanted to be friends." peter sighed a sigh of relief. "i've been so afraid of it," he said. "she told you?" "yes. that is, miss de voe told me first of your having been disappointed, so i asked mamma if she knew the girl, and then mamma told me. i'm glad you spoke of it, for i've wanted to ask you something." "what?" "if that was why you wouldn't call at first on us?" "no." "then why did mamma say you wouldn't call?" when peter made no reply, leonore continued, "i knew--that is i felt, there was something wrong. what was it?" "i can't tell you." "yes," said leonore, very positively. peter hesitated. "she thought badly of me about something, till i apologized to her." "and now?" "now she invites me to grey-court." "then it wasn't anything?" "she had misjudged me." "now, tell me what it was." "miss d'alloi, i know you do not mean it," said peter, "but you are paining me greatly. there is nothing in my whole life so bitter to me as what you ask me to tell." "oh, peter," said leonore, "i beg your pardon. i was very thoughtless!" "and you don't think the worse of me, because i loved your mother, and because i can't tell you?" said peter, in a dangerous tone. "no," said leonore, but she rose. "now we'll go back to the dancing." "one moment," begged peter. but leonore was already in the full light blazing from the room. "are you coming?" she said. "may i have this waltz?" said peter, trying to get half a loaf. "no," said leonore, "it's promised to mr. rutgers." just then mine host came up and said. "i congratulate you, mr. stirling." peter wanted to kick him, but he didn't. "i congratulate you," said another man. "on what?" peter saw no cause for congratulation, only for sorrow. "oh, peter," said dorothy, sailing up at this junction, "how nice! and such a surprise!" "why, haven't you heard?" said mine host. "oh," cried leonore, "is it about the convention?" "yes," said a man. "manners is in from the club and tells us that a despatch says your name was sprung on the convention at nine, and that you were chosen by acclamation without a single ballot being taken. every one's thunderstruck." "oh, no," said a small voice, fairly bristling with importance, "i knew all about it." every one laughed at this, except dorothy. dorothy had a suspicion that it was true. but she didn't say so. she sniffed visibly, and said, "nonsense. as if peter would tell you secrets. come, peter, i want to take you over and let miss biddle congratulate you." "peter has just asked me for this waltz," said leonore. "oh, mr. rutgers, i'm so sorry, i'm going to dance this with mr. stirling." and then peter felt he was to be congratulated. "i shan't marry him myself," thought leonore, "but i won't have my friends married off right under my nose, and you can try all you want, mrs. rivington." so peter's guardianship was apparently bearing fruit. yet man to this day holds woman to be the weaker vessel! chapter liv. obstinacy. the next morning peter found that his prayer for a rainy day had been answered, and came down to breakfast in the pleasantest of humors. "see how joyful his future excellency looks already," said watts, promptly recalling peter to the serious part of life. and fortunately too, for from that moment, the time which he had hoped to have alone (if _two_ ever can be alone), began to be pilfered from him. hardly were they seated at breakfast when pell dropped in to congratulate him, and from that moment, despite the rain, every friend in newport seemed to feel it a bounden duty to do the same, and to stay the longer because of the rain. peter wished he had set the time for the convention two days earlier or two days later. "i hope you won't ask any of these people to luncheon," peter said in an aside to mrs. d'alloi. "why?" he was asked. peter looked puzzled, and finally said weakly, "i--i have a good deal to do." and then as proper punishment for his misdemeanor, the footman announced dorothy and miss biddle, ray and ogden. dorothy sailed into the room with the announcement: "we've all come to luncheon if we are asked." "oh, peter," said ray, when they were seated at the table. "have you seen this morning's 'voice of labor?' no? good gracious, they've raked up that old verse in watts's class-song and print it as proof that you were a drunkard in your college days. here it is. set to music and headed 'saloon pete.'" "look here, ray, we must write to the 'voice' and tell them the truth," said watts. "never write to the paper that tells the lie," said peter, laughing. "always write to the one that doesn't. then it will go for the other paper. but i wouldn't take the trouble in this case. the opposition would merely say that: 'of course mr. stirling's intimate friends are bound to give such a construction to the song, and the attempt does them credit.'" "but why don't you deny it, peter?" asked leonore anxiously. "it's awful to think of people saying you are a drunkard!" "if i denied the untruths told of me i should have my hands full. nobody believes such things, except the people who are ready to believe them. they wouldn't believe otherwise, no matter what i said. if you think a man is a scoundrel, you are not going to believe his word." "but, peter," said mrs. d'alloi, "you ought to deny them for the future. after you and your friends are dead, people will go back to the newspapers, and see what they said about you, and then will misjudge you." "i am not afraid of that. i shall hardly be of enough account to figure in history, or if i become so, such attacks will not hurt me. why, washington was charged by the papers of his day, with being a murderer, a traitor, and a tyrant. and lincoln was vilified to an extent which seems impossible now. the greater the man, the greater the abuse." "why do the papers call you 'pete'?" asked leonore, anxiously. "i rather like peter, but pete is dreadful!" "to prove that i am unfit to be governor." "are you serious?" asked miss biddle. "yes. from their point of view, the dropping of the 'r' ought to convince voters that i am nothing but a tough and heeler." "but it won't!" declared leonore, speaking from vast experience. "i don't think it will. though if they keep at it, and really convince the voters who can be convinced by such arguments, that i am what they call me, they'll elect me." "how?" asked mrs. d'alloi. "because intelligent people are not led astray but outraged by such arguments, and ignorant people, who can be made to believe all that is said of me, by such means, will think i am just the man for whom they want to vote." "how is it possible that the papers can treat you so?" said watts. "the editors know you?" "oh, yes. i have met nearly every man connected with the new york press." "they must know better?" "yes. but for partisan purposes they must say what they do." "then they are deliberately lying to deceive the people?" asked miss biddle. "it's rather a puzzling matter in ethics," said peter. "i don't think that the newspaper fraternity have any lower standard of morals, than men in other professions. in the main they stand for everything that is admirable, so long as it's non-partisan, and some of the men who to-day are now writing me down, have aided me in the past more than i can say, and are at this moment my personal friends." "how dishonest!" "i cannot quite call it that. when the greatest and most honorable statesmen of europe and america will lie and cheat each other to their utmost extent, under cover of the term 'diplomacy,' and get rewarded and praised by their respective countries for their knavery, provided it is successful, i think 'dishonest' is a strong word for a merely partisan press. certain it is, that the partisan press would end to-morrow, but for the narrowness and meanness of readers." "which they cause," said ogden. "just as much," said peter, "as the saloon makes a drunkard, food causes hunger, and books make readers." "but, at least, you must acknowledge they've got you, when they say you are the saloon-keepers' friend," laughed watts. "yes. i am that--but only for votes, you understand." "mr. stirling, why do you like saloons?" asked miss biddle. "i don't like saloons. my wish is to see the day come, when such a gross form of physical enjoyment as tippling shall cease entirely. but till that day comes, till humanity has taught itself and raised itself, i want to see fair play." "what do you mean?" "the rich man can lay in a stock of wine, or go to a hotel or club, and get what he wants at any time and all times. it is not fair, because a man's pockets are filled with nickels instead of eagles, that he shall not have the same right. for that reason, i have always spoken for the saloon, and even for sunday openings. you know what i think myself of that day. you know what i think of wine. but if i claim the right to spend sunday in my way and not to drink, i must concede an equal right to others to do as they please. if a man wants to drink at any time, what right have i to say he shall not?" "but the poor man goes and makes a beast of himself," said watts. "there is as much champagne drunkenness as whisky drunkenness, in proportion to the number of drinkers of each. but a man who drinks champagne, is sent home in a cab, and is put to bed, while the man who can't afford that kind of drink, and is made mad by poisoned and doctored whisky, doctored and poisoned because of our heavy tax on it, must take his chance of arrest. that is the shameful thing about all our so-called temperance legislation. it's based on an unfair interference with personal liberty, and always discriminates in favor of the man with money. if the rich man has his club, let the poor man have his saloon." "how much better, though," said mrs. d'alloi, "to stop the sale of wine everywhere." "that is neither possible nor right. you can't strengthen humanity by tying its hands. it must be left free to become strong. i have thought much about the problem, and i see only one fair and practical means of bettering our present condition. but boss as the papers say i am, i am not strong enough to force it." "what is that, peter?" asked dorothy. "so long as a man drinks in such a way as not to interfere with another person's liberty we have no right to check him. but the moment he does, the public has a right to protect itself and his family, by restraining him, as it does thieves, or murderers, or wife-beaters. my idea is, that a license, something perhaps like our dog-license, shall be given to every one who applies for it. that before a man can have a drink, this license must be shown. then if a man is before the police court a second time, for drunkenness, or if his family petition for it, his license shall be cancelled, and a heavy fine incurred by any one who gives or sells that man a drink thereafter." "oh," laughed watts, "you are heavenly! just imagine a host saying to his dinner-party, 'friends, before this wine is passed, will you please show me your drink licenses.'" "you may laugh, watts," said peter, "but such a request would have saved many a young fellow from ruin, and society from an occasional terrible occurrence which even my little social experience has shown me. and it would soon be so much a matter of course, that it would be no more than showing your ticket, to prove yourself entitled to a ride. it solves the problem of drunkenness. and that is all we can hope to do, till humanity is--" then peter, who had been looking at leonore, smiled. "is what?" asked leonore. "the rest is in cipher," said peter, but if he had finished his sentence, it would have been, "half as perfect as you are." after this last relay of callers had departed, it began to pour so nobly that peter became hopeful once more. he wandered about, making a room-to-room canvass, in search of happiness, and to his surprise saw happiness descending the broad stair incased in an english shooting-cap, and a mackintosh. "you are not going out in such weather?" demanded peter. "yes. i've had no exercise to-day, and i'm going for a walk." "it's pouring torrents," expostulated peter. "i know it." "but you'll get wet through." "i hope so. i like to walk in the rain." peter put his hand on the front door-handle, to which this conversation had carried them, "you mustn't go out," he said. "i'm going," said leonore, made all the more eager now that it was forbidden. "please don't," said peter weakening. "let me pass," said leonore decisively. "does your father know?" "of course not." "then you should ask him. it's no weather for you to walk in." "i shan't ask him." "then i shall," and peter went hurriedly to the library. "watts," he said, "it's raining torrents and leonore insists on going to walk. please say she is not to go." "all right," said watts, not looking up from his book. that was enough. peter sped back to the hall. it was empty. he put his head into the two rooms. empty. he looked out of the front door. there in the distance, was that prettiest of figures, distinguishable even when buried in a mackintosh. peter caught up a cap from the hall rack, and set out in pursuit. leonore was walking rapidly, but it did not take peter many seconds to come up with her. "your father says you are not to go out." "i can't help it, since i am out," said leonore, sensibly. "but you should come back at once." "i don't care to," said leonore. "aren't you going to obey him?" "he never would have cared if you hadn't interfered. it's your orders, not his. so i intend to have my walk." "you are to come back," said peter. leonore stopped and faced him. "this is getting interesting," she thought. "we'll see who can be the most obstinate." aloud she said, "who says so?" "i do." "and i say i shan't." peter felt his helplessness. "please come back." leonore laughed internally. "i don't choose to." "then i shall have to make you." "how?" asked leonore. that was a conundrum, indeed. if it had been a knotty law point, peter would have been less nonplussed by it. leonore felt her advantage, and used it shamefully. she knew that peter was helpless, and she said, "how?" again, laughing at him. peter groped blindly. "i shall make you," he said again, for lack of anything better. "perhaps," said leonore, helping him out, though with a most insulting laugh in her voice and face, "you will get a string and lead me?" peter looked the picture of helplessness. "or you might run over to the goelets', and borrow their baby's perambulator," continued that segment of the spanish inquisition. if ever an irritating, aggravating, crazing, exasperating, provoking fretting enraging, "i dare you," was uttered, it was in leonore's manner as she said this. peter looked about hopelessly. "please hurry up and say how," leonore continued, "for i want to get down to the cliff walk. it's very wet here on the grass. perhaps you will carry me back? you evidently think me a baby in arms." "he's such fun to tease," was her thought, "and you can say just what you please without being afraid of his doing anything ungentlemanly." many a woman dares to torture a man for just the same reason. she was quite right as to peter. he had recognized that he was powerless; that he could not use force. he looked the picture of utter indecision. but as leonore spoke, a sudden change came over his face and figure. "leonore had said it was wet on the grass! leonore would wet her feet! leonore would take cold! leonore would have pneumonia! leonore would die!" it was a shameful chain of argument for a light of the bar, logic unworthy of a school-boy. but it was fearfully real to peter for the moment, and he said to himself: "i must do it, even if she never forgives me." then the indecision left his face, and he took a step forward. leonore caught her breath with a gasp. the "dare-you" look, suddenly changed to a very frightened one, and turning, she sped across the lawn, at her utmost speed. she had read something in peter's face, and felt that she must fly, however ignominious such retreat might be. peter followed, but though he could have caught her in ten seconds, he did not. as on a former occasion, he thought: "i'll let her get out of breath. then she will not be so angry. at least she won't be able to talk. how gracefully she runs!" presently, as soon as leonore became convinced that peter did not intend to catch her, she slowed down to a walk. peter at once joined her. "now," he said, "will you come back?" leonore was trying to conceal her panting. she was not going to acknowledge that she was out of breath since peter wasn't. so she made no reply. "you are walking in the wrong direction," said peter, laying his hand on her arm. then, since she made no reply, his hand encircled the arm, and he stopped. leonore took two more steps. then she too, curiously enough, halted. "stop holding me," she said, not entirely without betraying her breathlessness. "you are to come back," said peter. he got an awful look from those eyes. they were perfectly blazing with indignation. "stop holding me," she repeated. it was a fearful moment to peter. but he said, with an appeal in his voice, "you know i suffer in offending you. i did not believe that i could touch you without your consent. but your health is dearer to me than your anger is terrible. you must come home." so leonore, realizing that helplessness in a man exists only by his own volition, turned, and began walking towards the now distant house. peter at once released her arm, and walked beside her. not a glimpse did he get of those dear eyes. leonore was looking directly before her, and a grenadier could not have held himself straighter. if insulted dignity was to be acted in pantomime, the actor could have obtained some valuable points from that walk. peter walked along, feeling semi-criminal, yet semi-happy. he had saved leonore from an early grave, and that was worth while doing. then, too, he could look at her, and that was worth while doing. the run had made leonore's cheeks blaze, as peter's touch had made her eyes. the rain had condensed in little diamonds on her stray curls, and on those long lashes. it seemed to peter that he had never seen her lovelier. the longing to take her in his arms was so strong, that he almost wished she had refused to return. but then peter knew that she was deeply offended, and that unless he could make his peace, he was out of favor for a day at least. that meant a very terrible thing to him. a whole day of neglect; a whole day with no glimpse of these eyes; a whole day without a smile from those lips! peter had too much sense to say anything at once. he did not speak till they were back in the hall. leonore had planned to go straight to her room, but peter was rather clever, since she preceded him, in getting to the foot of the staircase so rapidly that he was there first. this secured him his moment for speech. he said simply: "miss d'alloi, i ask your forgiveness for offending you." leonore had her choice of standing silent, of pushing passed peter, or of speaking. if she had done the first, or the second, her position was absolutely impregnable. but a woman's instinct is to seek defence or attack in words rather than actions. so she said: "you had no right, and you were very rude." she did not look at peter. "it pained me far more than it could pain you." leonore liked peter's tone of voice, but she saw that her position was weakening. she said, "let me by, please." peter with reluctance gave her just room to pass. he felt that he had not said half of what he wished, but he did not dare to offend again. as it turned out, it was the best thing he could do, for the moment leonore had passed him, she exclaimed, "why! your coat's wringing wet." "that's nothing," said peter, turning to the voice. he found those big dark eyes at last looking at him, and looking at him without anger. leonore had stopped on the step above him. "that shows how foolish you were to go out in the rain," said leonore. "yes," said peter, venturing on the smallest smiles. leonore promptly explained the charge in peter's "yes." "it's very different," he was told. "i put on tips and a mackintosh. you didn't put on anything. and it was pouring torrents." "but i'm tough," said peter, "a wetting won't hurt me." "so am i," said leonore. "i've tramped for hours in the orkneys, and sweden and norway, when it was raining. but then i was dressed for it. go and put on dry clothes at once." that was what peter had intended to do, but he saw his advantage. "it isn't worth while," he said. "i never heard of such obstinacy," said leonore. "i pity your wife, if you ever get one. she'll have an awful time of it." peter did not like that view at all. but he did not forego at once his hope of getting some compensation out of leonore's wish. so he said: "it's too much trouble to change my clothes, but a cup of your tea may keep me from taking cold." it was nearly five, o'clock, and peter was longing for that customary half-hour at the tea-table. leonore said in the kindness of her heart, "when you've changed your clothes, i'll make you a cup." then she went upstairs. when she had reached the second floor, she turned, and leaning over the balustrade of the gallery, said, "peter." "yes," said peter, surveying her from below, and thinking how lovely she was. leonore was smiling saucily. she said in triumph: "i had my way. i did get my walk." then she went to her room, her head having a very victorious carriage. peter went to his room, smiling. "it's a good lawyer," he told his mirror, "who compromises just enough to make both sides think they've won." peter changed his clothes with the utmost despatch, and hurried downstairs to the tea-table. she was not there! peter waited nearly five minutes quietly, with a patience almost colossal. then he began to get restless. he wandered about the room for another two minutes. then he became woe-begone. "i thought she had forgiven me," he remarked. "what?" said the loveliest of visions from the doorway. most women would have told one that the beauty lay in the parisian tea-gown. peter knew better. still, he was almost willing to forgive leonore the delay caused by the donning of it, the result was so eminently satisfactory. "and it will take her as long to make tea as usual, anyway," he thought. "hadn't i better put some rum into it to-day?" he was asked, presently. "you may put anything in it, except the sugar tongs," said peter, taking possession of that article. "but then i can't put any sugar in." "fingers were made before forks," suggested peter. "you don't want to give me anything bitter, do you?" "you deserve it," said leonore, but she took the lumps in her fingers, and dropped them in the cup. "i can't wait five years!" thought peter, "i can't wait five months--weeks--days--hours--minutes--sec----" watts saved peter from himself by coming in here. "hello! here you are. how cosy you look. i tried to find you both a few minutes ago, but thought you must have gone to walk after all. here, peter. here's a special delivery letter, for which i receipted a while ago. give me a cup, dot." peter said, "excuse me," and, after a glance at the envelope, opened the letter with a sinking sensation. he read it quickly, and then reached over and rang the bell. when the footman came, peter rose and said something in a low voice to him. then he came back to his tea. "nothing wrong, i hope," asked watts. "yes. at least i am called back to new york," said peter gloomily. "bother," said watts. "when?" "i shall leave by the night express." "nonsense. if it was so important as that, they'd have wired you." "it isn't a matter which could be telegraphed." "what is it, peter?" said leonore, putting her finger in. "it's confidential." so leonore did not ask again. but when the tea was finished, and all had started upstairs, leonore said, "peter," on the landing. when peter stopped, she whispered, "why are you going to new york?" "i can't tell you," said peter. "yes, you can, now that papa isn't here." "no." "yes. i know it's politics, and you are to tell me." "it isn't politics." "then what is it?" "you really want to know?" "of course." "it's something really confidential." leonore gave peter one look of insulted dignity, and went upstairs to her room. "he's different," she said. "he isn't a bit afraid of displeasing me any more. i don't know what to do with him." peter found jenifer waiting. "only pack the grip," he said. "i hope to come back in a few days." but he looked very glum, and the glumness stuck to him even after he had dressed and had descended to dinner. "i am leaving my traps," he told mrs. d'alloi. "for i hope to be back next week." "next week!" cried watts. "what has been sprung on you that will take you that long?" "it doesn't depend on me, unfortunately," said peter, "or i wouldn't go." when the carriage was announced later, peter shook hands with watts and mrs. d'alloi, and then held out his hand to leonore. "good-bye," he said. "are you going to tell me why you are going?" said that young lady, with her hands behind her, in the prettiest of poses. "no." "then i shan't say good-bye." "i cannot tell you," said peter, quietly; "please say good-bye." "no." that refusal caused peter gloom all the way to the station. but if leonore could have looked into the future she would have seen in her refusal the bitterest sorrow she had ever known. chapter lv. oaths. as soon as peter was on the express he went into the smoking cabin of the sleeping-car, and lighting a cigar, took out a letter and read it over again. while he was still reading it, a voice exclaimed: "good! here's peter. so you are in it too?" ogden continued, as ray and he took seats by peter. "i always did despise anarchists and nihilists," sighed ray, "since i was trapped into reading some of those maudlin russian novels, with their eighth-century ideas grafted on nineteenth-century conditions. baby brains stimulated with whisky." ogden turned to peter. "how serious is it likely to be, colonel?" "i haven't any idea," replied peter, "the staff is of the opposite party now, and i only have a formal notification to hold my regiment in readiness. if it's nothing but this socialist and anarchist talk, there is no real danger in it." "why not?" "this country can never be in danger from discontent with our government, for it's what the majority want it to be, or if not, it is made so at the next election. that is the beauty of a democracy. the majority always supports the government. we fight our revolutions with ballots, not with bullets." "yet most says that blood must be shed." "i suppose," said peter, "that he has just reached the stage of intelligence which doctors had attained when they bled people to make them strong." "what can you do with such a fellow's talk? you can't argue with him," said ogden. "talk!" muttered ray, "don't dignify it with that word. gibberish!" "no?" said peter, "it's too earnest to deserve that name. the man can't express himself, but way down underneath all the absurd talk of 'natural monopolies,' and of 'the oppression of the money-power,' there lies a germ of truth, without which none of their theories would have a corporal's guard of honest believers. we have been working towards that truth in an unsystematic way for centuries, but we are a long way from it, and till we solve how to realize it, we shall have ineffectual discontent." "but that makes the whole thing only the more arrant nonsense," grumbled ray. "it's foolish enough in all conscience sake, if they had a chance of success, but when they haven't any, why the deuce do they want to drag us poor beggars back from newport?" "why did rome insist on burning while nero fiddled?" queried peter smiling. "we should hear nothing of socialism and anarchy if newport and the like had no existence." "i believe at heart you're a socialist yourself," cried ray. "no danger," laughed ogden; "his bank account is too large. no man with peter's money is ever a socialist" "you forget," said ray, "that peter is always an exception to the rule." "no," said peter. "i disagree with socialists entirely both in aims and methods, but i sympathize with them, for i see the fearful problems which they think their theories will solve, and though i know how mistaken they are, i cannot blame them, when i see how seriously and honestly they believe in, and how unselfishly they work for, their ideas. don't blame the socialists, for they are quite as conscientious as were the abolitionists. blame it to the lack of scientific education, which leaves these people to believe that theories containing a half truth are so wholly true that they mean the regeneration and salvation of society." "i suppose you are right," sighed ray, "for you've thought of it, and i haven't. i don't want to, either. i thank the lord i'm not as serious as you, graveyard. but if you want to air your theory, i'll lend you my ears, for friendship's sake. i don't promise to remember." peter puffed his cigar for a moment "i sometimes conclude," he said, "that the people who are most in need of education, are the college-bred men. they seem to think they've done all the work and study of their life in their four years, and so can dissipate mentally ever after." but peter smiled as he said this and continued, more seriously: "society and personal freedom are only possible in conjunction, when law or public opinion interferes to the degree of repressing all individual acts that interfere with the freedom of others; thus securing the greatest individual freedom to all. so far as physical force is concerned, we have pretty well realized this condition. because a man is strong he can no longer take advantage of the weak. but strength is not limited to muscle. to protect the weak mind from the strong mind is an equal duty, and a far more difficult task. so far we have only partially succeeded. in this difficulty lies the whole problem. socialism, so far as it attempts to repress individualism, and reduce mankind to an evenness opposed to all natural laws, is suicidal of the best in favor of mediocrity. but so far as it attempts to protect that mediocrity and weakness from the superior minds of the best, it is only in line with the laws which protect us from murder and robbery. you can't expect men of the most variety, however, to draw such distinctions." "i do wish they would settle it, without troubling me," groaned ray. "lispenard's right. a man's a fool who votes, or serves on a jury, or joins a regiment. what's the good of being a good citizen, when the other fellow won't be? i'm sick of being good for nothing." "have you just discovered that?" laughed ogden. "you're progressing." "no," said ray, "i am good for one thing. like a good many other men i furnish the raw material on which the dearest of women may lavish her affection. heigh-ho! i wish i was before the fire with her now. it's rather rough to have visits to one's wife cut short in this way." peter rose. "i am going to get some sleep, for we don't know what's before us, and may not have much after to-night. but, ray, there's a harder thing than leaving one's wife at such a time." "what's that, peter?" asked ray, looking at peter with surprise. "to know that there is no one to whom your going or return really matters." peter passed out of the cabin. "by george!" said ray, "if it wasn't peter, i'd have sworn there was salt water in his eyes." "anneke has always insisted that he was lonely. i wonder if she's right?" ogden queried. "if he is, why the deuce does he get off in those solitary quarters of his?" "ray," said ogden, "i have a sovereign contempt for a man who answers one question with another." peter reached the city at six the next morning, and, despite the hour, began his work at once. he made a number of calls in the district, holding whispered dialogues with men; who, as soon as peter was gone, hurried about and held similar conversations with other men; who promptly went and did the same to still others. while they were doing this, peter drove uptown, and went into dickel's riding academy. as he passed through the office, a man came out. "ah, mr. stirling. good-morning." "good-morning, mr. byrnes," said peter. "how serious is it likely to be?" "we can't say yet. but the force has all it can do now to handle the anarchists and unemployed, and if this strike takes place we shall need you." peter passed into another room where were eight men. "good-morning, colonel," said one. "you are prompt." "what is the trouble?" "the central has decided to make a general reduction. they put it in force at noon to-day, and are so certain that the men will go out, that they've six hundred new hands ready somewhere to put right in." "byrnes tells me he has all he can do." "yes. we've obtained the governor's consent to embody eight regiments. it isn't only the strike that's serious, but this parade of the unemployed to-morrow, and the meeting which the anarchists have called in the city hall. byrnes reports a very ugly feeling, and buying of arms." "it's rather rough on you, stirling," spoke up a man, "to have it come while you are a nominee." peter smiled, and passed into the room beyond. "good-morning, general canfield," he said. "i have taken the necessary steps to embody my regiment. are there any further orders?" "if we need you, we shall put you at the central station," the officer replied; "so, if you do not know the lay of the land, you had better familiarize yourself at once." "general canfield," said peter, "my regiment has probably more sympathizers with the strikers than has any other in the city. it could not be put in a worse place." "are you objecting to orders?" said the man, in a sharp decisive voice. "no," replied peter. "i am stating a fact, in hopes that it may prevent trouble." the man and peter looked each other in the eye. "you have your orders," said the man, but he didn't look pleased or proud. peter turned and left the room, looking very grave. he look his cab and went to his quarters. he ate a hurried breakfast, and then went down into the streets. they seemed peaceably active as he walked through them. a small boy was calling an extra, but it was in reference to the arrival of a much-expected racing-yacht. there was nothing to show that a great business depression rested with crushing weight on the city, and especially on the poor; that anarchy was lifting its head, and from hungering for bread was coming to hunger for blood and blaze; that capital and labor were preparing to lock arms in a struggle which perhaps meant death and destruction. the armory door was opened only wide enough to let a man squeeze through, and was guarded by a keeper. peter passed in, however, without question, and heard a hum of voices which showed that if anarchy was gathering, so too was order. peter called his officers together, and gave a few orders. then he turned and whispered for a moment with dennis. "they don't put us there, sir!" exclaimed dennis. "yes." "are they mad?" "they've given us the worst job, not merely as a job, but especially for the regiment. perhaps they won't mind if things do go wrong." "yez mean?" "what will people say of me on november fourth, if my regiment flunks on september thirtieth?" "arrah musha dillah!" cried dennis. "an' is that it?" "i'm afraid so. will the men stand by me?" "oi'll make them. yez see," shouted dennis, "oi'll tell the b'ys they are tryin' to put yez in a hole, an' they'll stan' by yez, no matter what yez are told to do." as quickly as possible peter put on his fatigue uniform. when he came out, it was to find that the rank and file had done the same, and were now standing in groups about the floor. a moment later they were lined up. peter stepped forward and said in a clear, ringing voice: "before the roll is called i wish to say a word. we may receive orders any moment to take possession of the buildings and switches at the central station, to protect the property and operators of that road. this will be hard to some of you, who believe the strikers are right. but we have nothing to do with that. we have taken our oath to preserve order and law, and we are interested in having it done, far more than is the capitalist, for he can buy protection, whether laws are enforced or not, while the laboring man cannot. but if any man here is not prepared to support the state in its duty to protect the life and property of all, by an enforcement of the laws, i wish to know it now." peter stood a moment waiting, and then said, "thank you, men." the roll-call was made, and peter sent off a line to headquarters, stating that his regiment, with only eighteen reported "missing" was mustered and ready for further orders. then the regiment broke ranks, and waited. just as two o'clock struck a despatch was handed peter. a moment later came the rap of the drum, and the men rose from the floor and fell in. a few sharp, quick words were passed from mouth to mouth. guns rose to the shoulders with a click and a movement almost mechanical. the regiment swung from a long straight line into companies, the door rolled open, and without a sound, except the monotonous pound of the regular tread, the regiment passed into the street. at the corner they turned sharply, and marched up a side street, so narrow that the ranks had to break their lines to get within the curbs. so without sound of drum or music they passed through street after street. a regiment is thrilling when it parades to music: it is more so when it marches in silence. presently it passed into a long tunnel, where the footfall echoed in a startling way. but as it neared the other end, a more startling sound could be heard. it was a low murmur, as of many voices, and of voices that were not pleasant. peter's wisdom in availing himself of the protection and secrecy of the tunnel as an approach became obvious. a moment later, as the regiment debouched from the tunnel's mouth, the scene broke upon them. a vast crowd filled fourth avenue and forty-second street. filled even the cut of the entrance to the tunnel. an angry crowd, judging from the sounds. a sharp order passed down the ranks, and the many broad lines melted into a long-thin one again, even as the regiment went forward. it was greeted with yells, and bottles and bricks were hurled from above it, but the appearance of the regiment had taken the men too much by surprise for them to do more. the head entered the mob, and seemed to disappear. more and more of the regiment was swallowed up. finally, except to those who could trace the bright glint of the rifle-barrels, it seemed to have been submerged. then even the rifles disappeared. the regiment had passed through the crowd, and was within the station. peter breathed a sigh of relief. to march up fifth avenue, with empty guns, in a parade, between ten thousand admiring spectators is one thing. to march between ten thousand angry strikers and their sympathizers, with ball cartridges in the rifles, is quite another. it is all the difference between smoking a cigar after dinner, and smoking one in a powder magazine. the regiment's task had only just begun, however. peter had orders to clear the streets about the station. after a consultation with the police captain, the companies were told off, and filing out of the various doors, they began work. peter had planned his debouchments so as to split the mob into sections, knowing that each fragment pushed back rendered the remainder less formidable. first a sally was made from the terminal station, and after two lines of troops had been thrown across forty-second street, the second was ordered to advance. thus a great tongue of the mob, which stretched towards third avenue, was pressed back, almost to that street, and held there, without a quarter of the mob knowing that anything was being done. then a similar operation was repeated on forty-third street and forty-fourth street, and possession was taken of madison avenue. another wedge was driven into the mob and a section pushed along forty-second, nearly to fifth avenue. then what was left of the mob was pushed back from the front of the building down park avenue. again peter breathed more freely. "i think the worst is done," he told his officers. "fortunately the crowd did not expect us, and was not prepared to resist. if you can once split a mob, so that it has no centre, and can't get together again, except by going round the block, you've taken the heart out of it" as he said this a soldier came up, and saluting, said: "captain moriarty orders me to inform you that a committee of the strikers ask to see you, colonel." peter followed the messenger. he found a couple of sentries marking a line. on one side of this line sat or reclined company d. and eight policemen. on the other stood a group of a dozen men, and back of them, the crowd. peter passed the sentry line, and went up to the group. three were the committee. the rest were the ubiquitous reporters. from the newspaper report of one of the latter we quote the rest: "you wish to see me?" asked colonel stirling. "yes, colonel," said chief potter. "we are here to remonstrate with you." "we've done nothing yet," said doggett, "and till we had, the troops oughtn't to have been called in." "and now people say that the scabs are to be given a regimental escort to the depot, and will go to work at eight." "we've been quiet till now," growled a man in the crowd surlily, "but we won't stand the militia protecting the scabs and rats." "are you going to fight for the capitalist?" ask kurfeldt, when colonel stirling stood silent. "i am fighting no man's battle, kurfeldt," replied colonel stirling. "i am obeying orders." the committee began to look anxious. "you're no friend of the poor man, and you needn't pose any more," shouted one of the crowd. "shut your mouth," said kurfeldt to the crowd. "colonel stirling," he continued, "we know you're our friend. but you can't stay so if you fight labor. take your choice. be the rich man's servant, or our friend." "i know neither rich man nor poor man in this," colonel stirling said. "i know only the law." "you'll let the scabs go on?" "i know no such class. if i find any man doing what the law allows him to do, i shall not interfere. but i shall preserve order." "will you order your men to fire on us?" "if you break the laws." "do it at your peril," cried potter angrily. "for every shot your regiment fires, you'll lose a thousand votes on election day." colonel stirling turned on him, his face blazing with scorn. "votes," he cried. "do you think i would weigh votes at such a time? there is no sacrifice i would not make, rather than give the order that ends a human life; and you think that paper ballots can influence my action? votes compared to men's lives!" "oh," cried doggett, "don't come the heavy nobility racket on us. we are here for business. votes is votes, and you needn't pretend you don't think so." colonel stirling was silent for a moment. then he said calmly: "i am here to do my duty, not to win votes. there are not votes enough in this country to make me do more or less." "hear him talk," jeered one of the crowd, "and he touting round the saloons to get votes." the crowd jeered and hissed unpleasantly. "come, colonel," said kurfeldt, "we know you're after votes this year, and know too much to drive them away. you ain't goin' to lose fifty thousand votes, helpin' scabs to take the bread away from us, only to see you and your party licked." "no," shouted a man in the crowd. "you don't dare monkey with votes!" colonel stirling turned and faced the crowd. "do you want to know how much i care for votes," he called, his head reared in the air. "speak up loud, sonny," shouted a man far back in the mass, "we all want to hear." colonel stirling's voice rang quite clear enough, "votes be damned!" he said, and turning on his heel, strode back past the sentries. and the strikers knew the fate of their attempt to keep out the scabs. colonel stirling's "damn" had damned the strike as well as the votes. dead silence fell on the committee and crowd. even company d. looked astounded. finally, however, one of the committee said, "there's no good wasting time here." then a reporter said to a confrère, "what a stunning headline that will make?" then the captain of company d. got his mouth closed enough to exclaim, "oi always thought he could swear if he tried hard. begobs, b'ys, it's proud av him we should be this day. didn't he swear strong an' fine like? howly hivens! it's a delight to hear damn said like that." for some reason that "swear-word" pleased new york and the country generally, showing that even an oath has its purpose in this world, so long as it is properly used. dean swift said a lie "was too good to be lavished about." so it is of profanity. the crowd understood peter's remark as they would have understood nothing else. they understood that besides those rifles and bayonets there was something else not to be trifled with. so in this case, it was not wasted. and mr. bohlmann, christian though he was, as he read his paper that evening cried, "och! dod beder stirling he always does say chust der righd ding!" chapter lvi. cui bono? of the further doings of that day it seems hardly necessary to write, for the papers recorded it with a fulness impossible here. the gathering crowds. the reinforcement of the militia. the clearing and holding of forty-second street to the river. the arrival of the three barge-loads of "scabs." their march through that street to the station safely, though at every cross street greeted with a storm of stones and other missiles. the struggle of the mob at the station to force back the troops so as to get at the "rats." the impact of the "thin line" and that dense seething mass of enraged, crazed men. the yielding of the troops from mere pressure. the order to the second rank to fix bayonets. the pushing back of the crowd once more. the crack of a revolver. then the dozen shots fired almost simultaneously. the great surge of the mob forward. the quick order, and the rattle of guns, as they rose to the shoulder. another order, and the sheet of flame. the great surge of the mob backwards. then silence. silence in the ranks. silence in the mob. silence in those who lay on the ground between the two. capital and labor were disagreed as to a ten per cent reduction of wages, and were trying to settle it. at first blush capital had the best of it. "only a few strikers and militia-men killed," was the apparent result of that struggle. the scabs were in safety inside the station, and trains were already making up, preparatory to a resumption of traffic. but capital did not go scot-free. "firing in the streets of new york," was the word sent out all over the world, and on every exchange in the country, stocks fell. capital paid twenty-five million dollars that day, for those few ounces of lead. such a method of settlement seems rather crude and costly, for the last decade of the nineteenth century. boys all over the city were quickly crying extras of the "labor-party" organ, the first column of which was headed: butcher stirling the nominee of the democratic party shoots down unarmed men in cold blood. this was supplemented by inflammatory broadsides. men stood up on fences, lamp-posts, or barrels, wherever they could get an audience, and shrieked out invectives against police, troops, government, and property; and waved red flags. orders went out to embody more regiments. timid people retired indoors, and bolted their shutters. the streets became deserted, except where they were filled by groups of angry men listening to angrier speakers. it was not a calm night in new york. yet in reality, the condition was less serious, for representatives of capital, labor, and government were in consultation. inside the station, in the directors' room of the railroad, its officials, a committee of the strikers, and an officer in fatigue uniform, with a face to match, were seated in great leather-covered chairs, around a large table. when they had first gathered, there had been dark brows, and every sentence had been like the blow of flint on steel. at one moment all but the officer had risen from their seats, and the meeting had seemed ended. but the officer had said something quietly, and once more they had seated themselves. far into the night they sat, while mobs yelled, and sentries marched their beats. when the gathering ended, the scowls were gone. civil partings were exchanged, and the committee and the officer passed out together. "that stirling is a gritty bull-dog for holding on, isn't he?" said one of the railroad officials. "it's a regular surrender for us." "yes, but we couldn't afford to be too obstinate with him, for he may be the next governor." one of the committee said to the officer as they passed into the street, "well, we've given up everything to the road, to please you. i hope you'll remember it when you're governor and we want things done." "gentlemen," said peter, "for every surrender of opinion you and the railroad officials have made to-night, i thank you. but you should have compromised twelve hours sooner." "so as you should not have had to make yourself unpopular?" asked kurfeldt. "you needn't be afraid. you've done your best for us. now we'll do our best for you." "i was not thinking of myself. i was thinking of the dead," said peter. peter sent a despatch to headquarters and went the rounds to see if all was as it should be. then spreading his blanket in the passenger waiting-room, he fell asleep, not with a very happy look on the grave face. but the morning-papers announced that the strike was ended by a compromise, and new york and the country breathed easier. peter did not get much sleep, for he was barely dreaming of--of a striker, who had destroyed his peace, by striking him in the heart with a pair of slate-colored eyes--when a hand was placed on his shoulder. he was on his feet before the disturber of his dreams could speak. "a despatch from headquarters," said the man. peter broke it open. it said: "take possession of printing-house square, and await further orders." in ten minutes the regiment was tramping through the dark, silent streets, on its way to the new position. "i think we deserve a rest," growled the lieutenant-colonel to peter. "we shan't get it," said peter, "if there's anything hard to be done, we shall have it." then he smiled. "you'll have to have an understanding hereafter, before you make a man colonel, that he shan't run for office." "what are we in for now?" "i can't say. to-day's the time of the parade and meeting in city hall park." it was sunrise when the regiment drew up in the square facing the park. it was a lovely morning, with no sign of trouble in sight, unless the bulletin boards of the newspapers, which were chiefly devoted to the doings about the central station, could be taken as such. except for this, the regiment was the only indication that the universal peace had not come, and even this looked peaceful, as soon as it had settled down to hot coffee, bread and raw ham. in the park, however, was a suggestive sight. for not merely were all the benches filled with sleeping men, but the steps of the city hall, the grass, and even the hard asphalt pavement were besprinkled with a dirty, ragged, hungry-looking lot of men, unlike those usually seen in the streets of new york. when the regiment marched into the square, a few of the stragglers rose from their recumbent attitudes, and looked at it, without much love in their faces. as the regiment breakfasted, more and more rose from their hard beds to their harder lives. they moved about restlessly, as if waiting for something. some gathered in little groups and listened to men who talked and shrieked far louder than was necessary in order that their listeners should hear. some came to the edge of the street and cursed and vituperated the breakfasting regiment. some sat on the ground and ate food which they produced from their pockets or from paper bundles. it was not very tempting-looking food. yet there were men in the crowd who looked longingly at it, and a few scuffles occurred in attempts to get some. that crowd represented the slag and scum of the boiling pot of nineteenth-century conditions. and as the flotsam on a river always centres at its eddies, so these had drifted, from the country, and from the slums, to the centre of the whirlpool of american life. here they were waiting. waiting for what? the future only would show. but each moment is a future, till it becomes the present. while the regiment still breakfasted it became conscious of a monotonous sound, growing steadily in volume. then came the tap of the drum, and the regiment rose from a half-eaten meal, and lined up as if on parade. several of the members remarked crossly: "why couldn't they wait ten minutes?" the next moment the head of another regiment swung from chambers street into the square. it was greeted by hisses and groans from the denizens of the park, but this lack of politeness was more than atoned for, by the order: "present arms," passed down the immovable line awaiting it. after a return salute the commanding officers advanced and once more saluted. "in obedience to orders from headquarters, i have the honor to report my regiment to you, colonel stirling, and await your orders," said the officer of the "visiting" regiment, evidently trying not to laugh. "let your men break ranks, and breakfast, major rivington," said peter. in two minutes dandy and mick were mingled, exchanging experiences, as they sliced meat off the same ham-bones and emptied the same cracker boxes. what was more, each was respecting and liking the other. one touch of danger is almost as efficacious as one touch of nature. it is not the differences in men which make ill-feeling or want of sympathy, it is differences in conditions. in the mean time, peter, ray and ogden had come together over their grub, much as if it was a legal rather than an illegal trouble to be dealt with. "where were you?" asked peter. "at the sixty-third street terminals," said ray. "we didn't have any fun at all. as quiet as a cow. you always were lucky! excuse me, peter, i oughtn't to have said it," ray continued, seeing peter's face. "it's this wretched american trick of joking at everything." ogden, to change the subject, asked: "did you really say 'damn'?" "yes." "but i thought you disapproved of cuss words." "i do. but the crowd wouldn't believe that i was honest in my intention to protect the substitutes. they thought i was too much of a politician to dare to do it. so i swore, thinking they would understand that as they would not anything else. i hoped it might save actual firing. but they became so enraged that they didn't care if we did shoot." just then one of the crowd shrieked, "down with the blood-suckers. on to freedom. freedom of life, of property, of food, of water, of air, of land. destroy the money power!" "if we ever get to the freedom he wants," said ray, "we'll utilize that chap for supplying free gas." "splendid raw material for free soap," said ogden. "he's not the only one," said ray. "i haven't had a wash in nine hours, and salt meats are beginning to pall." "there are plenty of fellows out there will eat it for you, ray," said peter, "and plenty more who have not washed in weeks." "it's their own fault." "yes. but if you burn or cut yourself, through ignorance, that doesn't make the pain any the less." "they don't look like a crowd which could give us trouble." "they are just the kind who can. they are men lifted off their common sense, and therefore capable of thinking they can do anything, just as john brown expected to conquer virginia with forty men." "but there's no danger of their getting the upper hand." "no. yet i wish we had orders to clear the park now, while there are comparatively few here, or else to go back to our armories, and let them have their meeting in peace. our being here will only excite them." "hear that," said ray, as the crowd gave a great roar as another regiment came up park place, across the park and spread out so as to cover broadway. as they sat, new yorkers began to rise and begin business. but many seemed to have none, and drifted into the park. some idlers came from curiosity, but most seemed to have some purpose other than the mere spectacle. from six till ten they silted in imperceptibly from twenty streets. as fast as the crowd grew, regiments appeared, and taking up positions, lay at ease. there was something terrible about the quiet way in which both crowd and troops increased. the mercury was not high, but it promised to be a hot morning in new york. all the car lines took off their cars. trucks disappeared from the streets. the exchanges and the banks closed their doors, and many hundred shops followed their example. new york almost came to a standstill as order and anarchy faced each other. while these antagonistic forces still gathered, a man who had been yelling to his own coterie of listeners in that dense crowd, extracted himself, and limped towards peter. "mr. stirling," he shouted, "come out from those murderers. i want to tell you something." peter went forward. "what is it, podds?" he asked. podds dropped his voice. "we're out for blood to-day. but i don't want yours, if you do murder my fellow-men. get away from here, quick. hide yourself before the people rise in their might." peter smiled sadly. "how are mrs. podds and the children?" he asked kindly. "what is a family at such a moment?" shrieked podds. "the world is my family. i love the whole world, and i'm going to revolutionize it. i'm going to give every man his rights. the gutters shall reek with blood, and every plutocrat's castle shall be levelled to the soil. but i'll spare you, for though you are one of the classes, it's your ignorance, not your disposition, that makes you one. get away from here. get away before it's too late." just then the sound of a horse's feet was heard, and a staff officer came cantering from a side street into the square. he saluted peter and said, "colonel stirling, the governor has issued a proclamation forbidding the meeting and parade. general canfield orders you to clear the park, by pushing the mob towards broadway. the regiments have been drawn in so as to leave a free passage down the side streets." "don't try to move us a foot," screamed podds, "or there'll be blood. we claim the right of free meeting and free speech." even as he spoke, the two regiments formed, stiffened, fixed bayonets, and moved forward, as if they were machines rather than two thousand men. "brethren," yelled podds, "the foot of the tyrant is on us. rise. rise in your might." then podds turned to find the rigid line of bayonets close upon him. he gave a spring, and grappled with peter, throwing his arms about peter's neck. peter caught him by the throat with his free arm. "don't push me off," shrieked podds in his ear, "it's coming," and he clung with desperate energy to peter. peter gave a twist with his arm. he felt the tight clasp relax, and the whole figure shudder. he braced his arm for a push, intending to send podds flying across the street. but suddenly there was a flash, as of lightning. then a crash. then the earth shook, cobble-stones, railroad tracks, anarchists, and soldiers, rose in the air, leaving a great chasm in crowd and street. into that chasm a moment later, stones, rails, anarchists, and soldiers fell, leaving nothing but a thick cloud of overhanging dust. underneath that great dun pall lay soldier and anarchist, side by side, at last at peace. the one died for his duty, the other died for his idea. the world was none the better, but went on unchanged. chapter lvii happiness the evening on which peter had left grey-court, leonore had been moved "for sundry reasons" to go to her piano and sing an english ballad entitled "happiness." she had sung it several times, and with gusto. the next morning she read the political part of the papers. "i don't see anything to have taken him back," she said "but i am really glad, for he was getting hard to manage. i couldn't send him away, but now i hope he'll stay there." then leonore fluttered all day, in the true newport style, with no apparent thought of her "friend." but something at a dinner that evening interested her. "i'm ashamed," said the hostess, "of my shortage of men. marlow was summoned back to new york last night, by business, quite unexpectedly, and mr. dupont telegraphed me this afternoon that he was detained there." "it's curious," said dorothy. "mr. rivington and my brother came on tuesday expecting to stay for a week, but they had special delivery letters yesterday, and both started for new york. they would not tell me what it was." "mr. stirling received a special delivery, too," said leonore, "and started at once. and he wouldn't tell." "how extraordinary!" said the hostess. "there must be something very good at the roof-gardens." "it has something to do with headwears," said leonore, not hiding her light under a bushel. "headwear?" said a man. "yes," said leonore. "i only had a glimpse of the heading, but i saw 'headwears n.g.s.n.y.'" a sudden silence fell, no one laughing at the mistake. "what's the matter?" asked leonore. "we are wondering what will happen," said the host, "if men go in for headwear too." "they do that already," said a man, "but unlike women, they do it on the inside, not the outside of the head." but nobody laughed, and the dinner seemed to drag from that moment. leonore and dorothy had come together, and as soon as they were in their carriage, leonore said, "what a dull dinner it was?" "oh, leonore," cried dorothy, "don't talk about dinners. i've kept up till now, bu--" and dorothy's sentence melted into a sob. "is it home, mrs. rivington?" asked the tiger, sublimely unconscious, as a good servant should be, of this dialogue, and of his mistress's tears. "no, portman, the club," sobbed dorothy. "dorothy," begged leonore, "what is it?" "don't you understand?" sobbed dorothy. "all this fearful anarchist talk and discontent? and my poor, poor darling! oh, don't talk to me." dorothy became inarticulate once more. "how foolish married women are!" thought leonore, even while putting her arm around dorothy, and trying blindly to comfort her. "is it a message, mrs. rivington?" asked the man, opening the carriage-door. "ask for mr. melton, or mr. duer, and say mrs. rivington wishes to see one of them." dorothy dried her eyes, and braced up. before leonore had time to demand an explanation, peter's gentlemanly scoundrel was at the door. "what is it, mrs. rivington?" he asked. "mr. duer, is there any bad news from new york?" "yes. a great strike on the central is on, and the troops have been called in to keep order." "is that all the news?" asked dorothy. "yes." "thank you," said dorothy. "home, portman." the two women were absolutely silent during the drive. but they kissed each other in parting, not with the peck which women so often give each other, but with a true kiss. and when leonore, in crossing the porch, encountered the mastiff which peter had given her, she stopped and kissed him too, very tenderly. what is more, she brought him inside, which was against the rules, and put him down before the fire. then she told the footman to bring her the evening-papers, and sitting down on the rug by bêtise, proceeded to search them, not now for the political outlook, but for the labor troubles. leonore suddenly awoke to the fact that there were such things as commercial depressions and unemployed. she read it all with the utmost care. she read the outpourings of the anarchists, in a combination of indignation, amazement and fear, "i never dreamed there could be such fearful wretches!" she said. there was one man--a fellow named podds--whom the paper reported as shrieking in union square to a select audience: "rise! wipe from the face of the earth the money power! kill! kill! only by blood atonement can we lead the way to better things. to a universal brotherhood of love. down with rich men! down with their paid hirelings, the troops! blow them in pieces!" "oh!" cried leonore shuddering. "it's fearful. i wish some one would blow you in pieces!" thereby was she proving herself not unlike podds. all humanity have something of the anarchist in them. then leonore turned to the mastiff and told him some things. of how bad the strikers were, and how terrible were the anarchists. "yes, dear," she said, "i wish we had them here, and then you could treat them as they deserve, wouldn't you, bêtise? i'm so glad he has my luck-piece!" a moment later her father and another man came into the hall from the street, compelling leonore to assume a more proper attitude. "hello, dot!" said watts. "still up? vaughan and i are going to have a game of billiards. won't you score for us?" "yes," said leonore. "bad news from new york, isn't it?" said vaughan, nonchalantly, as he stood back after his first play. leonore saw her father make a grimace at vaughan, which vaughan did not see. she said, "what?" "i missed," said watts. "your turn, will." "tell me the news before you shoot?" said leonore. "the collision of the strikers and the troops." "was any one hurt?" asked leonore, calmly scoring two to her father's credit. "yes. eleven soldiers and twenty-two strikers." "what regiment was it?" asked leonore. "colonel stirling's," said vaughan, making a brilliant _massé_. "fortunately it's a mick regiment, so we needn't worry over who was killed." leonore thought to herself: "you are as bad every bit as podds!" aloud she said, "did it say who were killed?" "no. the dispatch only said fourteen dead." "that was a beautiful shot," said leonore. "you ought to run the game out with that position. i think, papa, that i'll go to bed. i find i'm a little tired. good-night, mr. vaughan." leonore went upstairs, slowly, deep in thought. she did not ring for her maid. on the contrary she lay down on her bed in her dinner-gown, to its everlasting detriment. "i know he isn't hurt," she said, "because i should feel it. but i wish the telegram had said." she hardly believed herself, apparently, for she buried her head in the pillow, and began to sob quietly. "if i only had said good-bye," she moaned. early the next morning watts found leonore in the hall. "how pale my dot is!" he exclaimed. "i didn't sleep well," said leonore. "aren't you going to ride with me?" "no. i don't feel like it this morning," said leonore. as watts left the hall, a servant entered it. "i had to wait, miss d'alloi," he said. "no papers are for sale till eight o'clock." leonore took the newspaper silently and went to the library. then she opened it and looked at the first column. she read it hurriedly. "i knew he wasn't hurt," she said, "because i would have felt it, and because he had my luck piece." then she stepped out of one of the windows, called bêtise to her, and putting her arms about his neck, kissed him. when the new york papers came things were even better, for they recorded the end of the strike. leonore even laughed over that big, big d. "i can't imagine him getting so angry," she said "he must have a temper, after all." she sang a little, as she fixed the flowers in the vases, and one of the songs was "happiness." nor did she snub a man who hinted at afternoon tea, as she had a poor unfortunate who suggested tennis earlier in the day. while they were sipping their tea, however, watts came in from the club. "helen," he said, going to the bay window farthest from the tea-table, "come here i want to say something." they whispered for a moment, and then mrs. d'alloi came back to her tea. "won't you have a cup, papa?" asked leonore. "'not to-day, dear," said watts, with an unusual tenderness in his voice. leonore was raising a spoon to her mouth, but suddenly her hand trembled a little. after a glance at her father and mother, she pushed her tea-cup into the centre of the table as if she had finished it, though it had just been poured. then she turned and began to talk and laugh with the caller. but the moment the visitor was out of the room, leonore said: "what is it, papa?" watts was standing by the fire. he hesitated. then he groaned. then he went to the door. "ask your mother," he said, and went out of the room. "mamma?" said leonore. "don't excite yourself, dear," said her mother. "i'll tell you to-morrow." leonore was on her feet. "no," she said huskily, "tell me now." "wait till we've had dinner." "mamma," cried leonore, appealingly, "don't you see that--that--that i suffer more by not knowing it? tell me." "oh, leonore," cried her mother, "don't look that way. i'll tell you; but don't look that way!" "what?" mrs. d'alloi put her arms about leonore. "the anarchists have exploded a bomb." "yes?" said leonore. "and it killed a great many of the soldiers." "not--?" "yes." "thank you, mamma," said leonore. she unclasped her mother's arms, and went towards the door. "leonore," cried her mother, "stay here with me, dear." "i'd rather be alone," said leonore, quietly. she went upstairs to her room and sank down by an ottoman which stood in the middle of the floor. she sat silent and motionless, for over an hour, looking straight before her at nothing, as peter had so often done. is it harder to lose out of life the man or woman whom one loves, or to see him or her happy in the love of another. is the hopelessness of the impossible less or greater than the hopelessness of the unattainable? finally leonore rose, and touched her bell. when her maid came she said, "get me my travelling dress." ten minutes later she came into the library, saying to watts. "papa, i want you to take me to new york, by the first train." "are you crazy, my darling?" cried watts. "with riots and anarchists all over the city." "i must go to new york," said leonore. "if you won't take me, i'll go with madame." "not for a moment--" began watts. "papa," cried leonore, "don't you see it's killing me? i can't bear it--" and leonore stopped. "yes, watts, we must," said mrs. d'alloi. two hours later they were all three rolling towards new york. it was a five hours' ride, but leonore sat the whole distance without speaking, or showing any consciousness of her surroundings. for every turn of those wheels seemed to fall into a rhythmic repetition of: "if i had only said 'good-bye.'" the train was late in arriving, and watts tried to induce leonore to go to a hotel for the night. she only said "no. take me to him," but it was in a voice which watts could not disregard. so after a few questions at the terminal, which produced no satisfactory information, watts told the cabman to drive to the city hall park. they did not reach it, however, for at the corner of centre street and chambers, there came a cry of "halt," and the cab had to stop. "you can't pass this line," said the sentry. "you must go round by broadway." "why?" asked watts. "the street is impassable." watts got out, and held a whispered dialogue with the sentry. this resulted in the summoning of the officer of the watch. in the mean time leonore descended and joined them. watts turned and said to her: "the sentry says he's here." presently an officer came up. "an' what do the likes av yez want at this time av night?" he inquired crossly. "go away wid yez." "oh, captain moriarty," said leonore, "won't you let me see him? i'm miss d'alloi." "shure," said dennis, "yez oughtn't to be afther disturbin' him. it's two nights he's had no sleep." leonore suddenly put her hand on dennis's arm. "he's not killed?" she whispered, as if she could not breathe, and the figure swayed a little. "divil a bit! they got it wrong entirely. it was that dirty spalpeen av a podds." "are you sure?" said leonore, pleadingly. "you are not deceiving me?" "begobs," said dennis, "do yez think oi could stand here wid a dry eye if he was dead?" leonore put her head on dennis's shoulder, and began to sob softly. for a moment dennis looked aghast at the results of his speech, but suddenly his face changed. "shure," he whispered, "we all love him just like that, an that's why the blessed virgin saved him for us." then leonore, with tears in her eyes, said, "i felt it," in the most joyful of voices. a voice that had a whole _te deum_ in it. "won't you let me see him?" she begged. "i won't wake him, i promise you." "that yez shall," said dennis. "will yez take my arm?" the four passed within the lines. "step careful," he continued. "there's pavin' stones, and rails, and plate-glass everywheres. it looks like there'd been a primary itself." all thought that was the best of jokes and laughed. they passed round a great chasm in the street and sidewalk. then they came to long rows of bodies stretched on the grass, or rather what was left of the grass, in the park. leonore shuddered. "are they all dead?" she whispered. "dead! shurely not. it's the regiment sleepin'," she was told. they passed between these rows for a little distance. "this is him," said dennis, "sleepin' like a babby." dennis turned his back and began to describe the explosion to mrs. d'alloi and watts. there, half covered with a blanket, wrapped in a regulation great coat, his head pillowed on a roll of newspapers, lay peter. leonore knelt down on the ground beside him, regardless of the proprieties or the damp. she listened to hear if he was breathing, and when she found that he actually was, her face had on it a little thanksgiving proclamation of its own. then with the prettiest of motherly manners, she softly pulled the blanket up and tucked it in about his arms. then she looked to see if there was not something else to do. but there was nothing. so she made more. "the poor dear oughtn't to sleep without something on his head. he'll take cold." she took her handkerchief and tried to fix it so that it should protect peter's head. she tried four different ways, any one of which would have served; but each time she thought of a better way, and had to try once more. she probably would have thought of a fifth, if peter had not suddenly opened his eyes. "oh!" said leonore, "what a shame? i've waked you up. and just as i had fixed it right." peter studied the situation calmly, without moving a muscle. he looked at the kneeling figure for some time. then he looked up at the arc light a little distance away. then he looked at the city hall clock. then his eyes came back to leonore. "peter," he said finally, "this is getting to be a monomania. you must stop it." "what?" said leonore, laughing at his manner as if it was intended as a joke. peter put out his hand and touched leonore's dress. then he rose quickly to his feet. "what is the matter?" he asked. "hello," cried watts. "have you come to? well. here we are, you see. all the way from newport to see you in fragments, only to be disappointed. shake!" peter said nothing for a moment. but after he had shaken hands, he said, "it's very good of you to have thought of me." "oh," explained leonore promptly, "i'm always anxious about my friends. mamma will tell you i am." peter turned to leonore, who had retired behind her mother. "such friends are worth having," he said, with a strong emphasis on "friends." then leonore came out from behind her mother. "'how nice he's stupid," she thought. "he is peter simple, after all." "well," said watts, "'your friends are nearly dying with hunger and want of sleep, so the best thing we can do, since we needn't hunt for you in scraps, is to go to the nearest hotel. where is that?" "you'll have to go uptown," said peter. "nothing down here is open at this time." "i'm not sleepy," said leonore, "but i am so hungry!" "serves you right for eating no din--" watts started to say, but leonore interjected, in an unusually loud voice. "can't you get us something?" "nothing; that will do for you, i'm afraid," said peter. "i had dennett send up one of his coffee-boilers so that the men should have hot coffee through the night, and there's a sausage-roll man close to him who's doing a big business. but they'll hardly serve your purpose." "the very thing," cried watts. "what a lark!" "i can eat anything," said leonore. so they went over to the stands. peter's blanket was spread on the sidewalk, and three newport swells, and the democratic nominee for governor sat upon it, with their feet in the gutter, and drank half-bean coffee and ate hot sausage rolls, made all the hotter by the undue amount of mustard which the cook would put in. what is worse, they enjoyed it as much as if it was the finest of dinners. would not society have been scandalized had it known of their doings? how true it is that happiness is in a mood rather than in a moment. how eagerly we prepare for and pursue the fickle sprite, only to find our preparations and chase giving nothing but dullness, fatigue, and ennui. but then how often without exertion or warning, the sprite is upon us, and tinges the whole atmosphere. so it was at this moment, with two of the four. the coffee might have been all beans, and yet it would have been better than the best served in viennese cafés. the rolls might have had even a more weepy amount of mustard, and yet the burning and the tears would only have been the more of a joke. the sun came up, as they ate, talked and laughed, touching everything about them with gold, but it might have poured torrents, and the two would have been as happy. for leonore was singing to herself: "he isn't dead. he isn't dead." and peter was thinking: "she loves me. she must love me." chapter lviii. gifts. after the rolls and coffee had been finished, peter walked with his friends to their cab. it had all been arranged that they were to go to peter's quarters, and get some sleep. these were less than eight blocks away, but the parting was very terrific! however, it had to be done, and so it was gone through with. hard as it was, peter had presence of mind enough to say, through the carriage window. "you had better take my room, miss d'alloi, for the spare room is the largest. i give you the absolute freedom of it, minus the gold-box. use anything you find." then peter went back to the chaotic street and the now breakfasting regiment, feeling that strikes, anarchists, and dynamite were only minor circumstances in life. about noon leonore came back to life, and succeeded in making a very bewitching toilet despite the absence of her maid. whether she peeped into any drawers or other places, is left to feminine readers to decide. if she did, she certainly had ample authority from peter. this done she went into the study, and, after sticking her nose into some of the window flowers, she started to go to the bookshelves. as she walked her foot struck something which rang with a metallic sound, as it moved on the wood floor. the next moment, a man started out of a deep chair. "oh!" was all leonore said. "i hope i didn't startle you. you must have kicked my sword." "i--i didn't know you were here!" leonore eyed the door leading to the hall, as if she were planning for a sudden flight. "the regiment was relieved by another from albany this morning. so i came up here for a little sleep." "what a shame that i should have kept you out of your room," said leonore, still eyeing the door. from leonore's appearance, one would have supposed that she had purloined something of value from his quarters, and was meditating a sudden dash of escape with it. "i don't look at it in that light," said peter. "but since you've finished with the room for the moment, i'll borrow the use temporarily. strikers and anarchists care so little for soap and water themselves, that they show no consideration to other people for those articles." peter passed through the doorway towards which leonore had glanced. then leonore's anxious look left her, and she no longer looked at the door. one would almost have inferred that leonore was afraid of peter, but that is absurd, since they were such good friends, since leonore had come all the way from newport to see him, and since leonore had decided that peter must do as she pleased. yet, curiously enough, when peter returned in about twenty minutes, the same look came into leonore's face. "we shall have something to eat in ten minutes," peter said, "for i hear your father and mother moving." leonore looked towards the door. she did not intend that peter should see her do it, but he did. "now what shall we do or talk about?" he said. "you know i am host and mustn't do anything my guests don't wish." peter said this in the most matter-of-fact way, but leonore, after a look from under her eyelashes at him, stopped thinking about the door. she went over to one of the window-seats. "come and sit here by me," she said, "and tell me everything about it." so peter described "the war, and what they fought each other for," as well as he was able, for, despite his intentions, his mind would wander as those eyes looked into his. "i am glad that podds was blown to pieces!" said leonore. "don't say that." "why?" "because it's one of those cases of a man of really good intentions, merely gone wrong. he was a horse-car driver, who got inflammatory rheumatism by the exposure, and was discharged. he suffered fearful pain, and saw his family suffer for bread. he grew bitter, and took up with these wild theories, not having enough original brain force, or education, to see their folly. he believed firmly in them. so firmly, that when i tried to reason him out of them many years ago he came to despise me and ordered me out of his rooms. i had once done him a service, and felt angered at what i thought ungrateful conduct, so i made no attempt to keep up the friendliness. he knew yesterday that dynamite was in the hands of some of those men, and tried to warn me away. when i refused to go, he threw himself upon me, to protect me from the explosion. nothing else saved my life." "peter, will your regiment have to do anything more?" "i don't think so. the dynamite has caused a reaction, and has driven off the soberer part of the mob. the pendulum, when it swings too far, always swings correspondingly far the other way. i must stay here for a couple of days, but then if i'm asked, i'll go back to newport." "papa and mamma want you, i'm sure," said leonore, glancing at the door again, after an entire forgetfulness. "then i shall go," said peter, though longing to say something else. leonore looked at him and said in the frankest way; "and i want you too." that was the way she paid peter for his forbearance. then they all went up on the roof, where in one corner there were pots of flowers about a little table, over which was spread an awning. over that table, too, jenifer had spread himself. how good that breakfast was! what a glorious september day it was! how beautiful the view of the city and the bay was! it was all so thoroughly satisfactory, that the three nearly missed the "limited." of course peter went to the station with them, and, short as was the time, he succeeded in obtaining for one of the party, "all the comic papers," "the latest novel," a small basket of fruit, and a bunch of flowers, not one of which, with the exception of the latter, the real object of these attentions wanted in the least. just here it is of value to record an interesting scientific discovery of leonore's, because women so rarely have made them. it was, that the distance from new york to newport is very much less than the distance from newport to new york. curiously enough, two days later, his journey seemed to peter the longest railroad ride he had ever taken. "his friend" did not meet him this time. his friend felt that her trip to new york must be offset before she could resume her proper self-respect. "he was very nice," she had said, in monologue, "about putting the trip down to friendship. and he was very nice that morning in his study. but i think his very niceness is suspicious, and so i must be hard on him!" a woman's reasoning is apt to seem defective, yet sometimes it solves problems not otherwise answerable. leonore found her "hard" policy harder than she thought for. she told peter the first evening that she was going to a card-party. "i can't take you," she said. "i shall be all the better for a long night's sleep," said peter, calmly. this was bad enough, but the next morning, as she was arranging the flowers, she remarked to some one who stood and watched her, "miss winthrop is engaged. how foolish of a girl in her first season! before she's had any fun, to settle down to dull married life." she had a rose in her hand, prepared to revive peter with it, in case her speech was too much for one dose, but when she glanced at him, he was smiling happily. "what is it?" asked leonore, disapprovingly. "i beg your pardon," said peter. "i wasn't listening. did you say miss winthrop was married?" "what were you smiling over?" said leonore, in the same voice. "i was thinking of--of--." then peter hesitated and laughed. "of what?" asked leonore. "you really mustn't ask me," laughed peter. "of what were you thinking?" "of eyelashes," confessed peter. "it's terrible!" cogitated leonore, "i can't snub him any more, try as i may." in truth, peter was not worrying any longer over what leonore said or did to him. he was merely enjoying her companionship. he was at once absolutely happy, and absolutely miserable. happy in his hope. miserable in its non-certainty. to make a paradox, he was confident that she loved him, yet he was not sure. a man will be absolutely confident that a certain horse will win a race, or he will be certain that a profit will accrue from a given business transaction. yet, until the horse has won, or the profit is actually made, he is not assured. so it was with peter. he thought that he had but to speak, yet dared not do it. the present was so certain, and the future might have such agonies. so for two days he merely followed leonore about, enjoying her pretty ways and hardly heeding her snubs and petulance. he was very silent, and often abstracted, but his silence and abstraction brought no relief to leonore, and only frightened her the more, for he hardly let her out of his sight, and the silent devotion and tenderness were so obvious that leonore felt how absolutely absurd was her pretence of unconsciousness. in his very "miss d'alloi" now, there was a tone in his voice and a look in his face which really said the words: "my darling." leonore thought this was a mean trick, of apparently sustaining the conventions of society, while in reality outraging them horribly, but she was helpless to better his conduct. twice unwittingly he even called her "leonore" (as he had to himself for two months), thereby terribly disconcerting the owner of that name. she wanted to catch him up and snub him each time, but she was losing her courage. she knew that she was walking on a mine, and could not tell what chance word or deed of hers would bring an explosion. "and then what can i say to him?" she asked. what she said was this: peter came downstairs the third evening of his stay "armed and equipped as the law directs" for a cotillion. in the large hallway, he found leonore, likewise in gala dress, resting her hand on the tall mantel of the hall, and looking down at the fire. peter stopped on the landing to enjoy that pose. he went over every detail with deliberation. but girl, gown, and things in general, were much too tempting to make this distant glimpse over lengthy. so he descended to get a closer view. the pose said nothing, and peter strolled to the fire, and did likewise. but if he did not speak he more than made up for his silence with his eyes. finally the pose said, "i suppose it's time we started?" "some one's got to speak," the pose had decided. evidently the pose felt uneasy under that silent gaze. "it's only a little past ten," said peter, who was quite satisfied with the _status quo_. then silence came again. after this had held for a few moments, the pose said: "do say something!" "something," said peter. "anything else i can do for you?" "unless you can be more entertaining, we might as well be sitting in the purdies' dressing-rooms, as standing here. suppose we go to the library and sit with mamma and papa?" clearly the pose felt nervous. peter did not like this idea. so he said: "i'll try to amuse you. let me tell you something very interesting to me. it's my birthday to-morrow." "oh!" said leonore. "why didn't you tell me sooner? then i would have had a gift for you." "that's what i was afraid of." "don't you want me to give you something?" "yes." then peter's hands trembled, and he seemed to have hard work in adding, "i want you to give me--a kiss." "peter!" said leonore, drawing back grieved and indignant. "i didn't think you would speak to me so. of all men!" "you mustn't think," said peter, "that i meant to pain you." "you have," said leonore, almost ready to cry. "because," said peter, "that isn't what i meant." peter obviously struggled to find words to say what he did mean as he had never struggled over the knottiest of legal points, or the hardest of wrestling matches. "if i thought you were a girl who would kiss a man for the asking, i should not care for a kiss from you." peter strayed away from the fire uneasily. "but i know you are not." peter gazed wildly round, as if the furnishings, of the hall might suggest the words for which he was blindly groping. but they didn't, and after one or two half-begun sentences, he continued: "i haven't watched you, and dreamed about you, and loved you, for all this time, without learning what you are." peter roamed about the great hall restlessly. "i know that your lips will never give what your heart doesn't." then his face took a despairing look, and he continued quite rapidly: "i ask without much hope. you are so lovely, while i--well i'm not a man women care for. i've tried to please you. tried to please you so hard, that i may have deceived you. i probably am what women say of me. but if i've been otherwise with you it is because you are different from any other woman in the world." here the sudden flow of words ended, and peter paced up and down, trying to find what to say. if any one had seen peter as he paced, without his present environment, he would have thought him a man meditating suicide. suddenly his voice and face became less wild, and he said tenderly: "there is no use in my telling you how i love you. you know it now, or will never learn it from anything i can say." peter strode back to the fire. "it is my love which asks for a kiss. and i want it for the love you will give with it, if you can give it." leonore had apparently kept her eyes on the blazing logs during the whole of this monologue. but she must have seen something of peter's uneasy wanderings about the room, for she had said to herself: "poor dear! he must be fearfully in earnest, i never knew him so restless. he prowls just like a wild animal." a moment's silence came after peter's return to the fire. then he said: "will you give it to me, miss d'alloi?" but his voice in truth, made the words, "give me what i ask, my darling." "yes," said leonore softly. "on your birthday." then leonore shrank back a little, as if afraid that her gift would be sought sooner. no young girl, however much she loves a man, is quite ready for that first kiss. a man's lips upon her own are too contrary to her instinct and previous training to make them an unalloyed pleasure. the girl who is over-ready for her lover's first kiss, has tasted the forbidden fruit already, or has waited over-long for it. peter saw the little shrinking and understood it. what was more, he heeded it as many men would not have done. perhaps there was something selfish in his self-denial, for the purity and girlishness which it indicated were very dear to him, and he hated to lessen them by anything he did. he stood quietly by her, and merely said, "i needn't tell you how happy i am!" leonore looked up into peter's face. if leonore had seen there any lack of desire to take her in his arms and kiss her, she would never have forgiven him. but since his face showed beyond doubt that he was longing to do it, leonore loved him all the better for his repression of self, out of regard for her. she slipped her little hand into peter's confidingly, and said, "so am i." it means a good deal when a girl does not wish to run away from her lover the moment after she has confessed her love. so they stood for some time, leonore looking down into the fire, and peter looking down at leonore. finally peter said, "will you do me a great favor?" "no," said leonore, "i've done enough for one night. but you can tell me what it is." "will you look up at me?" "what for?" said leonore, promptly looking up. "i want to see your eyes," said peter. "why?" asked leonore, promptly looking down again. "well," said peter, "i've been dreaming all my life about some eyes, and i want to see what my dream is like in reality." "that's a very funny request," said leonore perversely. "you ought to have found out about them long ago. the idea of any one falling in love, without knowing about the eyes!" "but you show your eyes so little," said peter. "i've never had a thoroughly satisfying look at them." "you look at them every time i look at you," said leonore. "sometimes it was very embarrassing. just supposing that i showed them to you now, and that you find they aren't what you like?" "i never waste time discussing impossibilities," said peter. "are you going to let me see them?" "how long will it take?" "i can tell better after i've seen them," said peter, astutely. "i don't think i have time this evening," said leonore, still perversely, though smiling a look of contentment down into the fire. peter said nothing for a moment, wishing to give leonore's conscience a chance to begin to prick. then be ended the silence by saying: "if i had anything that would give you pleasure, i wouldn't make you ask for it twice." "that's--different," said leonore. "still, i'll--well, look at them," and leonore lifted her eyes to peter's half laughingly and half timidly. peter studied those eyes in silence--studied them till leonore, who did not find that steady look altogether easy to bear, and yet was not willing to confess herself stared out of countenance, asked: "do you like them?" "yes," said peter. "is that all you can say? other people have said very complimentary things!" said leonore, pretending to be grieved over the monosyllable, yet in reality delighting in its expressiveness as peter said it. "i think," said peter, "that before i can tell you what i think of your eyes, we shall have to invent some new words." leonore looked down again into the fire, smiling a satisfied smile. peter looked down at that down-turned head, also with a satisfied smile. then there was another long silence. incidentally it is to be noted that peter still held the hand given him some time before. to use a poker term, peter was standing "pat," and wished no change. once or twice the little hand had hinted that it had been held long enough, but peter did not think so, and the hand had concluded that it was safest to let well alone. if it was too cruel it might rouse the sleeping lion which the owner of that hand knew to exist behind that firm, quiet face. presently peter put his unoccupied hand in his breast-pocket, and produced a small sachet. "i did something twice," he said, "that i have felt very meanly about at times. perhaps you'll forgive me now?" he took from the sachet, a glove, and a small pocket-handkerchief, and without a word showed them to leonore. leonore looked at them. "that's the glove i lost at mrs. costell's, isn't it?" she asked gravely. peter nodded his head. "and is that the handkerchief which disappeared in your rooms, at your second dinner?" peter nodded his head. "and both times you helped me hunt for them?" peter nodded his head. he at last knew how prisoners felt when he was cross-examining them. "i knew you had them all the time," said leonore laughing. "it was dreadfully funny to see you pretend to hunt, when the guilty look on your own face was enough to show you had them. that's why i was so determined to find them." peter knew how prisoners felt when the jury says, "not guilty." "but how did the holes come in them?" said leonore. "do you have mice in your room?" leonore suddenly looked as worried as had peter the moment before. peter put his hand in the sachet, and produced a bent coin. "look at that," he said. "why, it's my luck-piece!" exclaimed leonore. "and you've spoiled that too. what a careless boy!" "no," said peter. "they are not spoiled to me. do you know what cut these holes and bent this coin?" "what?" "a bullet." "peter!" "yes. your luck-piece stopped it, or i shouldn't be here." "there," said leonore triumphantly, "i said you weren't hurt, when the news of the shooting came, because i knew you had it. i was so glad you had taken it!" "i am going to give it back to you by and by," said peter. "i had rather that you should have it," said leonore. "i want you to have my luck." "i shall have it just the same even after i've given it to you," said peter. "how?" "i'm going to have it made into a plain gold ring," replied peter, "and when i give it to you, i shall have all your luck." then came a silence. finally peter said, "will you please tell me what you meant by talking about five years!" "oh! really, peter," leonore hastened to explain, in an anxious way, as if peter had charged her with murder or some other heinous crime. "i did think so. i didn't find it out till--till that night. really! won't you believe me?" peter smiled. he could have believed anything. "now," he said, "i know at last what anarchists are for." his ready acceptance of her statement made leonore feel a slight prick of conscience. she said: "well--peter--i mean--that is--at least, i did sometimes think before then--that when i married, i'd marry you--but i didn't think it would come so soon. did you? i thought we'd wait. it would have been so much more sensible!" "i've waited a long time," said peter. "poor dear!" said leonore, putting her other hand over peter's, which held hers. peter enjoyed this exquisite pleasure in silence for a time, but the enjoyment was too great not to be expressed so he said; "i like your hands almost as much as your eyes." "that's very nice," said leonore. "and i like the way you say 'dear,'" said peter. "don't you want to say it again?" "no, i hate people who say the same thing twice." then there was a long pause. "what poor things words are?" said peter, at the end of it. "i know just what you mean," said leonore. clearly they both meant what they said, for there came another absence of words. how long the absence would have continued is a debatable point. much too soon a door opened. "hello!" said a voice. "back already? what kind of an evening had you?" "a very pleasant one," said peter, calmly, yet expressively. "let go my hand, peter, please," a voice whispered imploringly. "oh, please! i can't to-night. oh, please!" "say 'dear,'" whispered peter, meanly. "please, dear," said leonore. then leonore went towards the stairs hurriedly. "not off already, dot, surely?" "yes. i'm going to bed." "come and have a cigar, peter," said watts, walking towards the library. "in a moment," said peter. he went to the foot of the stairs and said, "please, dear," to the figure going up. "well?" said the figure. peter went up five steps. "please," he begged. "no," said the figure, "but there is my hand." so peter turned the little soft palm uppermost and kissed it then he forgot the cigar and watts. he went to his room, and thought of--of his birthday gift. chapter lix. "gather ye rosebuds while ye may." if peter had roamed about the hall that evening, he was still more restless the next morning. he was down early, though for no apparent reason, and did nothing but pass from hall to room, and room to hall, spending most of his time in the latter, however. how leonore could have got from her room into the garden without peter's seeing her was a question which puzzled him not a little, when, by a chance glance out of a window, he saw that personage clipping roses off the bushes. he did not have time to spare, however, to reason out an explanation. he merely stopped roaming, and went out to--to the roses. "good-morning," said leonore pleasantly, though not looking at peter, as she continued her clipping. peter did not say anything for a moment. then he asked, "is that all?" "i don't know what you mean," said leonore, innocently. "besides, someone might be looking out of a window." peter calmly took hold of the basket to help leonore sustain its enormous weight. "let me help you carry it," he said. "very well," said leonore. "but there's no occasion to carry my hand too. i'm not decrepit." "i hoped i was helping you," said peter. "you are not. but you may carry the basket, since you want to hold something." "very well," said peter meekly. "do you know," said leonore, as she snipped, and dropped roses into the basket, "you are not as obstinate as people say you are." "don't deceive yourself on that score," said peter. "well! i mean you are not absolutely determined to have your own way." "i never give up my own views," said peter, "unless i can see more to be gained by so doing. to that extent i am not at all obstinate." "suppose," said leonore, "that you go and cut the roses on those furthest bushes while i go in and arrange these?" "suppose," said peter calmly, and with an evident lack of enthusiasm. "well. will you?" "no." "why not?" "the motion to adjourn," said peter, "is never debatable." "do you know," said leonore, "that you are beginning very badly?" "that is what i have thought ever since i joined you." "then why don't you go away?" "why make bad, worse?" "there," said leonore, "your talking has made me cut my finger, almost." "let me see," said peter, reaching out for her hand. "i'm too busy," said leonore. "do you know," said peter, "that if you cut many more buds, you won't have any more roses for a week. you've cut twice as many roses as you usually do." "then i'll go in and arrange them. i wish you would give bêtise a run across the lawn." "i never run before breakfast," said peter. "doctors say it's very bad." so he followed her in. leonore became tremendously occupied in arranging the flowers, peter became tremendously occupied in watching her. "you want to save one of those for me," he said, presently. "take one," said leonore. "my legal rule has been that i never take what i can get given me. you can't do less than pin it in my button-hole, considering that it is my birthday." "if i have a duty to do, i always get through with it at once," said leonore. she picked out a rose, arranged the leaves as only womankind can, and, turning to peter, pinned it in his button-hole. but when she went to take her hands away, she found them held against the spot so firmly that she could feel the heart-beats underneath. "oh, please," was all she said, appealingly, while peter's rose seemed to reflect some of its color on her cheeks. "i don't want you to give it to me if you don't wish," said peter, simply. "but last night i sat up late thinking about it. all night i dreamed about it. when i waked up this morning, i was thinking about it. and i've thought about it ever since. i can wait, but i've waited so long!" then leonore, with very red cheeks, and a very timid manner, held her lips up to peter. "still," leonore said presently, when again arranging of the roses, "since you've waited so long, you needn't have been so slow about it when you did get it." "i'm sorry i did it so badly," said peter, contritely. "i always was slow! let me try again?" "no." "then show me how?" "no." "now who's obstinate?" inquired peter. "you," said leonore, promptly. "and i don't like it." "oh, leonore," said peter. "if you only knew how happy i am!" leonore forgot all about her charge of obstinacy. "so am i," she said. "and i won't be obstinate any more." "was that better?" peter asked, presently. "no," said leonore. "that wouldn't have been possible. but you do take so long! i shan't be able to give you more than one a day. it takes so much time." "but then i shall have to be much slower about it." "then i'll only give you one every other day." "then i shall be so much the longer." "yes," sighed leonore. "you are obstinate, after all!" so they went on till breakfast was announced. perhaps it was foolish. but they were happy in their foolishness, if such it was. it is not profitable to write what they said. it is idle to write of the week that followed. to all others what they said and did could only be the sayings and doings of two very intolerable people. but to them it was what can never be told in words--and to them we will leave it. it was leonore who put an end to this week. each day that peter lingered brought letter and telegraphic appeals to him from the party-leaders, over which peter only laughed, and which he not infrequently failed even to answer. but mr. pell told leonore something one day which made her say to peter later: "is it true that you promised to speak in new york on the fifteenth?" "yes. but i wrote green last night saying i shan't." "and were you to have made a week of speeches through the state?" "yes. but i can't spare the time." "yes, you can. you must leave to-morrow and make them." "i can't," groaned peter. "you must." "who says so?" "i do. please, peter? i so want to see you win. i shall never forgive myself if i defeat you." "but a whole week," groaned peter. "we shall break up here on the eighteenth, and of course you would have to leave a day sooner. so you'll not be any better off." "well," sighed peter, "if i do as you want, will you give me the seven i shall lose before i go." "dear me, peter," sighed leonore, "you oughtn't to ask them, since it's for your own sake. i can't keep you contented. you do nothing but encroach." "i should get them if i was here," said peter, "and one a day is little enough! i think, if i oblige you by going away, i shouldn't be made to suffer more than is necessary." "i'm going to call you growley," said leonore, patting him on the cheek. then she put her own against it. "thank you, dear," she said. "it's just as hard for me." so peter buckled on his armor and descended into the arena. whether he spoke well or ill, we leave it to those to say who care to turn back to the files of the papers of that campaign. perhaps, however, it may be well to add that an entirely unbiassed person, after reading his opening speeches, delivered in the cooper union and the metropolitan opera house, in new york city, wrote him: "it is libel to call you taciturnity. they are splendid! how i wish i could hear you--and see you, dear. i'm very lonely, and so are bêtise and tawney-eye. we do nothing but wander round the house all day, waiting for your letter, and the papers." three thousand people in the brooklyn rink were kept waiting for nearly ten minutes by peter's perusal of that letter. but when he had finished it, and had reached the rink, he out-stirlinged stirling. a speaker nowadays speaks far more to the people absent than to the people present. peter did this that evening. he spoke, it is true, to only one person that night, but it was the best speech of the campaign. a week later, peter rang the bell of the fifty-seventh street house. he was in riding costume, although he had not been riding. "mr. and mrs. d'alloi are at breakfast," he was informed. peter rather hurriedly laid his hat and crop on the hall-table, and went through the hall, but his hurry suddenly came to an end, when a young lady, carrying her napkin, added herself to the vista. "i knew it must be you," she said, offering her hand very properly--(on what grounds leonore surmised that a ring at the door-bell at nine o'clock meant peter, history does not state)--"i wondered if you knew enough to come to breakfast. mamma sent me out to say that you are to come right in." peter was rather longer over the handshake than convention demands, but he asked very politely, "how are your father and--?" but just then the footman closed a door behind him, and peter's interest in parents suddenly ceased. "how could you be so late?" said some one presently. "i watched out of the window for nearly an hour." "my train was late. the time-table on that road is simply a satire!" said peter. yet it is the best managed road in the country, and this particular train was only seven minutes overdue. "you have been to ride, though," said leonore. "no. i have an engagement to ride with a disagreeable girl after breakfast, so i dressed for it." "suppose the disagreeable girl should break her engagement--or declare there never was one?" "she won't," said peter. "it may not have been put in the contract, but the common law settles it beyond question." leonore laughed a happy laugh. then she asked: "for whom are those violets?" "i had to go to four places before i could get any at this season," said peter. "ugly girls are just troublesome enough to have preferences. what will you give me for them?" "some of them," said leonore, and obtained the bunch. who dares to say after that that women have no business ability nor shrewdness? it is true that she kissed the fraction returned before putting it in peter's button-hole, which raises the question which had the best of the bargain. "i'm behind the curtain, so i can't see anything," said a voice from a doorway, "and therefore you needn't jump; but i wish to inquire if you two want any breakfast?" a few days later peter again went up the steps of the fifty-seventh street house. this practice was becoming habitual with peter; in fact, so habitual that his cabby had said to him this very day, "the old place, sir?" where peter got the time it is difficult to understand, considering that his law practice was said to be large, and his political occupations just at present not small. but that is immaterial. the simple fact that peter went up the steps is the essential truth. from the steps, he passed into a door; from the door he passed into a hall; from a hall he passed into a room; from a room he passed into a pair of arms. "thank the lord, you've come," watts remarked. "leonore has up and down refused to make the tea till you arrived." "i was at headquarters, and they would talk, talk, talk," said peter. "i get out of patience with them. one would think the destinies of the human race depended on this campaign!" "so the growley should have his tea," said a vision, now seated on the lounge at the tea-table. "then growley will feel better." "i'm doing that already," said growley, sitting down on the delightfully short lounge--now such a fashionable and deservedly popular drawing-room article. "may i tell you how you can make me absolutely contented?" "i suppose that will mean some favor from me," said leonore. "i don't like children who want to be bribed out of their bad temper. nice little boys are never bad-tempered." "i was only bad-tempered," whispered peter, "because i was kept from being with you. that's cause enough to make the best-tempered man in the universe murderous." "well?" said leonore, mollifying, "what is it this time?" "i want you all to come down to my quarters this evening after dinner. i've received warning that i'm to be serenaded about nine o'clock, and i thought you would like to hear it." "what fun," cried leonore. "of course we'll go. shall you speak?" "no. we'll sit in my window-seats merely, and listen." "how many will there be?" "it depends on the paper you read. the 'world' will probably say ten thousand, the 'tribune' three thousand, and the 'voice of labor' 'a handful.' oh! by the way, i brought you a 'voice'." he handed leonore a paper, which he took from his pocket. now this was simply shameful of him! peter had found, whenever the papers really abused him, that leonore was doubly tender to him, the more, if he pretended that the attacks and abuse pained him. so he brought her regularly now that organ of the labor party which was most vituperative of him, and looked sad over it just as long as was possible, considering that leonore was trying to comfort him. "oh, dear!" said leonore. "that dreadful paper. i can't bear to read it. is it very bad to-day?" "i haven't read it," said peter, smiling. "i never read--" then peter coughed, suddenly looked sad, and continued--"the parts that do not speak of me." "that isn't a lie," he told himself, "i don't read them." but he felt guilty. clearly peter was losing his old-time straightforwardness. "after its saying that you had deceived your clients into settling those suits against mr. bohlmann, upon his promise to help you in politics, i don't believe they can say anything worse," said leonore, putting two lumps of sugar (with her fingers) into a cup of tea. then she stirred the tea, and tasted it. then she touched the edge of the cup with her lips. "is that right?" she asked, as she passed it to peter. "absolutely," said peter, looking the picture of bliss. but then he remembered that this wasn't his rôle, so he looked sad and said: "that hurt me, i confess. it is so unkind." "poor dear," whispered a voice. "you shall have an extra one to-day, and you shall take just as long as you want!" now, how could mortal man look grieved, even over an american newspaper, with that prospect in view? it is true that "one" is a very indefinite thing. perhaps leonore merely meant another cup of tea. whatever she meant, peter never learned, for, barely had he tasted his tea when the girl on the lounge beside him gave a cry. she rose, and as she did so, some of the tea-things fell to the floor with a crash. "leonore!" cried peter. "what--" "peter!" cried leonore. "say it isn't so?" it was terrible to see the suffering in her face and to hear the appeal in her voice. "my darling," cried the mother, "what is the matter?" "it can't be," cried leonore. "mamma! papa! say it isn't so?" "what, my darling?" said peter, supporting the swaying figure. "this," said leonore, huskily, holding out the newspaper. mrs. d'alloi snatched it. one glance she gave it. "oh, my poor darling!" she cried. "i ought not to have allowed it. peter! peter! was not the stain great enough, but you must make my poor child suffer for it?" she shoved peter away, and clasped leonore wildly in her arms. "mamma!" cried leonore. "don't talk so! don't! i know he didn't! he couldn't!" peter caught up the paper. there in big head-lines was: speak up, stirling! * * * * * who is this boy? detective pelter finds a ward unknown to the courts, and explanations are in order from purity stirling. the rest of the article it is needless to quote. what it said was so worded as to convey everything vile by innuendo and inference, yet in truth saying nothing. "oh, my darling!" continued mrs. d'alloi. "you have a right to kill me for letting him come here after he had confessed it to me. but i--oh, don't tremble so. oh, watts! we have killed her." peter held the paper for a moment. then he handed it to watts. he only said "watts?" but it was a cry for help and mercy as terrible as leonore's had been the moment before. "of course, chum," cried watts. "leonore, dear, it's all right. you mustn't mind. peter's a good man. better than most of us. you mustn't mind." "don't," cried leonore. "let me speak. mamma, did peter tell you it was so?" all were silent. "mamma! say something? papa! peter! will nobody speak?" "leonore," said peter, "do not doubt me. trust me and i will--" "tell me," cried leonore interrupting, "was this why you didn't come to see us? oh! i see it all! this is what mamma knew. this is what pained you. and i thought it was your love for--!" leonore screamed. "my darling," cried peter wildly, "don't look so. don't speak--" "don't touch me," cried leonore. "don't. only go away." leonore threw herself upon the rug weeping. it was fearful the way those sobs shook her. "it can't be," said peter. "watts! she is killing herself." but watts had disappeared from the room. "only go away," cried leonore. "that's all you can do now. there's nothing to be done." peter leaned over and picked up the prostrate figure, and laid it tenderly on the sofa. then he kissed the edge of her skirt. "yes. that's all i can do," he said quietly. "good-bye, sweetheart. i'll go away." he looked about as if bewildered, then passed from the room to the hall, from the hall to the door, from the door to the steps. he went down them, staggering a little as if dizzy, and tried to walk towards the avenue. presently he ran into something. "clumsy," said a lady's voice. "i beg your pardon," said peter mechanically. a moment later he ran into something again. "i beg your pardon," said peter, and two well-dressed girls laughed to see a bareheaded man apologize to a lamp-post. he walked on once more, but had not gone ten paces when a hand was rested on his shoulder. "now then, my beauty," said a voice. "you want to get a cab, or i shall have to run you in. where do you want to go?" "i beg your pardon," said peter. "come," said the policeman shaking him, "where do you belong? my god! it's mr. stirling. why, sir. what's the matter?" "i think i've killed her," said peter. "he's awfully screwed," ejaculated the policeman. "and him of all men! nobody shall know." he hailed a passing cab, and put peter into it. then he gave peter's office address, and also got in. he was fined the next day for being off his beat "without adequate reasons," but he never told where he had been. when they reached the building, he helped peter into the elevator. from there he helped him to his door. he rang the bell, but no answer came. it was past office-hours, and jenifer having been told that peter would dine up-town, had departed on his own leave of absence. the policeman had already gone through peter's pockets to get money for cabby, and now he repeated the operation, taking possession of peter's keys. he opened the door and, putting him into a deep chair in the study, laid the purse and keys on peter's desk, writing on a scrap of paper with much difficulty: "mr. stirling $ . i took to pay the carriage. john motty policeman precinct," he laid it beside the keys and purse. then he went back to his beat. and what was peter doing all this time? just what he now did. he tried to think, though each eye felt as if a red hot needle was burning in it. presently he rose, and began to pace the floor, but he kept stumbling over the desk and chairs. as he stumbled he thought, sometimes to himself, sometimes aloud: "if i could only think! i can't see. what was it dr. pilcere said about her eyes? or was it my eyes? did he give me some medicine? i can't remember. and it wouldn't help her. why can't i think? what is this pain in her head and eyes? why does everything look so dark, except when those pains go through her head? they feel like flashes of lightning, and then i can see. why can't i think? her eyes get in the way. he gave me something to put on them. but i can't give it to her. she told me to go away. to stop this agony! how she suffers. it's getting worse every moment. i can't remember about the medicine. there it comes again. now i know. it's not lightning. it's the petroleum! be quick, boys. can't you hear my darling scream? it's terrible. if i could only think. what was it the french doctor said to do, if it came back? no. we want to get some rails." peter dashed himself against a window. "once more, men, together. can't you hear her scream? break down the door!" peter caught up and hurled a pot of flowers at the window, and the glass shattered and fell to the floor and street "if i could see. but it's all dark. are those lights? no. it's too late. i can't save her from it." so he wandered physically and mentally. wandered till sounds of martial music came up through the broken window. "fall in," cried peter. "the anarchists are after her. it's dynamite, not lightning. podds, don't let them hurt her. save her. oh! save her i why can't i get to her? don't try to hold me," he cried, as he came in contact with a chair. he caught it up and hurled it across the room, so that it crashed into the picture-frames, smashing chair and frames into fragments. "i can't be the one to throw it," he cried, in an agonized voice. "she's all i have. for years i've been so lonely. don't i can't throw it. it kills me to see her suffer. it wouldn't be so horrible if i hadn't done it myself. if i didn't love her so. but to blow her up myself. i can't. men, will you stand by me, and help me to save her?" the band of music stopped. a moment's silence fell and then up from the street, came the air of: "marching through georgia," five thousand voices singing: "rally round our party, boys; rally to the blue, and battle for our candidate, so sterling and so true, fight for honest government, boys, and down the vicious crew; voting for freedom and stirling. "hurrah, hurrah, for stirling, brave and strong. hurrah, hurrah, for stirling, never wrong. and roll the voters up in line, two hundred thousand strong; voting for freedom and stirling." "i can't fight so many. two hundred thousand! i have no sword. i didn't shoot them. no! i only gave the order. it hurt me, but i didn't mean to hurt her. she's all i have. do you think i intended to kill her? no! no sacrifice would be too great. and you can talk to me of votes! two hundred thousand votes! i did my best for her. i didn't mean to hurt her. and i went to see the families. i went to see them all. if i only could think. but she is suffering too much. i can't think as long as she lies on the rug, and trembles so. see the flashes of lightning pass through her head. don't bury your face in the rug. no wonder it's all dark. try to think, and then it will be all right." up from the street came the air of: "there were three crows," and the words: "steven maguire has schemed to be elected november fourth, steven maguire has schemed to be elected november fourth. steven maguire has schemed and schemed, but all his schemes will end in froth! and the people will all shout, hurrah, rah, rah, rah. and the people will all shout, hurrah, rah, rah, rah. "for peter stirling elected will be upon november fourth, for peter stirling elected will be upon november fourth, for peter stirling elected will be and steven maguire will be in broth, and the people will all shout, hurrah, rah, rah, rah, and the people will all shout, hurrah, rah, rah, rah." "it's steven maguire. he never could be honest. if i had him here!" peter came in contact with a chair. "who's that? ah! it's you. you've killed her. now!" and another chair went flying across the room with such force, that the door to the hall flew off its hinges, and fell with a crash. "i've killed him" screamed peter. "i've--no, i've killed my darling. all i have in the world!" and so he raved, and roamed, and stumbled, and fell; and rose, and roamed, and raved, and stumbled, and fell, while the great torchlight procession sang and cheered him from below. he was wildly fighting his pain still when two persons, who, after ringing and ringing, had finally been let in by jenifer's key, stood where the door had been. "my god," cried one, in terror. "he's crazy! come away!" but the other, without a word or sign of fear, went up to that wild-looking figure, and put her hand in his. peter stopped his crazed stride. "i can't think, i tell you. i can't think as long as you lie there on the rug. and your eyes blaze so. they feel just like balls of fire." "please sit down, peter. please? for my sake. here. here is the chair. please sit down." peter sank back in the chair. "i tell you i can't think. they do nothing but burn. it's the petroleum!" he started forward, but a slender arm arrested his attempt to rise, and he sank back again as if it had some power over him. "hyah, miss. foh de lub ub heaben, put some ub dis yar on he eyes," said jenifer, who had appeared with a bottle, and was blubbering enough to supply a whole whaling fleet. "de doctor he done give dis yar foh de aspic nerve." which is a dish that jenifer must have invented himself, for it is not discoverable even on the fullest of menus. leonore knelt in front of peter, and, drenching her fingers with the wash, began rubbing it softly over his eyes. it has always been a problem whether it was the remedy or the ends of those fingers which took those lines of suffering out of peter's face and made him sit quietly in that chain those having little faith in medicines, and much faith in a woman's hands, will opine the latter. doctors will not. sufficeth it to say, after ten minutes of this treatment, during which peter's face had slowly changed, first to a look of rest, and then to one which denoted eagerness, doubt and anxiety, but not pain, that he finally put out his hands and took leonore's. "you have come to me," he said, "has he told you?" "who? what?" asked leonore. "you still think i could?" cried peter. "then why are you here?" he opened his eyes wildly and would have risen, only leonore was kneeling in front of the chair still. "don't excite yourself, peter," begged leonore. "we'll not talk of that now. not till you are better." "what are you here for?" cried peter. "why did you come--?" "oh, please, peter, be quiet." "tell me, i will have it." peter was exciting himself, more from leonore's look than by what she said. "oh, peter. i made papa bring me--because--oh! i wanted to ask you to do something. for my sake!" "what is it?" "i wanted to ask you," sobbed leonore, "to marry her. then i shall always think you were what i--i--have been loving, and not--" leonore laid her head down on his knee, and sobbed bitterly. peter raised leonore in his arms, and laid the little head on his shoulder. "dear one," he said, "do you love me?" "yes," sobbed leonore. "and do you think i love you?" "yes." "now look into your heart. could you tell me a lie?" "no." "nor can i you. i am not the father of that boy, and i never wronged his mother." "but you told--" sobbed leonore. "i lied to your mother, dear." "for what?" leonore had lifted her head, and there was a look of hope in her eyes, as well as of doubt. "because it was better at that time than the truth. but watts will tell you that i lied." "papa?" "yes, dot. dear old peter speaks the truth." "but if you lied to her, why not to me?" "i can't lie to you, leonore. i am telling you the truth. won't you believe me?" "i do," cried leonore. "i know you speak the truth. it's in your face and voice." and the next moment her arms were about peter's neck, and her lips were on his. just then some one in the "torchlight" shouted: "what's the matter wid stirling?" and a thousand voices joyfully yelled; "he's all right." and so was the crowd. chapter lx. a conundrum. mr. pierce was preparing to talk. usually mr. pierce was talking. mr. pierce had been talking already, but it had been to single listeners only, and for quite a time in the last three hours mr. pierce had been compelled to be silent. but at last mr. pierce believed his moment had come. mr. pierce thought he had an audience, and a plastic audience at that. and these three circumstances in combination made mr. pierce fairly bubbling with words. no longer would he have to waste his precious wit and wisdom, _tête-à-tête,_ or on himself. at first blush mr. pierce seemed right in his conjecture. seated--in truth, collapsed, on chairs and lounges, in a disarranged and untidy-looking drawing-room, were nearly twenty very tired-looking people. the room looked as if there had just been a free fight there, and the people looked as if they had been the participants. but the multitude of flowers and the gay dresses proved beyond question that something else had made the disorder of the room and had put that exhausted look upon the faces. experienced observers would have understood it at a glimpse. from the work and fatigues of this world, people had gathered for a little enjoyment of what we call society. it is true that both the room and its occupants did not indicate that there had been much recreation. but, then, one can lay it down as an axiom that the people who work for pleasure are the hardest-working people in the world; and, as it is that for which society labors, this scene is but another proof that they get very much fatigued over their pursuit of happiness and enjoyment, considering that they hunt for it in packs, and entirely exclude the most delicious intoxicant known--usually called oxygen--from their list of supplies from the caterer. certainly this particular group did look exhausted far beyond the speech-making point. but this, too, was a deception. these limp-looking individuals had only remained in this drawing-room for the sole purpose of "talking it over," and mr. pierce had no walk-over before him. mr. pierce cleared his throat and remarked: "the development of marriage customs and ceremonies from primeval days is one of the most curious and--" "what a lovely wedding it has been!" said dorothy, heaving a sigh of fatigue and pleasure combined. "wasn't it!" went up a chorus from the whole party, except mr. pierce, who looked eminently disgusted. "as i was remarking--" began mr. pierce again. "but the best part," said watts, who was lolling on one of the lounges, "was those 'sixt' ward presents. as mr. moriarty said; 'begobs, it's hard it would be to find the equal av that tureen!' he was right! its equal for ugliness is inconceivable." "yet the poor beggars spent eight hundred dollars on it" sighed lispenard, wearily. "relative to the subject--" said mr. pierce. "and leonore told me," said a charmingly-dressed girl, "that she liked it better than any other present she had received." "oh, she was more enthusiastic," laughed watts, "over all the 'sixt' ward and political presents than she was over what we gave her. we weren't in it at all with the micks. she has come out as much a worshipper of hoi-polloi as peter." "i don't believe she cares a particle for them," said our old friend, the gentlemanly scoundrel; "but she worships them because they worship him." "well," sighed lispenard, "that's the way things go in life. there's that fellow gets worshipped by every one, from the irish saloon-keeper up to leonore. while look at me! i'm a clever, sweet-tempered, friendly sort of a chap, but nobody worships me. there isn't any one who gives a second thought for yours truly. i seem good for nothing, except being best man to much luckier chaps. while look at peter! he's won the love of a lovely girl, who worships him to a degree simply inconceivable. i never saw such idealization." "then you haven't been watching peter," said mrs. d'alloi, who, as a mother, had no intention of having it supposed that leonore was not more loved than loving. "taking modern marriage as a basis--" said mr. pierce. "oh," laughed dorothy, "there's no doubt they are a pair, and i'm very proud of it, because i did it." "cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed ray. "i did," said dorothy, "and my own husband is not the one to cast reflection on my statement." "he's the only one who dares," said ogden. "well, i did. leonore would never have cared for such a silent, serious man if i hadn't shown her that other women did, and--" "nonsense," laughed ogden. "it was podds did it. dynamite is famous for the uncertainty of the direction in which it will expend its force, and in this case it blew in a circle, and carried leonore's heart clear from newport to peter." "or, to put it scientifically," said lispenard, "along the line of least resistance." "it seems to me that peter was the one who did it," said le grand. "but of course, as a bachelor, i can't expect my opinion to be accepted." "no," said dorothy. "he nearly spoiled it by cheapening himself. no girl will think a man is worth much who lets her tramp on him." "still," said lispenard, "few girls can resist the flattery of being treated by a man as if she is the only woman worth considering in the world, and peter did that to an extent which was simply disgraceful. it was laughable to see the old hermit become social the moment she appeared, and to see how his eyes and attention followed her. and his learning to dance! that showed how things were." "he began long before any of you dreamed," said mrs. d'alloi. "didn't he, watts?" "undoubtedly," laughed watts. "and so did she. i really think leonore did quite as much in her way, as peter did. i never saw her treat any one quite as she behaved to peter from the very first. i remember her coming in after her runaway, wild with enthusiasm over him, and saying to me 'oh, i'm so happy. i've got a new friend, and we are going to be such friends always!'" "that raises the same question," laughed ogden, "that the irishman did about the street-fight, when he asked 'who throwed that last brick first?'" "really, if it didn't seem too absurd," said watts, "i should say they began it the moment they met." "i don't think that at all absurd," said a gray-haired, refined looking woman who was the least collapsed of the group, or was perhaps so well bred as to conceal her feelings. "i myself think it began before they even met. leonore was half in love with peter when she was in europe, and peter, though he knew nothing of her, was the kind of a man who imagines an ideal and loves that. she happened to be his ideal." "really, miss de voe," said mr. pierce, "you must have misjudged him. though peter is now my grandson, i am still able to know what he is. he is not at all the kind of man who allows himself to be controlled by an ideal." "i do not feel that i have ever known peter. he does not let people perceive what is underneath," said miss de voe. "but of one thing i am sure. nearly everything he does is done from sentiment. at heart he is an idealist." "oh!" cried several. "that is a most singular statement," said mr. pierce. "there is not a man i know who has less of the sentimental and ideal in him. an idealist is a man of dreams and romance. peter is far too sensible a fellow to be that. there is nothing heroic or romantic in him." "nonsense, _paternus_," said watts. "you don't know anything about the old chap. you've only seen him as a cool clever lawyer. if your old definition of romance is right: that it is 'love, and the battle between good and evil,' peter has had more true romance than all the rest of us put together." "no," said mr. pierce. "you have merely seen peter in love, and so you all think he is romantic. he isn't. he is a cool man, who never acts without weighing his actions, and therein has lain the secret of his success. he calmly marks out his line of life, and, regardless of everything else, pursues it. he disregards everything not to his purpose, and utilizes everything that serves. i predicted great success for him many years ago when he was fresh from college, simply from a study of his mental characteristics and i have proved myself a prophet. he has never made a slip, legally, politically, or socially. to use a yachting expression, he has 'made everything draw.' an idealist, or a man of romance and fire and impulse could never succeed as he has done. it is his entire lack of feeling which has led to his success. indeed--" "i can't agree with you," interrupted dorothy, sitting up from her collapse as if galvanized into life and speech by mr. pierce's monologue. "you don't understand peter. he is a man of great feeling. think of that speech of his about those children! think of his conduct to his mother as long as she lived! think of the goodness and kindness he showed to the poor! why, ray says he has refused case after case for want of time in recent years, while doing work for people in his ward which was worth nothing. if--" "they were worth votes," interjected mr. pierce. "look at his buying the costell place in westchester when mr. costell died so poor, and giving it to mrs. costell," continued dorothy, warming with her subject. "look at his going to those strikers' families, and arranging to help them. were those things done for votes? if i could only tell you of something he once did for me, you would not say that he was a man without feeling." "i have no doubt," said mr. pierce blandly, "that he did many things which, on their face, seemed admirable and to indicate feeling. but if carefully examined, they would be found to have been advantageous to him. any service he could have done to mrs. rivington surely did not harm him. his purchase of costell's place pleased the political friends of the dead leader. his aiding the strikers' families placated the men, and gained him praise from the press. i dislike greatly to oppose this rose-colored view of peter, but, from my own knowledge of the man, i must. he is without feeling, and necessarily makes no mistakes, nor is he led off from his own ambitions by sentiment of any kind. when we had that meeting with the strikers, he sat there, while all new york was seething, with mobs and dead just outside the walls, as cool and impassive as a machine. he was simply determined that we should compromise, because his own interests demanded it, and he carried his point merely because he was the one cool man at that meeting. if he had had feeling he could not have been cool. that one incident shows the key-note of his success." "and i say his strong sympathies and feeling were the key-note," reiterated dorothy. "i think," said pell, "that peter's great success lay in his ability to make friends. it was simply marvellous. i've seen it, over and over again, both in politics and society. he never seemed to excite envy or bitterness. he had a way of doing things which made people like him. every one he meets trusts him. yet nobody understands him. so he interests people, without exciting hostility. i've heard person after person say that he was an uninteresting, ordinary man, and yet nobody ever seemed to forget him. every one of us feels, i am sure, that, as miss de voe says, he had within something he never showed people. i have never been able to see why he did or did not do hundreds of things. yet it always turned out that what he did was right. he makes me think of the frenchwoman who said to her sister, 'i don't know why it is, sister, but i never meet any one who's always right but myself.'" "you have hit it," said ogden ogden, "and i can prove that you have by peter's own explanation of his success. i spoke to him once of a rather curious line of argument, as it seemed to me, which he was taking in a case, and he said: 'ogden, i take that course because it is the way judge potter's mind acts. if you want to convince yourself, take the arguments which do that best, but when you have to deal with judges or juries, take the lines which fit their capacities. people talk about my unusual success in winning cases. it's simply because i am not certain that my way and my argument are the only way and the only argument. i've studied the judges closely, so that i know what lines to take, and i always notice what seems to interest the jury most, in each case. but, more important than this study, is the fact that i can comprehend about how the average man will look at a certain thing. you see i am the son of plain people. then i am meeting all grades of mankind, and hearing what they say, and getting their points of view. i have never sat in a closet out of touch with the world and decided what is right for others, and then spent time trying to prove it to them. in other words, i have succeeded, because i am merely the normal or average man, and therefore am understood by normal or average people, or by majorities, to put it in another way.'" "but mr. stirling isn't a commonplace man," said another of the charmingly dressed girls. "he is very silent, and what he says isn't at all clever, but he's very unusual and interesting." "nevertheless," said ogden, "i believe he was right. he has a way of knowing what the majority of people think or feel about things. and that is the secret of his success, and not his possession or lack of feeling." "you none of you have got at the true secret of peter's success," said ray. "it was his wonderful capacity for work. to a lazy beggar like myself it is marvellous. i've known that man to work from nine in the morning till one at night, merely stopping for meals." "yet he did not seem an ambitious man," said le grand. "he cared nothing for social success, he never has accepted office till now, and he has refused over and over again law work which meant big money." "no," said ray. "peter worked hard in law and politics. yet he didn't want office or money. he could more than once have been a judge, and costell wanted him governor six years ago. he took the nomination this year against his own wishes. he cared as little for money or reputation in law, as he cared for society, and would compromise cases which would have added greatly to his reputation if he had let them go to trial. he might have been worth double what he is to-day, if he had merely invested his money, instead of letting it lie in savings banks or trust companies. i've spoken about it repeatedly to him, but he only said that he wasn't going to spend time taking care of money, for money ceased to be valuable when it had to be taken care of; its sole use to him being to have it take care of him. i think he worked for the sake of working." "that explains peter, certainly. his one wish was to help others," said miss de voe. "he had no desire for reputation or money, and so did not care to increase either." "and mark my words," said lispenard. "from this day, he'll set no limit to his endeavors to obtain both." "he can't work harder than he has to get political power," said an usher. "think of how anxious he must have been to get it, when he would spend so much time in the slums and saloons! he couldn't have liked the men he met there." "i've taken him to task about that, and told him he had no business to waste his time so," said ogden; "but he said that he was not taking care of other people's money or trying to build up a great business, and that if he chose to curtail his practice, so as to have some time to work in politics, it was a matter of personal judgment." "i once asked peter," said miss de voe, "how he could bear, with his tastes and feelings, to go into saloons, and spend so much time with politicians, and with the low, uneducated people of his district. he said, 'that is my way of trying to do good, and it is made enjoyable to me by helping men over rough spots, or by preventing political wrong. i have taken the world and humanity as it is, and have done what i could, without stopping to criticise or weep over shortcomings and sins. i admire men who stand for noble impossibilities. but i have given my own life to the doing of small possibilities. i don't say the way is the best. but it is my way, for i am a worker, not a preacher. and just because i have been willing to do things as the world is willing to have them done, power and success have come to me to do more.' i believe it was because peter had no wish for worldly success, that it came to him." "you are all wrong," groaned lispenard. "i love peter as much as i love my own kin, with due apology to those of it who are present, but i must say that his whole career has been the worst case of sheer, downright luck of which i ever saw or heard." "luck!" exclaimed dorothy. "yes, luck!" said lispenard. "look at it. he starts in like all the rest of us. and miss luck calls him in to look at a sick kitten die. very ordinary occurrence that! health-board report several hundred every week. but miss luck knew what she was about and called him in to just the right kind of a kitten to make a big speech about. thereupon he makes it, blackguarding and wiping the floor up with a millionaire brewer. does the brewer wait for his turn to get even with him? not a bit. miss luck takes a hand in and the brewer falls on peter's breast-bone, and loves him ever afterwards. my cousin writes him, and he snubs her. does she annihilate him as she would have other men? no. miss luck has arranged all that, and they become the best of friends." "lispenard--" miss de voe started to interrupt indignantly, but lispenard continued, "hold on till i finish. one at a time. well. miss luck gets him chosen to a convention by a fluke and peter votes against costell's wishes. what happens? costell promptly takes him up and pushes him for all he's worth. he snubs society, and society concludes that a man who is more snubby and exclusive than itself must be a man to cultivate. he refuses to talk, and every one promptly says: 'how interesting he is!' he gets in the way of a dynamite bomb. does it kill him? certainly not. miss luck has put an old fool there, to protect him. he swears a bad word. does it shock respectable people? no! every one breathes easier, and likes him the better. he enrages and shoots the strikers. does he lose votes? not one. miss luck arranges that the directors shall yield things which they had sworn not to yield; and the strikers are reconciled and print a card in praise of him. he runs for office. do the other parties make a good fight of it? no. they promptly nominate a scoundrelly demagogue and a nonentity who thinks votes are won by going about in shirtsleeves. so he is elected by the biggest plurality the state has ever given. has miss luck done enough? no. she at once sets every one predicting that he'll get the presidential nomination two years from now, if he cares for it. be it friend or enemy, intentional or unintentional, every one with whom he comes in contact gives him a boost. while look at me! there isn't a soul who ever gave me help. it's been pure, fire-with-your-eyes-shut luck. "was this morning luck too?" asked a bridesmaid. "absolutely," sighed lispenard. "and what luck! i always said that peter would never marry, because he would insist on taking women seriously, and because at heart he was afraid of them to a woeful degree, and showed it in such a way, as simply to make women think he didn't like them individually. but miss luck wouldn't allow that. oh, no! miss luck isn't content even that peter shall take his chance of getting a wife, with the rest of us. she's not going to have any accidents for him. so she takes the loveliest of girls and trots her all over europe, so that she shan't have friends, or even know men well. she arranges too, that the young girl shall have her head filled with peter by a lot of admiring women, who are determined to make him into a sad, unfortunate hero, instead of the successful man he is. a regular conspiracy to delude a young girl. then before the girl has seen anything of the world, she trots her over here. does she introduce them at a dance, so that peter shall be awkward and silent? not she! she puts him where he looks his best--on a horse. she starts the thing off romantically, so that he begins on the most intimate footing, before another man has left his pasteboard. so he's way ahead of the pack when they open cry. is that enough? no! at the critical moment he is called to the aid of his country. gets lauded for his pluck. gets blown up. gets everything to make a young girl worship him. pure luck! it doesn't matter what peter says or does. miss luck always arranges that it turn up the winning card." "there is no luck in it," cried mr. pierce. "it was all due to his foresight and shrewdness. he plans things beforehand, and merely presses the button. why, look at his marriage alone? does he fall in love early in life, and hamper himself with a miss nobody? not he! he waits till he has achieved a position where he can pick from the best, and then he does exactly that, if you'll pardon a doating grandfather's saying it." "well," said watts, "we have all known peter long enough to have found out what he is, yet there seems to be a slight divergence of opinion. are we fools, or is peter a gay deceiver?" "he is the most outspoken man i ever knew," said miss de voe. "but he tells nothing," said an usher. "yes. he is absolutely silent," said a bridesmaid. "except when he's speechifying," said ray. "and leonore says he talks and jokes a great deal," said watts. "i never knew any one who is deceiving herself so about a man," said dorothy. "it's terrible. what do you think she had the face to say to me to-day?" "what?" "she was speaking of their plans after returning from the wedding journey, and she said: 'i am going to have peter keep up his bachelor quarters.' 'does he say he'll do it?' i asked. 'i haven't spoken to him,' she replied, 'but of course he will.' i said: 'leonore, all women think they rule their husbands, but they don't in reality, and peter will be less ruled than any man i know.' then what do you think she said?" "don't keep us in suspense." "she said: 'none of you ever understood peter. but i do.' think of it! from that little chit, who's known peter half the number of months that i've known him years!" "i don't know," sighed lispenard. "i'm not prepared to say it isn't so. indeed, after seeing peter, who never seemed able to understand women till this one appeared on the scene, develop into a regulation lover, i am quite prepared to believe that every one knows more than i do. at the same time, i can't afford to risk my reputation for discrimination and insight over such a simple thing as peter's character. you've all tried to say what peter is. now i'll tell you in two words and you'll all find you are right, and you'll all find you are wrong." "you are as bad as leonore," cried dorothy. "well," said watts, "we are all listening. what is peter?" "he is an extreme type of a man far from uncommon in this country, yet who has never been understood by foreigners, and by few americans." "well?" "peter is a practical idealist" chapter lxi. leonore's theory. and how well had that "talk-it-over" group at the end of peters wedding-day grasped his character? how clearly do we ever gain an insight into the feelings and motives which induce conduct even in those whom we best know and love? each had found something in peter that no other had discovered. we speak of rose-colored glasses, and shakespeare wrote, "all things are yellow to a jaundiced eye." when we take a bit of blue glass, and place it with yellow, it becomes green. when we put it with red, it becomes purple. yet blue it is all the time. is not each person responsible for the tint he seems to produce in others? can we ever learn that the thing is blue, and that the green or purple aspect is only the tinge which we ourselves help to give? can we ever learn that we love and are loved entirely as we give ourselves colors which may harmonize with those about us? that love, wins love; kindness, kindness; hate, hate. that just such elements as we give to the individual, the individual gives back to us? that the sides we show are the sides seen by the world. there were people who could truly believe that peter was a ward boss; a frequenter of saloons; a drunkard; a liar; a swearer; a murderer, in intention, if not in act; a profligate; and a compromiser of many of his own strongest principles. yet there were people who could, say other things of him. but more important than the opinion of peter's friends, and of the world, was the opinion of peter's wife. was she right in her theory that she was the only one who understood him? or had she, as he had once done, reared an ideal, and given that ideal the love which she supposed she was giving peter? it is always a problem in love to say whether we love people most for the qualities they actually possess, or for those with which our own love endows them. here was a young girl, inexperienced in world and men, joyfully sinking her own life in that of a man whom, but a few months before, had been only a matter of hearsay to her. yet she had apparently taken him, as women will, for better, for worse, till death, as trustfully as if he and men generally were as knowable as a b c, instead of as unknown as the algebraic x. only once had she faltered in her trust of him, and then but for a moment. how far had her love, and the sight of peter's misery, led her blindly to renew that trust? and would it hold? she had seen how little people thought of that scurrilous article, and how the decent papers had passed it over without a word. but she had also seen, the scandal harped upon by partisans and noted that peter failed to vindicate himself publicly, or vouchsafe an explanation to her. had she taken peter with trust or doubt, knowledge or blindness? perhaps a conversation between the two, a week later, will answer these questions. it occurred on the deck of a vessel. yet this parting glimpse of peter is very different from that which introduced him. the vessel is not drifting helplessly, but its great screw is whirling it towards the island of martinique, as if itself anxious to reach that fairy land of fairy lands. though the middle of november, the soft warmth of the tropics is in the air. nor are the sea and sky now leaden. the first is turned into liquid gold by the phosphorescence, and the full moon silvers everything else. neither is peter pacing the deck with lines of pain and endurance on his face. he is up in the bow, where the vessel's forefoot throws up the white foam in silver drops in the moonlight. and he does not look miserable. anything but that. he is sitting on an anchor stock, with his back comfortably braced against the rail. another person is not far distant. what that person sits upon and leans against is immaterial to the narrative. "why don't you smoke?" asked that person. "i'm too happy," said peter, in a voice evidencing the truth of his words. "will you if i bite off the end?" asked eve, jr., placing temptation most temptingly. "i like the idea exceedingly," said peter. "but my right arm is so very pleasantly placed that it objects to moving." "don't move it. i know where they are. i even know about the matches." and peter sat calmly while his pockets were picked. he even seemed to enjoy the sensation of that small hand rummaging in his waistcoat pockets. "you see, dear, that i am learning your ways," leonore continued, in a tone of voice which suggested that that was the chief end of woman. perhaps it is. the westminster catechism only tells us the chief end of man. "there. now are you really happy?" "i don't know anybody more so." "then, dear, i want to talk with you." "the wish is reciprocal. but what have we been doing for six days?" "we've been telling each other everything, just as we ought. but now i want to ask two favors, dear." "i don't think that's necessary. just tell me what they are." "yes. these favors are. though i know you'll say 'yes.'" "well?" "first. i want you always to keep your rooms just as they are?" "dear-heart, after our six weeks' trip, we must be in albany for three years, and when we come back to new york, we'll have a house of course." "yes. but i want you to keep the rooms just as they are, because i love them. i don't think i shall ever feel the same for any other place. it will be very convenient to have them whenever, we want to run down from albany. and of course you must keep up with the ward." "but you don't suppose, after we are back in new-york, that i'll stay down there, with you uptown?" "oh, no! of course not. peter! how absurd you are! but i shall go down very often. sometimes we'll give little dinners to real friends. and sometimes, when we want to get away from people, we'll dine by ourselves and spend the night there. then whenever you want to be at the saloons or primaries we'll dine together there and i'll wait for you. and then i think i'll go down sometimes, when i'm shopping, and lunch with you. i'll promise not to bother you. you shall go back to your work, and i'll amuse myself with your flowers, and books, till you are ready to go uptown. then we'll ride together." "lispenard frightened me the other day, but you frighten me worse." "how?" "he said you would be a much lovelier woman at thirty than you are now." "and that frightened you?" laughed leonore. "terribly. if you are that i shall have to give up law and politics entirely, so as to see enough of you." "but what has that to do with my lunching with you?" "do you think i could work at law with you in the next room?" "don't you want me? i thought it was such a nice plan." "it is. if your other favor is like that i shan't know what to say. i shall merely long for you to ask favors." "this is very different. will you try to understand me?" "i shan't misunderstand you, at all events." which was a crazy speech for any man to make any woman. "then, dear, i want to speak of that terrible time--only for a moment, dear. you mustn't think i don't believe what you said. i do! i do! every word of it, and to prove it to you i shall never speak of it again. but when i've shown you that i trust you entirely, some stormy evening, when we've had the nicest little dinner together at your rooms, and i've given you some coffee, and bitten your cigar for you, i shall put you down before the fire, and sit down in your lap, as i am doing now, and put my arms about your neck so, and put my cheek so. and then i want you, without my asking to tell me why you told mamma that lie, and all about it." "dear-heart," said peter, "i cannot tell. i promised." "oh, but that didn't include your wife, dear, of course. besides, peter, friends should tell each other everything. and we are the best of friends, aren't we?" "and if i don't tell my dearest friend?" "i shall never speak of it, peter, but i know sometimes when i am by myself i shall cry over it. not because i doubt you, dear, but because you won't give me your confidence." "do you know, dear-heart, that i can't bear the thought of your doing that!" "of course not, dear. that's the reason i tell you. i knew you couldn't bear it." "how did you know?" "because i understand you, dear. i know just what you are. i'm the only person who does." "tell me what i am." "i think, dear, that something once came into your life that made you very miserable, and took away all your hope and ambition. so, instead of trying to make a great position or fortune, you tried to do good to others. you found that you could do the most good among the poor people, so you worked among them. then you found that you needed money, so you worked hard to get that. then you found that you could help most by working in politics, so you did that. and you have tried to gain power so as to increase your power for good. i know you haven't liked a great deal you have had to do. i know that you much prefer to sit before your study fire and read than sit in saloons. i know that you would rather keep away from tricky people than to ask or take their help. but you have sacrificed your own feelings and principles because you felt that they were not to be considered if you could help others. and, because people have laughed at you or misunderstood, you have become silent and unsocial, except as you have believed your mixing with the world to be necessary to accomplish good." "what a little idealist we are!" "well, dear, that isn't all the little idealist has found out. she knows something else. she knows that all his life her ideal has been waiting and longing for some one who did understand him, so that he can tell her all his hopes and feelings, and that at last he has found her, and she will try to make up for all the misery and sacrifice he has endured she knows, too, that he wants to tell her everything. you mustn't think, dear, that it was only prying which made me ask you so many questions. i--i really wasn't curious except to see if you would answer, for i felt that you didn't tell other people your real thoughts and feelings, and so, whenever you told me, it was really getting you to say that you loved me. you wanted me to know what you really are. and that was why i knew that you told me the truth that night. and that is the reason why i know that some day you will tell me about that lie." peter, whatever he might think, did not deny the correctness of leonore's theories concerning his motives in the past or his conduct in the future. he kissed the soft cheek so near him, tenderly, and said: "i like your thoughts about me, dear one." "of course you do," said leonore. "you said once that when you had a fine subject it was always easy to make a fine speech. it's true, too, of thoughts, dear." alton locke, tailor and poet an autobiography. by the rev. charles kingsley, canon of westminster, rector of eversley, and chaplain in ordinary to the queen and prince of wales, _new edition_, with a prefatory memoir by thomas hughes, esq., q.c., author of "tom brown's school days." contents. prefatory memoir cheap clothes and nasty preface--to the undergraduates of cambridge preface--to the working men of great britain chapter i. a poet's childhood chapter ii. the tailors' workroom chapter iii. sandy mackaye chapter iv. tailors and soldiers chapter v. the sceptic's mother chapter vi. the dulwich gallery chapter vii. first love chapter viii. light in a dark place chapter ix. poetry and poets chapter x. how folks turn chartists chapter xi. "the yard where the gentlemen live" chapter xii. cambridge chapter xiii. the lost idol found chapter xiv. a cathedral town chapter xv. the man of science chapter xvi. cultivated women chapter xvii. sermons in stones chapter xviii. my fall chapter xix. short and sad chapter xx. pegasus in harness chapter xxi. the sweater's den chapter xxii. an emersonian sermon chapter xxiii. the freedom of the press chapter xxiv. the townsman's sermon to the gownsman chapter xxv. a true nobleman chapter xxvi. the triumphant author chapter xxvii. the plush breeches tragedy chapter xxviii. the men who are eaten chapter xxix. the trial chapter xxx. prison thoughts chapter xxxi. the new church chapter xxxii. the tower of babel chapter xxxiii. a patriot's reward chapter xxxiv. the tenth of april chapter xxxv. the lowest deep chapter xxxvi. dreamland chapter xxxvii. the true demagogue chapter xxxviii. miracles and science chapter xxxix. nemesis chapter xl. priests and people chapter xli. freedom, equality, and brotherhood prefatory memoir. the tract appended to this preface has been chosen to accompany this reprint of _alton locke_ in order to illustrate, from another side, a distinct period in the life of charles kingsley, which stands out very much by itself. it may be taken roughly to have extended from to . it has been thought that they require a preface, and i have undertaken to write it, as one of the few survivors of those who were most intimately associated with the author at the time to which the works refer. no easy task; for, look at them from what point we will, these years must be allowed to cover an anxious and critical time in modern english history; but, above all, in the history of the working classes. in the first of them the chartist agitation came to a head and burst, and was followed by the great movement towards association, which, developing in two directions and by two distinct methods--represented respectively by the amalgamated trades unions, and co-operative societies--has in the intervening years entirely changed the conditions of the labour question in england, and the relations of the working to the upper and middle classes. it is with this, the social and industrial side of the history of those years, that we are mainly concerned here. charles kingsley has left other and more important writings of those years. but these are beside our purpose, which is to give some such slight sketch of him as may be possible within the limits of a preface, in the character in which he was first widely known, as the most outspoken and powerful of those who took the side of the labouring classes, at a critical time--the crisis in a word, when they abandoned their old political weapons, for the more potent one of union and association, which has since carried them so far. to no one of all those to whom his memory is very dear can this seem a superfluous task, for no writer was ever more misunderstood or better abused at the time, and after the lapse of almost a quarter of a century the misunderstanding would seem still to hold its ground. for through all the many notices of him which appeared after his death in last january, there ran the same apologetic tone as to this part of his life's work. while generally, and as a rule cordially, recognizing his merits as an author and a man, the writers seemed to agree in passing lightly over this ground. when it was touched it was in a tone of apology, sometimes tinged with sarcasm, as in the curt notice in the "times"--"he was understood, to be the parson lot of those 'politics for the people' which made no little noise in their time, and as parson lot he declared in burning language that to his mind the fault in the 'people's charter' was that it did not go nearly far enough." and so the writer turns away, as do most of his brethren, leaving probably some such impression as this on the minds of most of their readers--"young men of power and genius are apt to start with wild notions. he was no exception. parson lot's sayings and doings may well be pardoned for what charles kingsley said and did in after years; so let us drop a decent curtain over them, and pass on." now, as very nearly a generation has passed since that signature used to appear at the foot of some of the most noble and vigorous writing of our time, readers of to-day are not unlikely to accept this view, and so to find further confirmation and encouragement in the example of parson lot for the mischievous and cowardly distrust of anything like enthusiasm amongst young men, already sadly too prevalent in england. if it were only as a protest against this "surtout point de zèle" spirit, against which it was one of charles kingsley's chief tasks to fight with all his strength, it is well that the facts should be set right. this done, readers may safely be left to judge what need there is for the apologetic tone in connection with the name, the sayings, and doings of parson lot. my first meeting with him was in the autumn of , at the house of mr. maurice, who had lately been appointed reader of lincolns inn. no parochial work is attached to that post, so mr. maurice had undertaken the charge of a small district in the parish in which he lived, and had set a number of young men, chiefly students of the inns of court who had been attracted by his teaching, to work in it. once a week, on monday evenings, they used to meet at his house for tea, when their own work was reported upon and talked over. suggestions were made and plans considered; and afterwards a chapter of the bible was read and discussed. friends and old pupils of mr. maurice's, residing in the country, or in distant parts of london, were in the habit of coming occasionally to these meetings, amongst whom was charles kingsley. he had been recently appointed rector of eversley, and was already well known as the author of _the saint's tragedy_, his first work, which contained the germ of much that he did afterwards. his poem, and the high regard and admiration which mr. maurice had for him, made him a notable figure in that small society, and his presence was always eagerly looked for. what impressed me most about him when we first met was, his affectionate deference to mr. maurice, and the vigour and incisiveness of everything he said and did. he had the power of cutting out what he meant in a few clear words, beyond any one i have ever met. the next thing that struck one was the ease with which he could turn from playfulness, or even broad humour, to the deepest earnest. at first i think this startled most persons, until they came to find out the real deep nature of the man; and that his broadest humour had its root in a faith which realized, with extraordinary vividness, the fact that god's spirit is actively abroad in the world, and that christ is in every man, and made him hold fast, even in his saddest moments,--and sad moments were not infrequent with him,--the assurance that, in spite of all appearances, the world was going right, and would go right somehow, "not your way, or my way, but god's way." the contrast of his humility and audacity, of his distrust in himself and confidence in himself, was one of those puzzles which meet us daily in this world of paradox. but both qualities gave him a peculiar power for the work he had to do at that time, with which the name of parson lot is associated. it was at one of these gatherings, towards the end of or early in , when kingsley found himself in a minority of one, that he said jokingly, he felt much as lot must have felt in the cities of the plain, when he seemed as one that mocked to his sons-in-law. the name parson lot was then and there suggested, and adopted by him, as a familiar _nom de plume_, he used it from up to ; at first constantly, latterly much more rarely. but the name was chiefly made famous by his writings in "politics for the people," the "christian socialist," and the "journal of association," three periodicals which covered the years from ' to ' ; by "alton locke"; and by tracts and pamphlets, of which the best known, "cheap clothes and nasty," is now republished. in order to understand and judge the sayings and writings of parson lot fairly, it is necessary to recall the condition of the england of that day. through the winter of - , amidst wide-spread distress, the cloud of discontent, of which chartism was the most violent symptom, had been growing darker and more menacing, while ireland was only held down by main force. the breaking-out of the revolution on the continent in february increased the danger. in march there were riots in london, glasgow, edinburgh, liverpool, and other large towns. on april th, "the crown and government security bill," commonly called "the gagging act," was introduced by the government, the first reading carried by to , and the second a few days later by to . on the th of april the government had to fill london with troops, and put the duke of wellington in command, who barricaded the bridges and downing street, garrisoned the bank and other public buildings, and closed the horse guards. when the momentary crisis had passed, the old soldier declared in the house of lords that "no great society had ever suffered as london had during the preceding days," while the home secretary telegraphed to all the chief magistrates of the kingdom the joyful news that the peace had been kept in london. in april, the lord chancellor, in introducing the crown and government security bill in the house of lords, referred to the fact that "meetings were daily held, not only in london, but in most of the manufacturing towns, the avowed object of which was to array the people against the constituted authority of these realms." for months afterwards the chartist movement, though plainly subsiding, kept the government in constant anxiety; and again in june, the bank, the mint, the custom house, and other public offices were filled with troops, and the houses of parliament were not only garrisoned but provisioned as if for a siege. from that time, all fear of serious danger passed away. the chartists were completely discouraged, and their leaders in prison; and the upper and middle classes were recovering rapidly from the alarm which had converted a million of them into special constables, and were beginning to doubt whether the crisis had been so serious after all, whether the disaffection had ever been more than skin deep. at this juncture a series of articles appeared in the _morning chronicle_ on "london labour and the london poor," which startled the well-to-do classes out of their jubilant and scornful attitude, and disclosed a state of things which made all fair minded people wonder, not that there had been violent speaking and some rioting, but that the metropolis had escaped the scenes which had lately been enacted in paris, vienna, berlin, and other continental capitals. it is only by an effort that one can now realize the strain to which the nation was subjected during that winter and spring, and which, of course, tried every individual man also, according to the depth and earnestness of his political and social convictions and sympathies. the group of men who were working under mr. maurice were no exceptions to the rule. the work of teaching and visiting was not indeed neglected, but the larger questions which were being so strenuously mooted--the points of the people's charter, the right of public meeting, the attitude of the labouring-class to the other classes--absorbed more and more of their attention. kingsley was very deeply impressed with the gravity and danger of the crisis--more so, i think, than almost any of his friends; probably because, as a country parson, he was more directly in contact with one class of the poor than any of them. how deeply he felt for the agricultural poor, how faithfully he reflected the passionate and restless sadness of the time, may be read in the pages of "yeast," which was then coming out in "fraser." as the winter months went on this sadness increased, and seriously affected his health. "i have a longing," he wrote to mr. ludlow, "to do _something_--what, god only knows. you say, 'he that believeth will not make haste,' but i think he that believeth must _make_ haste, or get damned with the rest. but i will do anything that anybody likes--i have no confidence in myself or in anything but god. i am not great enough for such times, alas! '_nè pour faire des vers_,' as camille desmoulins said." this longing became so strong as the crisis in april approached, that he came to london to see what could be done, and to get help from mr. maurice, and those whom he had been used to meet at his house. he found them a divided body. the majority were sworn in as special constables, and several had openly sided with the chartists; while he himself, with mr. maurice and mr. ludlow, were unable to take active part with either side. the following extract from a letter to his wife, written on the th of april, shows how he was employed during these days, and how he found the work which he was in search of, the first result of which was the publication of "those 'politics for the people' which made no small noise in their times"-- "_april_ th, .--the events of a week have been crowded into a few hours. i was up till four this morning--writing posting placards, under maurice's auspices, one of which is to be got out to-morrow morning, the rest when we can get money. could you not beg a few sovereigns somewhere to help these poor wretches to the truest alms?--to words, texts from the psalms, anything which may keep even one man from cutting his brother's throat to-morrow or friday? _pray, pray, help us._ maurice has given me a highest proof of confidence. he has taken me to counsel, and we are to have meetings for prayer and study, when i come up to london, and we are to bring out a new set of real "tracts for the times," addressed to the higher orders. maurice is _à la hauteur des circonstances_--determined to make a decisive move. he says, if the oxford tracts did wonders, why should not we? pray for us. a glorious future is opening, and both maurice and ludlow seem to have driven away all my doubts and sorrow, and i see the blue sky again, and my father's face!" the arrangements for the publication of "politics for the people" were soon made; and in one of the earliest numbers, for may, , appeared the paper which furnishes what ground there is for the statement, already quoted, that "he declared, in burning language, that the people's charter did not go far enough" it was no. of "parson lot's letters to the chartists." let us read it with its context. "i am not one of those who laugh at your petition of the th of april: i have no patience with those who do. suppose there were but , honest names on that sheet--suppose the charter itself were all stuff--yet you have still a right to fair play, a patient hearing, an honourable and courteous answer, whichever way it may be. but _my only quarrel with the charter is that it does not go far enough in reform_. i want to see you _free_, but i do not see that what you ask for will give you what you want. i think you have fallen into just the same mistake as the rich, of whom you complain--the very mistake which has been our curse and our nightmare. i mean the mistake of fancying that _legislative_ reform is _social_ reform, or that men's hearts can be changed by act of parliament. if any one will tell me of a country where a charter made the rogues honest, or the idle industrious, i will alter my opinion of the charter, but not till then. it disappointed me bitterly when i read it. it seemed a harmless cry enough, but a poor, bald constitution-mongering cry as ever i heard. the french cry of 'organization of labour' is worth a thousand of it, but yet that does not go to the bottom of the matter by many a mile." and then, after telling how he went to buy a number of the chartist newspaper, and found it in a shop which sold "flash songsters," "the swell's guide," and "dirty milksop french novels," and that these publications, and a work called "the devil's pulpit," were puffed in its columns, he goes on, "these are strange times. i thought the devil used to befriend tyrants and oppressors, but he seems to have profited by burns' advice to 'tak a thought and mend.' i thought the struggling freeman's watchword was: 'god sees my wrongs.' 'he hath taken the matter into his own hands.' 'the poor committeth himself unto him, for he is the helper of the friendless.' but now the devil seems all at once to have turned philanthropist and patriot, and to intend himself to fight the good cause, against which he has been fighting ever since adam's time. i don't deny, my friends, it is much cheaper and pleasanter to be reformed by the devil than by god; for god will only reform society on the condition of our reforming every man his own self--while the devil is quite ready to help us to mend the laws and the parliament, earth and heaven, without ever starting such an impertinent and 'personal' request, as that a man should mend himself. _that_ liberty of the subject he will always respect."--"but i say honestly, whomsoever i may offend, the more i have read of your convention speeches and newspaper articles, the more i am convinced that too many of you are trying to do god's work with the devil's tools. what is the use of brilliant language about peace, and the majesty of order, and universal love, though it may all be printed in letters a foot long, when it runs in the same train with ferocity, railing, mad, one-eyed excitement, talking itself into a passion like a street woman? do you fancy that after a whole column spent in stirring men up to fury, a few twaddling copybook headings about 'the sacred duty of order' will lay the storm again? what spirit is there but the devil's spirit in bloodthirsty threats of revenge?"--"i denounce the weapons which you have been deluded into employing to gain you your rights, and the indecency and profligacy which you are letting be mixed up with them! will you strengthen and justify your enemies? will you disgust and cripple your friends? will you go out of your way to do wrong? when you can be free by fair means will you try foul? when you might keep the name of liberty as spotless as the heaven from which she comes, will you defile her with blasphemy, beastliness, and blood? when the cause of the poor is the cause of almighty god, will you take it out of his hands to entrust it to the devil? these are bitter questions, but as you answer them so will you prosper." in letter ii. he tells them that if they have followed, a different "reformer's guide" from his, it is "mainly the fault of us parsons, who have never told you that the true 'reformer's guide,' the true poor man's book, the true 'voice of god against tyrants, idlers, and humbugs, was the bible.' the bible demands for the poor as much, and more, than they demand for themselves; it expresses the deepest yearnings of the poor man's heart far more nobly, more searchingly, more daringly, more eloquently than any modern orator has done. i say, it gives a ray of hope--say rather a certain dawn of a glorious future, such as no universal suffrage, free trade, communism, organization of labour, or any other morrison's-pill-measure can give--and yet of a future, which will embrace all that is good in these--a future of conscience, of justice, of freedom, when idlers and oppressors shall no more dare to plead parchments and acts of parliament for their iniquities. i say the bible promises this, not in a few places only, but throughout; it is the thought which runs through the whole bible, justice from god to those whom men oppress, glory from god to those whom men despise. does that look like the invention of tyrants, and prelates? you may sneer, but give me a fair hearing, and if i do not prove my words, then call me the same hard name which i shall call any man, who having read the bible, denies that it is the poor man's comfort and the rich man's warning." in subsequent numbers (as afterwards in the "christian socialist," and the "journal of association") he dwells in detail on the several popular cries, such as, "a fair day's wage for a fair day's work," illustrating them from the bible, urging his readers to take it as the true radical reformer's guide, if they were longing for the same thing as he was longing for--to see all humbug, idleness, injustice, swept out of england. his other contributions to these periodicals consisted of some of his best short poems: "the day of the lord;" "the three fishers;" "old and new," and others; of a series of letters on the frimley murder; of a short story called "the nun's pool," and of some most charming articles on the pictures in the national gallery, and the collections in the british museum, intended to teach the english people how to use and enjoy their own property. i think i know every line which was ever published under the signature parson lot; and i take it upon myself to say, that there is in all that "burning language" nothing more revolutionary than the extracts given above from his letters to the chartists. but, it may be said, apart from his writings, did not parson lot declare himself a chartist in a public meeting in london; and did he not preach in a london pulpit a political sermon, which brought up the incumbent, who had invited him, to protest from the altar against the doctrine which had just been delivered? yes! both statements are true. here are the facts as to the speech, those as to the sermon i will give in their place. in the early summer of some of those who felt with c. kingsley that the "people's charter" had not had fair play or courteous treatment, and that those who signed it had real wrongs to complain of, put themselves into communication with the leaders, and met and talked with them. at last it seemed that the time was come for some more public meeting, and one was called at the cranbourn tavern, over which mr. maurice presided. after the president's address several very bitter speeches followed, and a vehement attack was specially directed against the church and the clergy. the meeting waxed warm, and seemed likely to come to no good, when kingsley rose, folded his arms across his chest, threw his head back, and began--with the stammer which always came at first when he was much moved, but which fixed every one's attention at once--"i am a church of england parson"--a long pause--"and a chartist;" and then he went on to explain how far he thought them right in their claim for a reform of parliament; how deeply he sympathized with their sense of the injustice of the law as it affected them; how ready he was to help in all ways to get these things set right; and then to denounce their methods, in very much the same terms as i have already quoted from his letters to the chartists. probably no one who was present ever heard a speech which told more at the time. i had a singular proof that the effect did not pass away. the most violent speaker on that occasion was one of the staff of the leading chartist newspaper. i lost sight of him entirely for more than twenty years, and saw him again, a little grey shrivelled man, by kingsley's side, at the grave of mr. maurice, in the cemetery at hampstead. the experience of this meeting encouraged its promoters to continue the series, which they did with a success which surprised no one more than themselves. kingsley's opinion of them may be gathered from the following extract from a letter to his wife:-- "_june_ , , evening.--a few words before bed. i have just come home from the meeting. no one spoke but working men, gentlemen i should call them, in every sense of the term. even _i_ was perfectly astonished by the courtesy, the reverence to maurice, who sat there like an apollo, their eloquence, the brilliant, nervous, well-chosen language, the deep simple earnestness, the rightness and moderation of their thoughts. and these are the _chartists_, these are the men who are called fools and knaves--who are refused the rights which are bestowed on every profligate fop.... it is god's cause, fear not he will be with us, and if he is with us, who shall be against us?" but while he was rapidly winning the confidence of the working classes, he was raising up a host of more or less hostile critics in other quarters by his writings in "politics for the people," which journal was in the midst of its brief and stormy career. at the end of june, , he writes to mr. ludlow, one of the editors-- "i fear my utterances have had a great deal to do with the 'politics'' unpopularity. i have got worse handled than any of you by poor and rich. there is one comfort, that length of ears is in the donkey species always compensated by toughness of hide. but it is a pleasing prospect for me (if you knew all that has been said and written about parson lot), when i look forward and know that my future explosions are likely to become more and more obnoxious to the old gentlemen, who stuff their ears with cotton, and then swear the children are not screaming." "politics for the people" was discontinued for want of funds; but its supporters, including all those who were working under mr. maurice--who, however much they might differ in opinions, were of one mind as to the danger of the time, and the duty of every man to do his utmost to meet that danger--were bent upon making another effort. in the autumn, mr. ludlow, and others of their number who spent the vacation abroad, came back with accounts of the efforts at association which were being made by the workpeople of paris. the question of starting such associations in england as the best means of fighting the slop system--which the "chronicle" was showing to lie at the root of the misery and distress which bred chartists--was anxiously debated. it was at last resolved to make the effort, and to identify the new journal with the cause of association, and to publish a set of tracts in connection with it, of which kingsley undertook to write the first, "cheap clothes and nasty." so "the christian socialist" was started, with mr. ludlow for editor, the tracts on christian socialism begun under mr. maurice's supervision, and the society for promoting working-men's associations was formed out of the body of men who were already working with mr. maurice. the great majority of these joined, though the name was too much for others. the question of taking it had been much considered, and it was decided, on the whole, to be best to do so boldly, even though it might cost valuable allies. kingsley was of course consulted on every point, though living now almost entirely at eversley, and his views as to the proper policy to be pursued may be gathered best from the following extracts from letters of his to mr. ludlow-- "we must touch the workman at all his points of interest. first and foremost at association--but also at political rights, as grounded both on the christian ideal of the church, and on the historic facts of the anglo-saxon race. then national education, sanitary and dwelling-house reform, the free sale of land, and corresponding reform of the land laws, moral improvement of the family relation, public places of recreation (on which point i am very earnest), and i think a set of hints from history, and sayings of great men, of which last i have been picking up from plato, demosthenes, &c." .--"this is a puling, quill-driving, soft-handed age--among our own rank, i mean. cowardice is called meekness; to temporize is to be charitable and reverent; to speak truth, and shame the devil, is to offend weak brethren, who, somehow or other, never complain of their weak consciences till you hit them hard. and yet, my dear fellow, i still remain of my old mind--that it is better to say too much than too little, and more merciful to knock a man down with a pick-axe than to prick him to death with pins. the world says, no. it hates anything demonstrative, or violent (except on its own side), or unrefined." .--"the question of property is one of these cases. we must face it in this age--simply because it faces us."--"i want to commit myself--i want to make others commit themselves. no man can fight the devil with a long ladle, however pleasant it may be to eat with him with one. a man never fishes well in the morning till he has tumbled into the water." and the counsels of parson lot had undoubtedly great weight in giving an aggressive tone both to the paper and the society. but if he was largely responsible for the fighting temper of the early movement, he, at any rate, never shirked his share of the fighting. his name was the butt at which all shafts were aimed. as lot "seemed like one that mocked to his sons-in-law," so seemed the parson to the most opposite sections of the british nation. as a friend wrote of him at the time, he "had at any rate escaped the curse of the false prophets, 'woe unto you when all men shall speak well of you.'" many of the attacks and criticisms were no doubt aimed not so much at him personally as at the body of men with whom, and for whom, he was working; but as he was (except mr. maurice) the only one whose name was known, he got the lion's share of all the abuse. the storm broke on him from all points of the compass at once. an old friend and fellow-contributor to "politics for the people," led the conservative attack, accusing him of unsettling the minds of the poor, making them discontented, &c. some of the foremost chartists wrote virulently against him for "attempting to justify the god of the old testament," who, they maintained, was unjust and cruel, and, at any rate, not the god "of the people." the political economists fell on him for his anti-malthusian belief, that the undeveloped fertility of the earth need not be overtaken by population within any time which it concerned us to think about. the quarterlies joined in the attack on his economic heresies. the "daily news" opened a cross fire on him from the common-sense liberal battery, denouncing the "revolutionary nonsense, which is termed christian socialisms"; and, after some balancing, the "guardian," representing in the press the side of the church to which he leant, turned upon him in a very cruel article on the republication of "yeast" (originally written for "fraser's magazine"), and accused him of teaching heresy in doctrine, and in morals "that a certain amount of youthful profligacy does no real permanent harm to the character, perhaps strengthens it for a useful and religious life." in this one instance parson lot fairly lost his temper, and answered, "as was answered to the jesuit of old--_mentiris impudentissime_." with the rest he seemed to enjoy the conflict and "kept the ring," like a candidate for the wrestling championship in his own county of devon against all comers, one down another come on. the fact is, that charles kingsley was born a fighting man, and believed in bold attack. "no human power ever beat back a resolute forlorn hope," he used to say; "to be got rid of, they must be blown back with grape and canister," because the attacking party have all the universe behind them, the defence only that small part which is shut up in their walls. and he felt most strongly at this time that hard fighting was needed. "it is a pity" he writes to mr. ludlow, "that telling people what's right, won't make them do it; but not a new fact, though that ass the world has quite forgotten it; and assures you that dear sweet 'incompris' mankind only wants to be told the way to the millennium to walk willingly into it--which is a lie. if you want to get mankind, if not to heaven, at least out of hell, kick them out." and again, a little later on, in urging the policy which the "christian socialist" should still follow-- .--"it seems to me that in such a time as this the only way to fight against the devil is to attack him. he has got it too much his own way to meddle with us if we don't meddle with him. but the very devil has feelings, and if you prick him will roar...whereby you, at all events, gain the not-every-day-of-the-week-to-be-attained benefit of finding out where he is. unless, indeed, as i suspect, the old rascal plays ventriloquist (as big grasshoppers do when you chase them), and puts you on a wrong scent, by crying 'fire!' out of saints' windows. still, the odds are if you prick lustily enough, you make him roar unawares." the memorials of his many controversies lie about in the periodicals of that time, and any one who cares to hunt them up will be well repaid, and struck with the vigour of the defence, and still more with the complete change in public opinion, which has brought the england of to-day clean round to the side of parson lot. the most complete perhaps of his fugitive pieces of this kind is the pamphlet, "who are the friends of order?" published by j. w. parker and son, in answer to a very fair and moderate article in "fraser's mazagine." the parson there points out how he and his friends were "cursed by demagogues as aristocrats, and by tories as democrats, when in reality they were neither." and urges that the very fact of the continent being overrun with communist fanatics is the best argument for preaching association here. but though he faced his adversaries bravely, it must not be inferred that he did not feel the attacks and misrepresentations very keenly. in many respects, though housed in a strong and vigorous body, his spirit was an exceedingly tender and sensitive one. i have often thought that at this time his very sensitiveness drove him to say things more broadly and incisively, because he was speaking as it were somewhat against the grain, and knew that the line he was taking would be misunderstood, and would displease and alarm those with whom he had most sympathy. for he was by nature and education an aristocrat in the best sense of the word, believed that a landed aristocracy was a blessing to the country, and that no country would gain the highest liberty without such a class, holding its own position firmly, but in sympathy with the people. he liked their habits and ways, and keenly enjoyed their society. again, he was full of reverence for science and scientific men, and specially for political economy and economists, and desired eagerly to stand well with them. and it was a most bitter trial to him to find himself not only in sharp antagonism with traders and employers of labour, which he looked for, but with these classes also. on the other hand many of the views and habits of those with whom he found himself associated were very distasteful to him. in a new social movement, such as that of association as it took shape in - , there is certain to be great attraction for restless and eccentric persons, and in point of fact many such joined it. the beard movement was then in its infancy, and any man except a dragoon who wore hair on his face was regarded as a dangerous character, with whom it was compromising to be seen in any public place--a person in sympathy with _sansculottes_, and who would dispense with trousers but for his fear of the police. now whenever kingsley attended a meeting of the promoters of association in london, he was sure to find himself in the midst of bearded men, vegetarians, and other eccentric persons, and the contact was very grievous to him. "as if we shall not be abused enough," he used to say, "for what we must say and do without being saddled with mischievous nonsense of this kind." to less sensitive men the effect of eccentricity upon him was almost comic, as when on one occasion he was quite upset and silenced by the appearance of a bearded member of council at an important deputation in a straw hat and blue plush gloves. he did not recover from the depression produced by those gloves for days. many of the workmen, too, who were most prominent in the associations were almost as little to his mind--windy inflated kind of persons, with a lot of fine phrases in their mouths which they did not know the meaning of. but in spite of all that was distasteful to him in some of its surroundings, the co-operative movement (as it is now called) entirely approved itself to his conscience and judgment, and mastered him so that he was ready to risk whatever had to be risked in fighting its battle. often in those days, seeing how loath charles kingsley was to take in hand, much of the work which parson lot had to do, and how fearlessly and thoroughly he did it after all, one was reminded of the old jewish prophets, such as amos the herdsman of tekoa--"i was no prophet, neither was i a prophet's son, but i was an herdsman and a gatherer of sycamore fruit: and the lord took me as i followed the flock, and said unto me, go prophesy unto my people israel." the following short extracts from his correspondence with mr. ludlow, as to the conduct of the "christian socialist," and his own contributions to it, may perhaps serve to show how his mind was working at this time:-- _sept., _.--"i cannot abide the notion of branch churches or free (sect) churches, and unless my whole train of thought alters, i will resist the temptation as coming from the devil. where i am i am doing god's work, and when the church is ripe for more, the head of the church will put the means our way. you seem to fancy that we may have a _deus quidam deceptor_ over us after all. if i did i'd go and blow my dirty brains out and be rid of the whole thing at once. i would indeed. if god, when people ask him to teach and guide them, does not; if when they confess themselves rogues and fools to him, and beg him to make them honest and wise, he does not, but darkens them, and deludes them into bogs and pitfalls, is he a father? you fall back into judaism, friend." _dec., _.--"jeremiah is my favourite book now. it has taught me more than tongue can tell. but i am much disheartened, and am minded to speak no more words in this name (parson lot); and yet all these bullyings teach one, correct one, warn one--show one that god is not leaving one to go one's own way. 'christ reigns,' quoth luther." it was at this time, in the winter of , that "alton locke" was published. he had been engaged on it for more than a year, working at it in the midst of all his controversies. the following extracts from his correspondence with mr. ludlow will tell readers more about it than any criticism, if they have at all realized the time at which it was written, or his peculiar work in that time. _february, _.--"i have hopes from the book i am writing, which has revealed itself to me so rapidly and methodically that i feel it comes down from above, and that only my folly can spoil it, which i pray against daily." .--"i think the notion a good one (referring to other work for the paper which he had been asked to do), but i feel no inspiration at all that way; and i dread being tempted to more and more bitterness, harsh judgment, and evil speaking. i dread it. i am afraid sometimes i shall end in universal snarling. besides, my whole time is taken up with my book, and _that_ i do feel inspired to write. but there is something else which weighs awfully on my mind--(the first number of _cooper's journal_, which he sent me the other day). here is a man of immense influence openly preaching strausseanism to the workmen, and in a fair, honest, manly way which must tell. who will answer him? who will answer strauss? [footnote: he did the work himself. after many interviews, and a long correspondence with him, thomas cooper changed his views, and has been lecturing and preaching for many years as a christian.] who will denounce him as a vile aristocrat, robbing the poor man of his saviour--of the ground of all democracy, all freedom, all association--of the charter itself? _oh, si mihi centum voces et ferrea lingua!_ think about _that_." _january, _.--"a thousand thanks for your letter, though it only shows me what i have long suspected, that i know hardly enough yet to make the book what it should be. as you have made a hole, you must help to fill it. can you send me any publication which would give me a good notion of the independents' view of politics, also one which would give a good notion of the fox-emerson-strauss school of blague-unitarianism, which is superseding dissent just now. it was with the ideal of calvinism, and its ultimate bearing on the people's cause, that i wished to deal. i believe that there must be internecine war between the people's church--_i.e._, the future development of catholic christianity, and calvinism even in its mildest form, whether in the establishment or out of it--and i have counted the cost and will give every _party_ its slap in their turn. but i will alter, as far as i can, all you dislike." _august, _.--"how do you know, dearest man, that i was not right in making the alton of the second volume different from the first? in showing the individuality of the man swamped and warped by the routine of misery and discontent? how do you know that the historic and human interest of the book was not intended to end with mackay's death, in whom old radicalism dies, 'not having received the promises,' to make room for the radicalism of the future? how do you know that the book from that point was not intended to take a mythic and prophetic form, that those dreams come in for the very purpose of taking the story off the ground of the actual into the deeper and wider one of the ideal, and that they do actually do what they were intended to do? how do you know that my idea of carrying out eleanor's sermons in practice were just what i could not--and if i could, dared not, give? that all that i could do was to leave them as seed, to grow by itself in many forms, in many minds, instead of embodying them in some action which would have been both as narrow as my own idiosyncrasy, gain the reproach of insanity, and be simply answered by--'if such things have been done, where are they?' and lastly, how do you know that i had not a special meaning in choosing a civilized fine lady as my missionary, one of a class which, as it does exist, god must have something for it to do, and, as it seems, plenty to do, from the fact that a few gentlemen whom i could mention, not to speak of fowell buxtons, howards, ashleys, &c., have done, more for the people in one year than they have done for themselves in fifty? if i had made her an organizer, as well as a preacher, your complaint might have been just. my dear man, the artist is a law unto himself--or rather god is a law to him, when he prays, as i have earnestly day after day about this book--to be taught how to say the right thing in the right way--and i assure you i did not get tired of my work, but laboured as earnestly at the end as i did at the beginning. the rest of your criticism, especially about the interpenetration of doctrine and action, is most true, and shall be attended to.--your brother, "g. k." the next letter, on the same topic, in answer to criticisms on "alton locke," is addressed to a brother clergyman-- "eversley, _january , _. "rec. dear sir,--i will answer your most interesting letter as shortly as i can, and if possible in the same spirit of honesty as that in which you have written to me. "_first_, i do not think the cry 'get on' to be anything but a devil's cry. the moral of my book is that the working man who tries to get on, to desert his class and rise above it, enters into a lie, and leaves god's path for his own--with consequences. "_second_, i believe that a man might be as a tailor or a costermonger, every inch of him a saint, a scholar, and a gentleman, for i have seen some few such already. i believe hundreds of thousands more would be so, if their businesses were put on a christian footing, and themselves given by education, sanitary reforms, &c., the means of developing their own latent capabilities--i think the cry, 'rise in life,' has been excited by the very increasing impossibility of being anything but brutes while they struggle below. i know well all that is doing in the way of education, &c., but i do assert that the disease of degradation has been for the last forty years increasing faster than the remedy. and i believe, from experience, that when you put workmen into human dwellings, and give them a christian education, so far from wishing discontentedly to rise out of their class, or to level others to it, exactly the opposite takes place. they become sensible of the dignity of work, and they begin to see their labour as a true calling in god's church, now that it is cleared from the accidentia which made it look, in their eyes, only a soulless drudgery in a devil's workshop of a _world_. "_third_, from the advertisement of an 'english republic' you send, i can guess who will be the writers in it, &c., &c., being behind the scenes. it will come to nought. everything of this kind is coming to nought now. the workmen are tired of idols, ready and yearning for the church and the gospel, and such men as your friend may laugh at julian harney, feargus o'connor, and the rest of that smoke of the pit. only we live in a great crisis, and the lord requires great things of us. the fields are white to harvest. pray ye therefore the lord of the harvest, that he may send forth labourers into his harvest. "_fourth_, as to the capacities of working-men, i am afraid that your excellent friend will find that he has only the refuse of working intellects to form his induction on. the devil has got the best long ago. by the neglect of the church, by her dealing (like the popish church and all weak churches) only with women, children, and beggars, the cream and pith of working intellect is almost exclusively self-educated, and, therefore, alas! infidel. if he goes on as he is doing, lecturing on history, poetry, science, and all the things which the workmen crave for, and can only get from such men as h----, thomas cooper, &c., mixed up with straussism and infidelity, he will find that he will draw back to his lord's fold, and to his lecture room, slowly, but surely, men, whose powers will astonish him, as they have astonished me. "_fifth_, the workmen whose quarrels you mention are not christians, or socialists either. they are of all creeds and none. we are teaching them to become christians by teaching them gradually that true socialism, true liberty, brotherhood, and true equality (not the carnal dead level equality of the communist, but the spiritual equality of the church idea, which gives every man an equal chance of developing and using god's gifts, and rewards every man according to his work, without respect of persons) is only to be found in loyalty and obedience to christ. they do quarrel, but if you knew how they used to quarrel before association, the improvement since would astonish you. and the french associations do not quarrel at all. i can send you a pamphlet on them, if you wish, written by an eyewitness, a friend of mine. "_sixth_, if your friend wishes to see what can be made of workmen's brains, let him, in god's name, go down to harrow weald, and there see mr. monro--see what he has done with his own national school boys. i have his opinion as to the capabilities of those minds, which we, alas! now so sadly neglect. i only ask him to go and ask of that man the question which you have asked of me. "_seventh_, may i, in reference to myself and certain attacks on me, say, with all humility, that i do not speak from hearsay now, as has been asserted, from second-hand picking and stealing out of those 'reports on labour and the poor,' in the 'morning chronicle,' which are now being reprinted in a separate form, and which i entreat you to read if you wish to get a clear view of the real state of the working classes. "from my cradle, as the son of an active clergyman, i have been brought up in the most familiar intercourse with the poor in town and country. my mother, a second mrs. fry, in spirit and act. for fourteen years my father has been the rector of a very large metropolitan parish--and i speak what i know, and testify that which i have seen. with earnest prayer, in fear and trembling, i wrote my book, and i trust in him to whom i prayed that he has not left me to my own prejudices or idols on any important point relating to the state of the possibilities of the poor for whom he died. any use which you choose you can make of this letter. if it should seem worth your while to honour me with any further communications, i shall esteem them a delight, and the careful consideration of them a duty.--believe me, rev. and dear sir, your faithful and obedient servant, "c. kingsley." by this time the society for promoting associations was thoroughly organized, and consisted of a council of promoters, of which kingsley was a member, and a central board, on which the managers of the associations and a delegate from each of them sat. the council had published a number of tracts, beginning with "cheap clothes and nasty," which had attracted the attention of many persons, including several of the london clergy, who connected themselves more or less closely with the movement. mr. maurice, kingsley, hansard, and others of these, were often asked to preach on social questions, and when in , on the opening of the great exhibition, immense crowds of strangers were drawn to london, they were specially in request. for many london incumbents threw open their churches, and organized series of lectures, specially bearing on the great topic of the day. it was now that the incident happened which once more brought upon kingsley the charge of being a revolutionist, and which gave him more pain than all other attacks put together. one of the incumbents before referred to begged mr. maurice to take part in his course of lectures, and to ask kingsley to do so; assuring mr. maurice that he "had been reading kingsley's works with the greatest interest, and earnestly desired to secure him as one of his lecturers." "i promised to mention this request to him," mr. maurice says, "though i knew he rarely came to london, and seldom preached except in his own parish. he agreed, though at some inconvenience, that he would preach a sermon on the 'message of the church to the labouring man.' i suggested the subject to him. the incumbent intimated the most cordial approval of it. he had asked us, not only with a previous knowledge of our published writings, but expressly because he had that knowledge. i pledge you my word that no questions were asked as to what we were going to say, and no guarantees given. mr. kingsley took precisely that view of the message of the church to labouring men which every reader of his books would have expected him to take." kingsley took his text from luke iv. verses to : "the spirit of the lord is upon me because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor," &c. what then was that gospel? kingsley asks, and goes on--"i assert that the business for which god sends a christian priest in a christian nation is, to preach freedom, equality, and brotherhood in the fullest, deepest, widest meaning of those three great words; that in as far as he so does, he is a true priest, doing his lord's work with his lord's blessing on him; that in as far as he does not he is no priest at all, but a traitor to god and man"; and again, "i say that these words express the very pith and marrow of a priest's business; i say that they preach freedom, equality, and brotherhood to rich and poor for ever and ever." then he goes on to warn his hearers how there is always a counterfeit in this world of the noblest message and teaching. thus there are two freedoms--the false, where a man is free to do what he likes; the true, where a man is free to do what he ought. two equalities--the false, which reduces all intellects and all characters, to a dead level, and gives the same power to the bad as to the good, to the wise as to the foolish, ending thus in practice in the grossest inequality; the true, wherein each man has equal power to educate and use whatever faculties or talents god has given him, be they less or more. this is the divine equality which the church proclaims, and nothing else proclaims as she does. two brotherhoods--the false, where a man chooses who shall be his brothers, and whom he will treat as such; the true, in which a man believes that all are his brothers, not by the will of the flesh, or the will of man, but by the will of god, whose children they all are alike. the church has three special possessions and treasures. the bible, which proclaims man's freedom, baptism his equality, the lord's supper his brotherhood. at the end of this sermon (which would scarcely cause surprise to-day if preached by the archbishop of canterbury in the chapel royal), the incumbent got up at the altar and declared his belief that great part of the doctrine of the sermon was untrue, and that he had expected a sermon of an entirely different kind. to a man of the preacher's vehement temperament it must have required a great effort not to reply at the moment. the congregation was keenly excited, and evidently expected him to do so. he only bowed his head, pronounced the blessing, and came down from the pulpit. i must go back a little to take up the thread of his connection with, and work for, the society for promoting working men's associations. after it had passed the first difficulties of starting, he was seldom able to attend either council or central board. every one else felt how much more important and difficult work he was doing by fighting the battle in the press, down at eversley, but he himself was eager to take part in the everyday business, and uneasy if he was not well informed as to what was going on. sometimes, however, he would come up to the council, when any matter specially interesting to him was in question, as in the following example, when a new member of the council, an eton master, had objected to some strong expressions in one of his letters on the frimley murder, in the "christian socialist":-- .--"the upper classes are like a yankee captain sitting on the safety valve, and serenely whistling--but what will be will be. as for the worthy eton parson, i consider it infinitely expedient that he be entreated to vent his whole dislike in the open council forthwith, under a promise on my part not to involve him in any controversy or reprisals, or to answer in any tone except that of the utmost courtesy and respect. pray do this. it will at once be a means of gaining him, and a good example, please god, to the working men; and for the frimley letter, put it in the fire if you like, or send it back to have the last half re-written, or 'anything else you like, my pretty little dear.'" but his prevailing feeling was getting to be, that he was becoming an outsider-- "nobody deigns to tell me," he wrote to me, "how things go on, and who helps, and whether i can help. in short, i know nothing, and begin to fancy that you, like some others, think me a lukewarm and timeserving aristocrat, after i have ventured more than many, because i had more to venture." the same feeling comes out in the following letter, which illustrates too, very well, both his deepest conviction as to the work, the mixture of playfulness and earnestness with which he handled it, and his humble estimate of himself. it refers to the question of the admission of a new association to the union. it was necessary, of course, to see that the rules of a society, applying for admission to the union, were in proper form, and that sufficient capital was forthcoming, and the decision lay with the central board, controlled in some measure by the council of promoters. an association of clay-pipe makers had applied for admission, and had been refused by the vote of the central board. the council, however, thought there were grounds for reconsidering the decision, and to strengthen the case for admission, kingsley's opinion was asked. he replied:-- "eversley, _may , _. "the sight of your handwriting comforted me--for nobody takes any notice of me, not even the printers; so i revenge myself by being as idle as a dog, and fishing, and gardening, and basking in this glorious sun. but your letter set me thanking god that he has raised up men to do the work of which i am not worthy. as for the pipe-makers, give my compliments to the autocrats, and tell them it is a shame. the vegetarians would have quite as much right to refuse the butchers, because, forsooth, theirs is now discovered not to be a necessary trade. bosh! the question is this--if association be a great divine law and duty, the realization of the church idea, no man has _a right_ to refuse any body of men, into whose heart god has put it to come and associate. it may be answered that these men's motives are self-interested. i say, 'judge no man.' you dare not refuse a heathen baptism because you choose to think that his only motive for turning christian is the selfish one of saving his own rascally soul. no more have you a right to refuse to men an entrance into the social church. they must come in, and they will, because association is not men's dodge and invention but god's law for mankind and society, which he has made, and we must not limit. i don't know whether i am intelligible, but what's more important, i know i am right. just read this to the autocrats, and tell them, with my compliments, they are popes, tyrants, manichees, ascetics, sectarians, and everything else that is abominable; and if they used as many pipes as i do, they would know the blessing of getting them cheap, and start an associate baccy factory besides. shall we try? but, this one little mistake excepted (though, if they repeat it, it will become a great mistake, and a wrong, and a ruinous wrong), they are much better fellows than poor i, and doing a great deal more good, and at every fresh news of their deeds i feel like job's horse, when he scents the battle afar off." no small part of the work of the council consisted in mediating and arbitrating in the disputes between the associates and their managers; indeed, such work kept the legal members of the board (none of whom were then overburdened with regular practice) pretty fully occupied. some such dispute had arisen in one of the most turbulent of these associations, and had been referred to me for settlement. i had satisfied myself as to the facts, and considered my award, and had just begun to write out the draft, when i was called away from my chambers, and left the opening lines lying on my desk. they ran as follows:--"the trustees of the mile end association of engineers, seeing that the quarrels between the associates have not ceased"--at which word i broke off. on returning to my chambers a quarter of an hour later, i found a continuation in the following words:-- "and that every man is too much inclined to behave himself like a beast, in spite of our glorious humanity, which requires neither god nor priest, yet is daily praised and plastered by ten thousand fools at least-- request mr. hughes' presence at their jawshop in the east, which don't they wish they may get it, for he goes out to-night to feast at the rev. c. kingsley's rectory, chelsea, where he'll get his gullet greased with the best of barto valle's port, and will have his joys increased by meeting his old college chum, mcdougal the borneo priest-- so come you thief, and drop your brief, at six o'clock without relief; and if you won't may you come to grief, says parson lot the socialist chief, who signs his mark at the foot of the leaf--thus" and, at the end, a clenched fist was sketched in a few bold lines, and under it, "parson lot, his mark" written. i don't know that i can do better than give the history of the rest of the day. knowing his town habits well, i called at parker, the publisher's, after chambers, and found him there, sitting on a table and holding forth on politics to our excellent little friend, john wm. parker, the junior partner. we started to walk down to chelsea, and a dense fog came on before we had reached hyde park corner. both of us knew the way well; but we lost it half a dozen times, and his spirit seemed to rise as the fog thickened. "isn't this like life," he said, after one of our blunders: "a deep yellow fog all round, with a dim light here and there shining through. you grope your way on from one lamp to another, and you go up wrong streets and back again; but you get home at last--there's always light enough for that." after a short pause he said, quite abruptly, "tom, do you want to live to be old?" i said i had never thought on the subject; and he went on, "i dread it more than i can say. to feel one's powers going, and to end in snuff and stink. look at the last days of scott and wordsworth, and southey." i suggested st. john. "yes," he said, "that's the right thing, and will do for bunsen, and great, tranquil men like him. the longer they live the better for all. but for an eager, fiery nature like mine, with fierce passions eating one's life out, it won't do. if i live twenty years i know what will happen to me. the back of my brain will soften, and i shall most likely go blind." the bishop got down somehow by six. the dinner did not last long, for the family were away, and afterwards we adjourned to the study, and parson lot rose to his best. he stood before the fire, while the bishop and i took the two fireside arm chairs, and poured himself out, on subject after subject, sometimes when much moved taking a tramp up and down the room, a long clay pipe in his right hand (at which he gave an occasional suck; it was generally out, but he scarcely noticed it), and his left hand passed behind his back, clasping the right elbow. it was a favourite attitude with him, when he was at ease with his company. we were both bent on drawing him out; and the first topic, i think, raised by the bishop was, fronde's history, then recently published. he took up the cudgels for henry viii., whom we accused of arbitrariness. henry was not arbitrary; arbitrary men are the most obstinate of men? why? because they are weak. the strongest men are always ready to hear reason and change their opinions, because the strong man knows that if he loses an opinion to-day he can get just as good a one to-morrow in its place. but the weak man holds on to his opinion, because he can't get another, and he knows it. soon afterwards he got upon trout fishing, which was a strong bond of union between him and me, and discoursed on the proper methods of fishing chalk streams. "your flies can't be too big, but they must be on small gut, not on base viol fiddle strings, like those you brought down to farnham last year. i tell you gut is the thing that does it. trout know that flies don't go about with a ring and a hand pole through their noses, like so many prize bulls of lord ducie's." then he got on the possible effect of association on the future of england, and from that to the first international exhibition, and the building which was going up in hyde park. "i mean to run a muck soon," he said, "against all this talk about genius and high art, and the rest of it. it will be the ruin of us, as it has been of germany. they have been for fifty years finding out, and showing people how to do everything in heaven and earth, and have done nothing. they are dead even yet, and will be till they get out of the high art fit. we were dead, and the french were dead till their revolution; but that brought us to life. why didn't the germans come to life too? because they set to work with their arts, sciences, and how to do this, that, and the other thing, and doing nothing. goethe was, in great part, the ruin of germany. he was like a great fog coming down on the german people, and wrapping them up." then he, in his turn, drew the bishop about borneo, and its people, and fauna and flora; and we got some delightful stories of apes, and converts, and honey bears, kingsley showing himself, by his questions, as familiar with the bornean plants and birds, as though he had lived there. later on we got him on his own works, and he told us how he wrote. "i can't think, even on scientific subjects, except in the dramatic form. it is what tom said to harry, and what harry answered him. i never put pen to paper till i have two or three pages in my head, and see them as if they were printed. then i write them off, and take a turn in the garden, and so on again." we wandered back to fishing, and i challenged his keenness for making a bag. "ah!" he said, "that's all owing to my blessed habit of intensity, which has been my greatest help in life. i go at what i am about as if there were nothing else in the world for the time being. that's the secret of all hard-working men; but most of them can't carry it into their amusements. luckily for me i can stop from all work, at short notice, and turn head over heels in the sight of all creation, and say, i won't be good or bad, or wise, or anything, till two o'clock to-morrow." at last the bishop would go, so we groped our way with him into the king's road, and left him in charge of a link-boy. when we got back, i said something laughingly about his gift of talk, which had struck me more that evening than ever before. "yes," he said, "i have it all in me. i could be as great a talker as any man in england, but for my stammering. i know it well; but it's a blessed thing for me. you must know, by this time, that i'm a very shy man, and shyness and vanity always go together. and so i think of what every fool will say of me, and can't help it. when a man's first thought is not whether a thing is right or wrong, but what will lady a., or mr. b. say about it, depend upon it he wants a thorn in the flesh, like my stammer. when i am speaking for god, in the pulpit, or praying by bedsides, i never stammer. my stammer is a blessed thing for me. it keeps me from talking in company, and from going out as much as i should do but for it." it was two o'clock before we thought of moving, and then, the fog being as bad as ever, he insisted on making me up a bed on the floor. while we were engaged in this process, he confided to me that he had heard of a doctor who was very successful in curing stammering, and was going to try him. i laughed, and reminded him of his thorn in the flesh, to which he replied, with a quaint twinkle of his eye, "well, that's true enough. but a man has no right to be a nuisance, if he can help it, and no more right to go about amongst his fellows stammering, than he has to go about stinking." at this time he was already at work on another novel; and, in answer to a remonstrance from a friend, who was anxious that he should keep ail his strength for social reform, writes-- .--"i know that he has made me a parish priest, and that that is the duty which lies nearest me, and that i may seem to be leaving my calling in novel writing. but has he not taught me all these very things _by my_ parish priest life? did he, too, let me become a strong, daring, sporting, wild man of the woods for nothing? surely the education he has given me so different from that which authors generally receive, points out to me a peculiar calling to preach on these points from my own experience, as it did to good old isaac walton, as it has done in our own day to that truly noble man, captain marryat. therefore i must believe, '_si tu sequi la tua, stella_,' with dante, that he who ordained my star will not lead me _into_ temptation, but _through_ it, as maurice says. without him all places and methods of life are equally dangerous--with him, all equally safe. pray for me, for in myself i am weaker of purpose than a lost grey hound, lazier than a dog in rainy weather." while the co-operative movement was spreading in all directions, the same impulse was working amongst the trades unions, and the engineers had set the example of uniting all their branches into one society. in this winter they believed themselves strong enough to try conclusions with their employers. the great lock-out in january, , was the consequence. the engineers had appealed to the council of promoters to help them in putting their case--which had been much misrepresented--fairly before the public, and kingsley had been consulted as the person best able to do it. he had declined to interfere, and wrote me the following letter to explain his views. it will show how far he was an encourager of violent measures or views:-- "eversley, _january , _. "you may have been surprised at my having taken no part in this amalgamated iron trades' matter. and i think that i am bound to say why i have not, and how far i wish my friends to interfere in it. "i do think that we, the council of promoters, shall not be wise in interfering between masters and men; because-- . i question whether the points at issue between them can be fairly understood by any persons not conversant with the practical details of the trade... " . nor do i think they have put their case as well as they might. for instance, if it be true that they themselves have invented many, or most, of the improvements in their tools and machinery, they have an argument in favour of keeping out unskilled labourers, which is unanswerable, and yet, that they have never used--viz.: 'your masters make hundreds and thousands by these improvements, while we have no remuneration for this inventive talent of ours, but rather lose by it, because it makes the introduction of unskilled labour more easy. therefore, the only way in which we can get anything like a payment for this inventive faculty of which we make you a present over and above our skilled labour, for which you bargained, is to demand that we, who invent the machines, if we cannot have a share in the profits of them, shall at least have the exclusive privilege of using them, instead of their being, as now, turned against us.' that, i think, is a fair argument; but i have seen nothing of it from any speaker or writer. " . i think whatever battle is fought, must be fought by the men themselves. the present dodge of the manchester school is to cry out against us, as greg did. 'these christian socialists are a set of mediæval parsons, who want to hinder the independence and self-help of the men, and bring them back to absolute feudal maxims; and then, with the most absurd inconsistency, when we get up a corporation workshop, to let the men work on the very independence and self-help of which they talk so fine, they turn round and raise just the opposite yell, and cry, the men can't be independent of capitalists; these associations will fail _because_ the men are helping themselves'--showing that what they mean is, that the men shall be independent of every one but themselves--independent of legislators, parsons, advisers, gentlemen, noblemen, and every one that tries to help them by moral agents; but the slaves of the capitalists, bound to them by a servitude increasing instead of lightening with their numbers. now, the only way in which we can clear the cause of this calumny is to let the men fight their own battle; to prevent any one saying, 'these men are the tools of dreamers and fanatics,' which would be just as ruinously blackening to them in the public eyes, as it would be to let the cry get abroad, 'this is a socialist movement, destructive of rights of property, communism, louis blanc and the devil, &c.' you know the infernal stuff which the devil gets up on such occasions--having no scruples about calling himself hard names, when it suits his purpose, to blind and frighten respectable old women. "moreover, these men are not poor distressed needlewomen or slop-workers. they are the most intelligent and best educated workmen, receiving incomes often higher than a gentleman's son whose education has cost £ , and if they can't fight their own battles, no men in england can, and the people are not ripe for association, and we must hark back into the competitive rot heap again. all, then, that we can do is, to give advice when asked--to see that they have, as far as we can get at them, a clear stage and no favour, but not by public, but by private influence. "but we can help them in another way, by showing them the way to associate. that is quite a distinct question from their quarrel with their masters, and we shall be very foolish if we give the press a handle for mixing up the two. we have a right to say to masters, men, and public, 'we know and care nothing about the iron strike. here are a body of men coming to us, wishing to be shown how to do that which is a right thing for them to do--well or ill off, strike or no strike, namely, associate; and we will help and teach them to do _that_ to the very utmost of our power.' "the iron workers' co-operative shops will be watched with lynx eyes, calumniated shamelessly. our business will be to tell the truth about them, and fight manfully with our pens for them. but we shall never be able to get the ears of the respectabilities and the capitalists, if we appear at this stage of the business. what we must say is, 'if you are needy and enslaved, we will fight for you from pity, whether you be associated or competitive. but you are neither needy, nor, unless you choose, enslaved; and therefore we will only fight for you in proportion as you become associates. do that, and see if we can't stand hard knocks for your sake.'--yours ever affectionate, c. kingsley." in the summer of (mainly by the continued exertions of the members of the council, who had supplied mr. slaney's committee with all his evidence, and had worked hard in other ways for this object) a bill for legalizing industrial associations was about to be introduced into the house of commons. it was supposed at one time that it would be taken in hand by the government of lord derby, then lately come into office, and kingsley had been canvassing a number of persons to make sure of its passing. on hearing that a cabinet minister would probably undertake it, he writes-- "let him be assured that he will by such a move do more to carry out true conservatism, and to reconcile the workmen with the real aristocracy, than any politician for the last twenty years has done. the truth is, we are in a critical situation here in england. not in one of danger--which is the vulgar material notion of a crisis, but at the crucial point, the point of departure of principles and parties which will hereafter become great and powerful. old whiggery is dead, old true blue toryism of the robert inglis school is dead too-and in my eyes a great loss. but as live dogs are better than dead lions, let us see what the live dogs are. " .--the peelites, who will ultimately, be sure, absorb into themselves all the remains of whiggery, and a very large proportion of the conservative party. in an effete unbelieving age, like this, the sadducee and the herodian will be the most captivating philosopher. a scientific laziness, lukewarmness, and compromise, is a cheery theory for the young men of the day, and they will take to it _con amore_. i don't complain of peel himself. he was a great man, but his method of compromise, though useful enough in particular cases when employed by a great man, becomes a most dastardly "_schema mundi_" when taken up by a school of little men. therefore the only help which we can hope for from the peelites is that they will serve as ballast and cooling pump to both parties, but their very trimming and moderation make them fearfully likely to obtain power. it depends on the wisdom of the present government, whether they do or not. " .--next you have the manchester school, from whom heaven defend us; for of all narrow, conceited, hypocritical, and anarchic and atheistic schemes of the universe, the cobden and bright one is exactly the worst. i have no language to express my contempt for it, and therefore i quote what maurice wrote me this morning. 'if the ministry would have thrown protection to the dogs (as i trust they have, in spite of the base attempts of the corn law leaguers to goad them to committing themselves to it, and to hold them up as the people's enemies), and thrown themselves into social measures, who would not have clung to them, to avert that horrible catastrophe of a manchester ascendency, which i believe in my soul would be fatal to intellect, morality, and freedom, and will be more likely to move a rebellion among the working men than any tory rule which can be conceived.' "of course it would. to pretend to be the workmen's friends, by keeping down the price of bread, when all they want thereby is to keep down wages, and increase profits, and in the meantime to widen the gulf between the working man and all that is time-honoured, refined, and chivalrous in english society, that they may make the men their divided slaves, that is-perhaps half unconsciously, for there are excellent men amongst them--the game of the manchester school." "i have never swerved from my one idea of the last seven years, that the real battle of the time is, if england is to be saved from anarchy and unbelief, and utter exhaustion caused by the competitive enslavement of the masses, not radical or whig against peelite or tory--let the dead bury their dead-but the church, the gentlemen, and the workman, against the shop-keepers and the manchester school. the battle could not have been fought forty years ago, because, on one side, the church was an idle phantasm, the gentleman too ignorant, the workman too merely animal; while, on the other, the manchester cotton-spinners were all tories, and the shopkeepers were a distinct class interest from theirs. but now these two latter have united, and the sublime incarnation of shop-keeping and labour-buying in the cheapest market shines forth in the person of moses & son, and both cotton-spinners and shop-keepers say 'this is the man!'" and join in one common press to defend his system. be it so: now we know our true enemies, and soon the working-men will know them also. but if the present ministry will not see the possibility of a coalition between them, and the workmen, i see no alternative but just what we have been straining every nerve to keep off--a competitive united states, a democracy before which the work of ages will go down in a few years. a true democracy, such as you and i should wish to see, is impossible without a church and a queen, and, as i believe, without a gentry. on the conduct of statesmen it will depend whether we are gradually and harmoniously to develop england on her ancient foundations, or whether we are to have fresh paralytic governments succeeding each other in doing nothing, while the workmen and the manchester school fight out the real questions of the day in ignorance and fury, till the '_culbute generale_' comes, and gentlemen of ancient family, like your humble servant, betake themselves to canada, to escape, not the amalgamated engineers, but their 'masters,' and the slop-working savages whom their masters' system has created, and will by that time have multiplied tenfold. "i have got a thames boat on the lake at bramshill, and am enjoying vigorous sculls. my answer to 'fraser' is just coming out; spread it where you can." in the next year or two the first excitement about the co-operative movement cooled down. parson lot's pen was less needed, and he turned to other work in his own name. of the richness and variety of that work this is not the place to speak, but it all bore on the great social problems which had occupied him in the earlier years. the crimean war weighed on him like a nightmare, and modified some of his political opinions. on the resignation of lord aberdeen's government on the motion for inquiry into the conduct of the war, he writes, february , , "it is a very bad job, and a very bad time, be sure, and with a laughing house of commons we shall go to gehenna, even if we are not there already--but one comfort is, that even gehenna can burn nothing but the chaff and carcases, so we shall be none the poorer in reality. so as the frost has broken gloriously, i wish you would get me a couple of dozen of good flies, viz., cock a bondhues, red palmers with plenty of gold twist; winged duns, with bodies of hare's ear and yellow mohair mixed well; hackle duns with grey bodies, and a wee silver, these last tied as palmers, and the silver ribbed all the way down. if you could send them in a week i shall be very glad, as fishing begins early." in the midst of the war he was present one day at a council meeting, after which the manager of one of the associations referring to threatened bread riots at manchester, asked kingsley's opinion as to what should be done. "there never were but two ways," he said, "since the beginning of the world of dealing with a corn famine. one is to let the merchants buy it up and hold it as long as they can, as we do. and this answers the purpose best in the long run, for they will be selling corn six months hence when we shall want it more than we do now, and makes us provident against our wills. the other is joseph's plan." here the manager broke in, "why didn't our government step in then, and buy largely, and store in public granaries?" "yes," said kingsley, "and why ain't you and i flying about with wings and dewdrops hanging to our tails. joseph's plan won't do for us. what minister would we trust with money enough to buy corn for the people, or power to buy where he chose." and he went on to give his questioner a lecture in political economy, which the most orthodox opponent of the popular notions about socialism would have applauded to the echo. by the end of the year he had nearly finished "westward ho!"--the most popular of his novels, which the war had literally wrung out of him. he writes-- ? "_december , _. "i am getting more of a government man every day. i don't see how they could have done better in any matter, because i don't see but that _i_ should have done a thousand times worse in their place, and that is the only fair standard. "as for a ballad--oh! my dear lad, there is no use fiddling while rome is burning. i have nothing to sing about those glorious fellows, except 'god save the queen and them.' i tell you the whole thing stuns me, so i cannot sit down to make fiddle rhyme with diddle about it--or blundered with hundred like alfred tennyson. he is no tyrtæus, though he has a glimpse of what tyrtæus ought to be. but i have not even that; and am going rabbit shooting to-morrow instead. but every man has his calling, and my novel is mine, because i am fit for nothing better. the book" ('westward ho!') "will be out the middle or end of january, if the printers choose. it is a sanguinary book, but perhaps containing doctrine profitable for these times. my only pain is that i have been forced to sketch poor paddy as a very worthless fellow then, while just now he is turning out a hero. i have made the deliberate _amende honorable_ in a note." then, referring to some criticism of mine on 'westward ho!'--"i suppose you are right as to amyas and his mother; i will see to it. you are probably right too about john hawkins. the letter in purchas is to me unknown, but your conception agrees with a picture my father says he has seen of captain john (he thinks at lord anglesey's, at beaudesert) as a prim, hard, terrier-faced, little fellow, with a sharp chin, and a dogged puritan eye. so perhaps i am wrong: but i don't think _that_ very important, for there must have been sea-dogs of my stamp in plenty too." then, referring to the crimean war--"i don't say that the two cases are parallel. i don't ask england to hate russia as she was bound to hate spain, as god's enemy; but i do think that a little tudor pluck and tudor democracy (paradoxical as the word may seem, and inconsistently as it was carried out then) is just what we want now." "tummas! have you read the story of abou zennab, his horse, in stanley's 'sinai,' p. ? what a myth! what a poem old wordsworth would have writ thereon! if i didn't cry like a babby over it. what a brick of a horse he must have been, and what a brick of an old head-splitter abou zennab must have been, to have his commandments keeped unto this day concerning of his horse; and no one to know who he was, nor when, nor how, nor nothing. i wonder if anybody'll keep _our_ commandments after we be gone, much less say, 'eat, eat, o horse of abou kingsley!'" by this time the success of "westward ho!" and "hypatia" had placed him in the first rank of english writers. his fame as an author, and his character as a man, had gained him a position which might well have turned any man's head. there were those amongst his intimate friends who feared that it might be so with him, and who were faithful enough to tell him so. and i cannot conclude this sketch better than by giving his answer to that one of them with whom he had been most closely associated in the time when, as parson lot, every man's hand had been against him-- "my dear ludlow, "and for this fame, &c., "i know a little of her worth. "and i will tell you what i know, "that, in the first place, she is a fact, and as such, it is not wise to ignore her, but at least to walk once round her, and see her back as well as her front. "the case to me seems to be this. a man feels in himself the love of praise. every man does who is not a brute. it is a universal human faculty; carlyle nicknames it the sixth sense. who made it? god or the devil? is it flesh or spirit? a difficult question; because tamed animals grow to possess it in a high degree; and our metaphysician does not yet allow them spirit. but, whichever it be, it cannot be for bad: only bad when misdirected, and not controlled by reason, the faculty which judges between good and evil. else why has god put his love of praise into the heart of every child which is born into the world, and entwined it into the holiest filial and family affections, as the earliest mainspring of good actions? has god appointed that every child shall be fed first with a necessary lie, and afterwards come to the knowledge of your supposed truth, that the praise of god alone is to be sought? or are we to believe that the child is intended to be taught as delicately and gradually as possible the painful fact, that the praise of all men is not equally worth having, and to use his critical faculty to discern the praise of good men from the praise of bad, to seek the former and despise the latter? i should say that the last was the more reasonable. and this i will say, that if you bring up any child to care nothing for the praise of its parents, its elders, its pastors, and masters, you may make a fanatic of it, or a shameless cynic: but you will neither make it a man, an englishman, or a christian. "but 'our lord's words stand, about not seeking the honour which comes from men, but the honour which comes from god only!' true, they do stand, and our lord's fact stands also, the fact that he has created every child to be educated by an honour which comes from his parents and elders. both are true. here, as in most spiritual things, you have an antinomia, an apparent contradiction, which nothing but the gospel solves. and it does solve it; and your one-sided view of the text resolves itself into just the same fallacy as the old ascetic one. 'we must love god alone, therefore we must love no created thing.' to which st. john answers pertinently 'he who loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love god whom he hath not seen?' if you love your brethren, you love christ in them. if you love their praise, you love the praise of christ in them. for consider this, you cannot deny that, if one loves any person, one desires that person's esteem. but we are bound to love all men, and that is our highest state. therefore, in our highest state, we shall desire all men's esteem. paradoxical, but true. if we believe in christmas-day; if we believe in whitsunday, we shall believe that christ is in all men, that god's spirit is abroad in the earth, and therefore the dispraise, misunderstanding, and calumny of men will be exquisitely painful to us, and ought to be so; and, on the other hand, the esteem of men, and renown among men for doing good deeds will be inexpressibly precious to us. they will be signs and warrants to us that god is pleased with us, that we are sharing in that 'honour and glory' which paul promises again and again, with no such scruples as yours, to those who lead heroic lives. we shall not neglect the voice of god within us; but we shall remember that there is also a voice of god without us, which we must listen to; and that in a christian land, _vox populi_, patiently and discriminately listened to, is sure to be found not far off from the _vox dei_. "now, let me seriously urge this last fact on you. of course, in listening to the voice of the man outside there is a danger, as there is in the use of any faculty. you may employ it, according to divine reason and grace, for ennobling and righteous purposes; or you may degrade it to carnal and selfish ones; so you may degrade the love of praise into vanity, into longing for the honour which comes from men, by pandering to their passions and opinions, by using your powers as they would too often like to use theirs, for mere self-aggrandisement, by saying in your heart--_quam pulchrum digito monstrari el diceri hic est_. that is the man who wrote the fine poem, who painted the fine picture, and so forth, till, by giving way to this, a man may give way to forms of vanity as base as the red indian who sticks a fox's tail on, and dances about boasting of his brute cunning. i know all about that, as well as any poor son of adam ever did. but i know, too, that to desire the esteem of as many rational men as possible; in a word, to desire an honourable, and true renown for having done good in my generation, has nothing to do with that; and the more i fear and struggle against the former, the more i see the exceeding beauty and divineness, and everlasting glory of the latter as an entrance into the communion of saints. "of course, all this depends on whether we do believe that christ is in every man, and that god's spirit is abroad in the earth. of course, again, it will be very difficult to know who speaks by god's spirit, and who sees by christ's light in him; but surely the wiser, the humbler path, is to give men credit for as much wisdom and rightness as possible, and to believe that when one is found fault with, one is probably in the wrong. for myself, on looking back, i see clearly with shame and sorrow, that the obloquy which i have brought often on myself and on the good cause, has been almost all of it my own fault--that i have given the devil and bad men a handle, not by caring what people would say, but by _not caring_--by fancying that i was a very grand fellow, who was going to speak what i knew to be true, in spite of all fools (and really did and do intend so to do), while all the while i was deceiving myself, and unaware of a canker at the heart the very opposite to the one against which you warn me. i mean the proud, self-willed, self-conceited spirit which made no allowance for other men's weakness or ignorance; nor again, for their superior experience and wisdom on points which i had never considered--which took a pride in shocking and startling, and defying, and hitting as hard as i could, and fancied, blasphemously, as i think, that the word of god had come to me only, and went out from me only. god forgive me for these sins, as well as for my sins in the opposite direction; but for these sins especially, because i see them to be darker and more dangerous than the others. "for there has been gradually revealed to me (what my many readings in the lives of fanatics and ascetics ought to have taught me long before), that there is a terrible gulf ahead of that not caring what men say. of course it is a feeling on which the spirit must fall back in hours of need, and cry, 'thou, god, knowest mine integrity. i have believed, and therefore i will speak; thou art true, though all men be liars!' but i am convinced that that is a frame in which no man can live, or is meant to live; that it is only to be resorted to in fear and trembling, after deepest self-examination, and self-purification, and earnest prayer. for otherwise, ludlow, a man gets to forget that voice of god without him, in his determination to listen to nothing but the voice of god within him, and so he falls into two dangers. he forgets that there is a voice of god without him. he loses trust in, and charity to, and reverence for his fellow-men; he learns to despise, deny, and quench the spirit, and to despise prophesyings, and so becomes gradually cynical, sectarian, fanatical. "and then comes a second and worse danger. crushed into self, and his own conscience and _schema mundi_, he loses the opportunity of correcting his impression of the voice of god within, by the testimony of the voice of god without; and so he begins to mistake more and more the voice of that very flesh of his, which he fancies he has conquered, for the voice of god, and to become, without knowing it, an autotheist. and out of that springs eclecticism, absence of tenderness _for_ men, for want of sympathy _with_ men; as he makes his own conscience his standard for god, so he makes his own character the standard for men; and so he becomes narrow, hard, and if he be a man of strong will and feelings, often very inhuman and cruel. this is the history of thousands-of jeromes, lauds, puritans who scourged quakers, quakers who cursed puritans; nonjurors, who though they would die rather than offend their own conscience in owning william, would plot with james to murder william, or to devastate england with irish rapparees and auvergne dragoons. this, in fact, is the spiritual diagnosis of those many pious persecutors, who though neither hypocrites or blackguards themselves, have used both as instruments of their fanaticism. "against this i have to guard myself, you little know how much, and to guard my children still more, brought up, as they will be, under a father, who, deeply discontented with the present generation, cannot but express that discontent at times. to make my children '_banausoi_,' insolent and scoffing radicals, believing in nobody and nothing but themselves, would be perfectly easy in me if i were to make the watchword of my house, 'never mind what people say.' on the contrary, i shall teach them that there are plenty of good people in the world; that public opinion has pretty surely an undercurrent of the water of life, below all its froth and garbage; and that in a christian country like this, where, with all faults, a man (sooner or later) has fair play and a fair hearing, the esteem of good men, and the blessings of the poor, will be a pretty sure sign that they have the blessing of god also; and i shall tell them, when they grow older, that ere they feel called on to become martyrs, in defending the light within them against all the world, they must first have taken care most patiently, and with all self-distrust and humility, to make full use of the light which is around them, and has been here for ages before them, and would be here still, though they had never been born or thought of. the antinomy between this and their own conscience may be painful enough to them some day. to what thinking man is it not a life-long battle? but i shall not dream that by denying one pole of the antinomy i can solve it, or do anything but make them, by cynicism or fanaticism, bury their talent in the earth, and _not_ do the work which god has given them to do, because they will act like a parson who, before beginning his sermon, should first kick his congregation out of doors, and turn the key; and not like st. paul, who became all things to all men, if by any means he might save some. "yours ever affectionately, with all christmas blessings, "c. kingsley. "farly court, _december , _. "i should be very much obliged to you to show this letter to maurice." one more letter only i will add, dated about the end of the "parson lot" period. he had written to inform me that one of the old chartist leaders, a very worthy fellow, was in great distress, and to ask me to do what i could for him. in my reply i had alluded somewhat bitterly to the apparent failure of the association movement in london, and to some of our blunders, acknowledging how he had often seen the weak places, and warned us against them. his answer came by return of post:-- "eversley, _may, _. "dear tom,--it's an ill bird that fouls its own nest; and don't cry stinking fish, neither don't hollow till you're out of the wood--which you oughtn't to have called yourself tom fool, and blasphemed the holy name thereby, till you knowed you was sich, which you wasn't, as appears by particulars. and i have heard from t---- twice to-day, and he is agreeable, which, if he wasn't, he is an ass, and don't know half a loaf is better than no bread, and you musn't look a gift horse in the mouth, but all is as right as a dog-fox down wind and vi. _millia passuum_, to the next gorse. but this £ of his is a grueller, and i learnt with interest that you are inclined to get the fishes nose out of the weed. i have offered to lend him £ --hopes it may be lending--and have written a desperate begging letter to r. monckton milnes, esq., which 'evins prosper. poor t---- says to-night that he has written to forster about it--which he must have the small of his back very hard against the ropes so to do, so the sooner we get the ginger-beer bottle out the longer he'll fight, or else he'll throw up the sponge at once; for i know his pride. i think we can raise it somehow. i have a last card in old ----, the judge who tried and condemned him, and is the dearest old soul alive, only he will have it t---- showed dunghill, and don't carry a real game nackle. if i am to tackle he you must send me back those letters to appeal to his piety and 'joys as does abound,' as your incomparable father remarks. when _will_ you give me that canticle? he says tom taylor (i believe all the world is called thomas) has behaved to him like a brother, which, indeed, was to be expexed, and has promised him copying at a shilling an hour, and _will_ give him a chop daily free gracious; but the landlord won't wait, which we musn't neither. "now, business afore pleasure. you are an old darling, and who says no, i'd kick him, if it warn't for my cloth; but you are green in cottoning to me about our ' mess. because why? i lost nothing--i risked nothing. you fellows worked like bricks, spent money, and got midshipman's half-pay (nothing a-day and find yourself), and monkey's allowance (more kicks than halfpence). i risked no money; 'cause why, i had none; but _made_ money out of the movement, and fame too. i've often thought what a dirty beast i was. i made £ by alton locke, and never lost a farthing; and i got, not in spite of, but by the rows, a name and a standing with many a one who would never have heard of me otherwise, and i should have been a stercoraceous mendicant if i had hollowed when i got a facer, while i was winning by the cross, though i didn't mean to fight one. no. and if i'd had £ , , i'd have, and should have, staked and lost it all in - . i should, tom, for my heart was and is in it, and you'll see it will beat yet; but we ain't the boys. we don't see but half the bull's eye yet, and don't see _at all_ the policeman which is a going on his beat behind the bull's eye, and no thanks to us. still, _some_ somedever, it's in the fates, that association is the pure caseine, and must be eaten by the human race if it would save its soul alive, which, indeed, it will; only don't you think me a good fellow for not crying out, when i never had more to do than scratch myself and away went the fleas. but you all were real bricks; and if you were riled, why let him that is without sin cast the first stone, or let me cast it for him, and see if i don't hit him in the eye. "now to business; i have had a sortér kindèr sample day. up at , to see a dying man; ought to have been up at , but ben king the rat-catcher, who came to call me, was taken nervous!!! and didn't make row enough; was from . to . with the most dreadful case of agony--insensible to me, but not to his pain. came home, got a wash and a pipe, and again to him at . found him insensible to his own pain, with dilated pupils, dying of pressure of the brain--going any moment. prayed the commendatory prayers over him, and started for the river with west. fished all the morning in a roaring n.e. gale, with the dreadful agonized face between me and the river, pondering on the mystery. killed eight on 'march brown' and 'governor,' by drowning the flies, and taking _'em out gently to see_ if ought was there--which is the only dodge in a north-easter. 'cause why? the water is warmer than the air--_ergo_, fishes don't like to put their noses out o' doors, and feeds at home down stairs. it is the only wrinkle, tom. the captain fished a-top, and caught but three all day. they weren't going to catch a cold in their heads to please him or any man. clouds burn up at p.m. i put on a minnow, and kill three more; i should have had lots, but for the image of the dirty hickory stick, which would 'walk the waters like a thing of life,' just ahead of my minnow. mem.--never fish with the sun in your back; it's bad enough with a fly, but with a minnow it's strichnine and prussic acid. my eleven weighed together four and a-half pounds--three to the pound; not good, considering i had spased many a two-pound fish, i _know_. "corollary.--brass minnow don't suit the water. where is your wonderful minnow? send him me down, or else a _horn_ one, which i believes in desperate; but send me something before tuesday, and i will send you p.o.o. horn minnow looks like a gudgeon, which is the pure caseine. one pounder i caught to-day on the 'march brown' womited his wittles, which was rude, but instructive; and among worms was a gudgeon three inches long and more. blow minnows--gudgeon is the thing. "came off the water at . found my man alive, and, thank god, quiet. sat with him, and thought him going once or twice. what a mystery that long, insensible death-struggle is! why should they be so long about it? then had to go hartley row for an archdeacon's sunday-school meeting--three hours useless (i fear) speechifying and 'shop'; but the archdeacon is a good man, and works like a brick beyond his office. got back at : , and sit writing to you. so goes one's day. all manner of incongruous things to do--and the very incongruity keeps one beany and jolly. your letter was delightful. i read part of it to west, who says, you are the best fellow on earth, to which i agree. "so no more from your sleepy and tired--c. kingsley." this was almost the last letter i ever received from him in the parson lot period of his life, with which alone this notice has to do. it shows, i think, very clearly that it was not that he had deserted his flag (as has been said) or changed his mind about the cause for which he had fought so hard and so well. his heart was in it still as warmly as ever, as he says himself. but the battle had rolled away to another part of the field. almost all that parson lot had ever striven for was already gained. the working-classes had already got statutory protection for their trade associations, and their unions, though still outside the law, had become strong enough to fight their own battles. and so he laid aside his fighting name and his fighting pen, and had leisure to look calmly on the great struggle more as a spectator than an actor. a few months later, in the summer of , when he and i were talking over and preparing for a week's fishing in the streams and lakes of his favourite snowdonia, he spoke long and earnestly in the same key. i well remember how he wound it all up with, "the long and short of it is, i am becoming an optimist. all men, worth anything, old men especially, have strong fits of optimism--even carlyle has--because they can't help hoping, and sometimes feeling, that the world is going right, and will go right, not your way, or my way, but its own way. yes; we've all tried our holloway's pills, tom, to cure all the ills of all the world--and we've all found out i hope by this time that the tough old world has more in its inside than any holloway's pills will clear out." a few weeks later i received the following invitation to snowdon, and to snowdon we went in the autumn of . the invitation. come away with me, tom, term and talk is done; my poor lads are reaping, busy every one. curates mind the parish, sweepers mind the court, we'll away to snowdon for our ten days' sport, fish the august evening till the eve is past, whoop like boys at pounders fairly played and grassed. when they cease to dimple, lunge, and swerve, and leap, then up over siabod choose our nest, and sleep. up a thousand feet, tom, round the lion's head, find soft stones to leeward and make up our bed. bat our bread and bacon, smoke the pipe of peace, and, ere we be drowsy, give our boots a grease. homer's heroes did so, why not such as we? what are sheets and servants? superfluity. pray for wives and children safe in slumber curled, then to chat till midnight o'er this babbling world. of the workmen's college, of the price of grain, of the tree of knowledge, of the chance of rain; if sir a. goes romeward, if miss b. sings true, if the fleet comes homeward, if the mare will do,-- anything and everything-- up there in the sky angels understand us, and no "_saints_" are by. down, and bathe at day-dawn, tramp from lake to lake, washing brain and heart clean every step we take. leave to robert browning beggars, fleas, and vines; leave to mournful ruskin popish apennines, dirty stones of venice and his gas-lamps seven; we've the stones of snowdon and the lamps of heaven. where's the mighty credit in admiring alps? any goose sees "glory" in their "snowy scalps." leave such signs and wonders for the dullard brain, as æsthetic brandy, opium, and cayenne; give me bramshill common (st. john's harriers by), or the vale of windsor, england's golden eye. show me life and progress, beauty, health, and man; houses fair, trim gardens, turn where'er i can. or, if bored with "high art," and such popish stuff, one's poor ears need airing, snowdon's high enough. while we find god's signet fresh on english ground, why go gallivanting with the nations round? though we try no ventures desperate or strange; feed on common-places in a narrow range; never sought for franklin round the frozen capes; even, with macdougall, bagged our brace of apes; never had our chance, tom, in that black redan; can't avenge poor brereton out in sakarran; tho' we earn our bread, tom, by the dirty pen, what we can we will be, honest englishmen. do the work that's nearest, though it's dull at whiles; helping, when we meet them lame dogs over stiles; see in every hedgerow marks of angels' feet, epics in each pebble underneath our feet; once a-year, like schoolboys, robin-hooding go. leaving fops and fogies a thousand feet below. t. h. cheap clothes and nasty. king ryence, says the legend of prince arthur, wore a paletot trimmed with kings' beards. in the first french revolution (so carlyle assures us) there were at meudon tanneries of human skins. mammon, at once tyrant and revolutionary, follows both these noble examples--in a more respectable way, doubtless, for mammon hates cruelty; bodily pain is his devil--the worst evil of which he, in his effeminacy, can conceive. so he shrieks benevolently when a drunken soldier is flogged; but he trims his paletots, and adorns his legs, with the flesh of men and the skins of women, with degradation, pestilence, heathendom, and despair; and then chuckles self-complacently over the smallness of his tailors' bills. hypocrite!--straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel! what is flogging, or hanging, king ryence's paletot, or the tanneries of meudon, to the slavery, starvation, waste of life, year-long imprisonment in dungeons narrower and fouler than those of the inquisition, which goes on among thousands of free english clothes-makers at this day? "the man is mad," says mammon, smiling supercilious pity. yes, mammon; mad as paul before festus; and for much the same reason, too. much learning has made us mad. from two articles in the "morning chronicle" of friday, dec. th, and tuesday, dec. th, on the condition of the working tailors, we learnt too much to leave us altogether masters of ourselves. but there is method in our madness; we can give reasons for it--satisfactory to ourselves, perhaps also to him who made us, and you, and all tailors likewise. will you, freshly bedizened, you and your footmen, from nebuchadnezzar and co.'s "emporium of fashion," hear a little about how your finery is made? you are always calling out for facts, and have a firm belief in salvation by statistics. listen to a few. the metropolitan commissioner of the "morning chronicle" called two meetings of the working tailors, one in shadwell, and the other at the hanover square rooms, in order to ascertain their condition from their own lips. both meetings were crowded. at the hanover square rooms there were more than one thousand men; they were altogether unanimous in their descriptions of the misery and slavery which they endured. it appears that there are two distinct tailor trades--the "honourable" trade, now almost confined to the west end, and rapidly dying out there, and the "dishonourable" trade of the show-shops and slop-shops--the plate-glass palaces, where gents--and, alas! those who would be indignant at that name--buy their cheap-and-nasty clothes. the two names are the tailors' own slang; slang is true and expressive enough, though, now and then. the honourable shops in the west end number only sixty; the dishonourable, four hundred and more; while at the east end the dishonourable trade has it all its own way. the honourable part of the trade is declining at the rate of one hundred and fifty journeymen per year; the dishonourable increasing at such a rate that, in twenty years it will have absorbed the whole tailoring trade, which employs upwards of twenty-one thousand journeymen. at the honourable shops the work is done, as it was universally thirty years ago, on the premises and at good wages. in the dishonourable trade, the work is taken home by the men, to be done at the very lowest possible prices, which decrease year by year, almost month by month. at the honourable shops, from s. to s. is paid for a piece of work for which the dishonourable shop pays from s. to s. but not to the workmen; happy is he if he really gets two-thirds, or half of that. for at the honourable shops, the master deals directly with his workmen; while at the dishonourable ones, the greater part of the work, if not the whole, is let out to contractors, or middle-men--"_sweaters_," as their victims significantly call them--who, in their turn, let it out again, sometimes to the workmen, sometimes to fresh middlemen; so that out of the price paid for labour on each article, not only the workmen, but the sweater, and perhaps the sweater's sweater, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, have to draw their profit. and when the labour price has been already beaten down to the lowest possible, how much remains for the workmen after all these deductions, let the poor fellows themselves say! one working tailor (at the hanover square rooms meeting) "mentioned a number of shops, both at the east and west ends, whose work was all taken by sweaters; and several of these shops were under royal and noble patronage. there was one notorious sweater who kept his carriage. he was a jew, and, of course, he gave a preference to his own sect. thus, another jew received it from him second hand and at a lower rate; then it went to a third--till it came to the unfortunate christian at perhaps the eighth rate, and he performed the work at barely living prices; this same jew required a deposit of _l_. in money before he would give out a single garment to be made. he need not describe the misery which this system entailed upon the workmen. it was well known, but it was almost impossible, except for those who had been at the two, to form an idea of the difference between the present meeting and one at the east-end, where all who attended worked for slop-shops and sweaters. the present was a highly respectable assembly; the other presented no other appearance but those of misery and degradation." another says--"we have all worked in the honourable trade, so we know the regular prices from our own personal experience. taking the bad work with the good work we might earn s. a week upon an average. sometimes we do earn as much as s.; but, to do this, we are obliged to take part of our work home to our wives and daughters. we are not always fully employed. we are nearly half our time idle. hence, our earnings are, upon an average throughout the year, not more than s. d. a week." "very often i have made only s. d. in the week," said one. "that's common enough with us all, i can assure you," said another. "last week my wages was s. d.," declared one. "i earned s. d.," exclaimed the second. "my wages came to s. d. the week before i got s. d." "i made s. d.," and "i s. or s., i can't exactly remember which." "this is what we term the best part of our winter season. the reason why we are so long idle is because more hands than are wanted are kept on the premises, so that in case of a press of work coming in, our employers can have it done immediately. under the day work system no master tailor had more men on the premises than he could keep continually going; but since the change to the piecework system, masters made a practice of engaging double the quantity of hands that they have any need for, so that an order may be executed 'at the shortest possible notice,' if requisite. a man must not leave the premises when, unemployed,--if he does, he loses his chance of work coming in. i have been there four days together, and had not a stitch of work to do." "yes; that is common enough." "ay, and then you're told, if you complain, you can go, if you don't like it. i am sure twelve hands would do all they have done at home, and yet they keep forty of us. it's generally remarked that, however strong and healthy a man may be when he goes to work at that shop, in a month's time he'll be a complete shadow, and have almost all his clothes in pawn. by sunday morning, he has no money at all left, and he has to subsist till the following saturday upon about a pint of weak tea, and four slices of bread and butter per day!!!" "another of the reasons for the sweaters keeping more hands than they want is, the men generally have their meals with them. the more men they have with them the more breakfasts and teas they supply, and the more profit they make. the men usually have to pay d., and very often, d. for their breakfast, and the same for their tea. the tea or breakfast is mostly a pint of tea or coffee, and three to four slices of bread and butter. _i worked for one sweater who almost starved the men; the smallest eater there would not have had enough if he had got three times as much. they had only three thin slices of bread and butter, not sufficient for a child, and the tea was both weak and bad. the whole meal could not have stood him in d. a head, and what made it worse was, that the men who worked there couldn't afford to have dinners, so that they were starved to the bone._ the sweater's men generally lodge where they work. a sweater usually keeps about six men. these occupy two small garrets; one room is called the kitchen, and the other the workshop; and here the whole of the six men, and the sweater, his wife, and family, live and sleep. one sweater _i worked with had four children and six men, and they, together with his wife, sister-in-law, and himself, all lived in two rooms, the largest of which was about eight feet by ten. we worked in the smallest room and slept there as well--all six of us. there were two turnup beds in it, and we slept three in a bed. there was no chimney, and, indeed, no ventilation whatever. i was near losing my life there--the foul air of so many people working all day in the place, and sleeping there at night, was quite suffocating. almost all the men were consumptive, and i myself attended the dispensary for disease of the lungs. the room in which we all slept was not more than six feet square. we were all sick and weak, and loth to work._ each of the six of us paid s. d. a week for our lodging, or s. altogether, and i am sure such a room as we slept and worked in might be had for s. a week; you can get a room with a fire-place for s. d. a week. the usual sum that the men working for sweaters pay for their tea, breakfasts, and lodging is s. d. to s. a week, and they seldom earn more money in the week. occasionally at the week's end they are in debt to the sweater. this is seldom for more than d., for the sweater will not give them victuals if he has no work for them to do. many who live and work at the sweater's are married men, and are obliged to keep their wives and children in lodgings by themselves. some send them to the workhouse, others to their friends in the country. besides the profit of the board and lodging, the sweater takes d. out of the price paid for every garment under s.; some take s., and i do know of one who takes as much as s. this man works for a large show-shop at the west end. the usual profit of the sweater, over and above the board and lodging, is s. out of every pound. those who work for sweaters soon lose their clothes, and are unable to seek for other work, because they have not a coat to their back to go and seek it in. _last week, i worked with another man at a coat for one of her majesty's ministers, and my partner never broke his fast while he was making his half of it._ the minister dealt at a cheap west end show-shop. all the workman had the whole day-and-a-half he was making the coat was a little tea. but sweaters' work is not so bad as government work after all. at that, we cannot make more than s. or s. a week altogether--that is, counting the time we are running after it, of course. _government contract work is the worst of all, and the starved-out and sweated-out tailor's last resource._ but still, government does not do the regular trade so much harm as the cheap show and slop shops. these houses have ruined thousands. they have cut down the prices, so that men cannot live at the work; and the masters who did and would pay better wages, are reducing the workmen's pay every day. they say they must either compete with the large show shops or go into the 'gazette.'" sweet competition! heavenly maid!--now-a-days hymned alike by penny-a-liners and philosophers as the ground of all society--the only real preserver of the earth! why not of heaven, too? perhaps there is competition among the angels, and gabriel and raphael have won their rank by doing the maximum of worship on the minimum of grace? we shall know some day. in the meanwhile, "these are thy works, thou parent of all good!" man eating man, eaten by man, in every variety of degree and method! why does not some enthusiastic political economist write an epic on "the consecration of cannibalism"? but if any one finds it pleasant to his soul to believe the poor journeymen's statements exaggerated, let him listen to one of the sweaters themselves:-- "i wish," says he, "that others did for the men as decently as i do. i know there are many who are living entirely upon them. some employ as many as fourteen men. i myself worked in the house of a man who did this. the chief part of us lived, and worked, and slept together in two rooms, on the second floor. they charged s. d. per head for the lodging alone. twelve of the workmen, i am sure, lodged in the house, and these paid altogether s. a week rent to the sweater. i should think the sweater paid s. a week for the rooms--so that he gained at least s. clear out of the lodging of these men, and stood at no rent himself. for the living of the men he charged-- d. for breakfasts, and the same for teas, and d. for dinner--or at the rate of s. d. each per head. taking one with the other, and considering the manner in which they lived, i am certain that the cost for keeping each of them could not have been more than s. this would leave s. d. clear profit on the board of each of the twelve men, or, altogether, £ , s. per week; and this, added to the £ , s. profit on the rent, would give £ , s. for the sweater's gross profit on the board and lodging of the workmen in his place. but, besides this, he got s. out of each coat made on his premises, and there were twenty-one coats made there, upon an average, every week; so that, altogether, the sweater's clear gains out of the men were £ , s. every week. each man made about a coat and a half in the course of the seven days (_for they all worked on a sunday--they were generally told to 'borrow a day off the lord_.') for this coat and a half each hand got £ , s. d., and out of it he had to pay s. for board and lodging; so that there was s. d. clear left. these are the profits of the sweater, and the earnings of the men engaged under him, when working for the first rate houses. but many of the cheap houses pay as low as s. for the making of each dress and frock coat, and some of them as low as s. hence the earnings of the men at such work would be from s. to s. per week, and the cost of their board and lodging without dinners, for these they seldom have, would be from s. d. to s. per week. indeed, the men working under sweaters at such prices generally consider themselves well off if they have a shilling or two in their pockets for sunday. the profits of the sweater, however, would be from £ to £ out of twelve men, working on his premises. the usual number of men working under each sweater is about six individuals; and the average rate of profit, about £ , s., without the sweater doing any work himself. it is very often the case that a man working under a sweater is obliged to pawn his own coat to get any pocket-money that he may require. over and over again the sweater makes out that he is in his debt from s. to s. at the end of the week, and when the man's coat is in pledge, he is compelled to remain imprisoned in the sweater's lodgings for months together. in some sweating places, there is an old coat kept called a "reliever," and this is borrowed by such men as have none of their own to go out in. there are very few of the sweaters' men who have a coat to their backs or a shoe to their feet to come out into the streets on sunday. down about fulwood's rents, holborn, i am sure i would not give d. for the clothes that are on a dozen of them; and it is surprising to me, working and living together in such numbers and in such small close rooms, in narrow close back courts as they do, that they are not all swept off by some pestilence. i myself have seen half-a-dozen men at work in a room that was a little better than a bedstead long. it was as much as one could do to move between the wall and the bedstead when it was down. there were two bedsteads in this room, and they nearly filled the place when they were down. the ceiling was so low, that i couldn't stand upright in the room. there was no ventilation in the place. there was no fireplace, and only a small window. when the window was open, you could nearly touch the houses at the back, and if the room had not been at the top of the house, the men could not have seen at all in the place. the staircase was so narrow, steep, and dark, that it was difficult to grope your way to the top of the house--it was like going up a steeple. this is the usual kind of place in which the sweater's men are lodged. the reason why there are so many irishmen working for the sweaters is, because they are seduced over to this country by the prospect of high wages and plenty of work. they are brought over by the cork boats at s. a-head, and when they once get here, the prices they receive are so small, that they are unable to go back. in less than a week after they get here, their clothes are all pledged, and they are obliged to continue working under the sweaters. "the extent to which this system of 'street kidnapping' is carried on is frightful. young tailors, fresh from the country, are decoyed by the sweaters' wives into their miserable dens, under extravagant promises of employment, to find themselves deceived, imprisoned, and starved, often unable to make their escape for months--perhaps years; and then only fleeing from one dungeon to another as abominable." in the meantime, the profits of the beasts of prey who live on these poor fellows--both masters and sweaters--seem as prodigious as their cruelty. hear another working tailor on this point:--"in , i belonged to the honourable part of the trade. our house of call supplied the present show-shop with men to work on the premises. the prices then paid were at the rate of d. per hour. for the same driving capes that they paid s. then, they give only s. for now. for the dress and frock coats they gave s. then, and now they are s. the paletots and shooting coats were s.; there was no coat made on the premises under that sum. at the end of the season, they wanted to reduce the paletots to s. the men refused to make them at that price, when other houses were paying as much as s. for them. the consequence of this was, the house discharged all the men, and got a jew middle-man from the neighbourhood of petticoat-lane, to agree to do them all at s. d. a piece. the jew employed all the poor people who were at work for the slop warehouses in houndsditch and its vicinity. this jew makes on an average paletots a week. the jew gets s. d. profit out of each, and having no sewing trimmings allowed to him, he makes the work-people find them. the saving in trimmings alone to the firm, since the workmen left the premises, must have realized a small fortune to them. calculating men, women, and children, i have heard it said that the cheap house at the west end employs , hands. the trimmings for the work done by these would be about d. a week per head, so that the saving to the house since the men worked on the premises has been no less than £ , a year, and all this taken out of the pockets of the poor. the jew who contracts for making the paletots is no tailor at all. a few years ago he sold sponges in the street, and now he rides in his carriage. the jew's profits are half-crowns, or £ odd, per week--that is upwards of £ , a-year. women are mostly engaged at the paletot work. when i came to work for the cheap show-shop i had £ , s. in the saving bank; now i have not a half-penny in it. all i had saved went little by little to keep me and my family. i have always made a point of putting some money by when i could afford it, but since i have been at this work it has been as much as i could do to _live_, much more to _save_. one of the firm for which i work has been heard publicly to declare that he employed , hands constantly. now the earnings of these at the honourable part of the trade would be upon an average, taking the skilful with the unskilful, s. a week each, or £ , a year. but since they discharged the men from off their premises, they have cut down the wages of the workmen one-half--taking one garment with another--_though the selling prices remain the same to the public_, so that they have saved by the reduction of the workmen's wages no less than £ , per year. every other quarter of a year something has been 'docked' off our earnings, until it is almost impossible for men with families to live decently by their labour; and now, for the first time, they pretend to feel for them. they even talk of erecting a school for the children of their workpeople; but where is the use of erecting schools, when they know as well as we do, that at the wages they pay, the children must be working for their fathers at home? they had much better erect workshops, and employ the men on the premises at fair living wages, and then the men could educate their own children, without being indebted to their charity." on this last question of what the master-cannibals had "much better do," we have somewhat to say presently. in the meantime, hear another of the things which they had much better _not_ do. "part of the fraud and deception of the slop trade consists in the mode in which the public are made believe that the men working for such establishments earn more money than they really do. the plan practised is similar to that adopted by the army clothier, who made out that the men working on his establishment made per week from s. to s. each, whereas, on inquiry, it was found that a considerable sum was paid out of that to those who helped to do the looping for those who took it home. when a coat is given to me to make, a ticket is handed to me with the garment, similar to this one which i have obtained from a friend of mine. +--------------------------------------------+ | | | mr. _smith_ , made by _m_ | | _ze_ = s. = _lined lustre | | quilted double stitched | | each side seams_ | | | | . no. , . | | o'clock _friday_ | | | | mr. _smith_ | +--------------------------------------------+ on this you see the price is marked at s.," continued my informant, "and supposing that i, with two others, could make three of these garments in the week, the sum of thirty-six shillings would stand in the books of the establishment as the amount earned by me in that space of time. this would be sure to be exhibited to the customers, immediately that there was the least outcry made about the starvation price they paid for their work, as a proof that the workpeople engaged on their establishment received the full prices; whereas, of that s. entered against my name, _i should have had to pay s. to those who assisted me_; besides this, my share of the trimmings and expenses would have been s. d., and probably my share of the fires would be s. more; so that the real fact would be, that i should make s. d. clear, and this it would be almost impossible to do, if i did not work long over hours. i am obliged to keep my wife continually at work helping me, in order to live." in short, the condition of these men is far worse than that of the wretched labourers of wilts or dorset. their earnings are as low and often lower; their trade requires a far longer instruction, far greater skill and shrewdness; their rent and food are more expensive; and their hours of work, while they have work, more than half as long again. conceive sixteen or eighteen hours of skilled labour in a stifling and fetid chamber, earning not much more than s. d. or s. a week! and, as has been already mentioned in one case, the man who will earn even that, must work all sunday. he is even liable to be thrown out of his work for refusing to work on sunday. why not? is there anything about one idle day in seven to be found among the traditions of mammon? when the demand comes, the supply must come; and will, in spite of foolish auld-warld notion about keeping days holy--or keeping contracts holy either, for, indeed, mammon has no conscience--right and wrong are not words expressible by any commercial laws yet in vogue; and therefore it appears that to earn this wretched pittance is by no means to get it. "for," says one, and the practice is asserted to be general, almost universal, "there is at our establishment a mode of reducing the price of our labour even lower than we have mentioned. the prices we have stated are those _nominally_ paid for making the garments; but it is not an uncommon thing in our shop for a man to make a garment, and receive nothing at all for it. i remember a man once having a waistcoat to do, the price of making which was s., and when he gave the job in he was told that he owed the establishment d. the manner in which this is brought about is by a system of fines. we are fined if we are behind time with our job, d. the first hour, and d. for each hour that we are late." "i have known as much as s. d. to be deducted off the price of a coat on the score of want of punctuality," one said; "and, indeed, very often the whole money is stopped. it would appear, as if our employers themselves strove to make us late with our work, and so have an opportunity of cutting down the price paid for our labour. they frequently put off giving out the trimmings to us till the time at which the coat is due has expired. if to the trimmer we return an answer that is considered 'saucy,' we are find d. or s., according to the trimmer's temper." "i was called a thief," another of the three declared, "and because i told the man i would not submit to such language, i was fined d. these are the principal of the in-door fines. the out-door fines are still more iniquitous. there are full a dozen more fines for minor offences; indeed, we are fined upon every petty pretext. we never know what we have to take on a saturday, for the meanest advantages are taken to reduce our wages. if we object to pay these fines, we are told that we may leave; but they know full well that we are afraid to throw ourselves out of work." folks are getting somewhat tired of the old rodomontade that a slave is free the moment he sets foot on british soil! stuff!--are these tailors free? put any conceivable sense you will on the word, and then say--are they free? we have, thank god, emancipated the black slaves; it would seem a not inconsistent sequel to that act to set about emancipating these white ones. oh! we forgot; there is an infinite difference between the two cases--the black slaves worked for our colonies; the white slaves work for _us_. but, indeed, if, as some preach, self-interest is the mainspring of all human action, it is difficult to see who will step forward to emancipate the said white slaves; for all classes seem to consider it equally their interest to keep them as they are; all classes, though by their own confession they are ashamed, are yet not afraid to profit by the system which keeps them down. not only the master tailors and their underlings, but the retail tradesmen, too, make their profit out of these abominations. by a method which smacks at first sight somewhat of benevolence, but proves itself in practice to be one of those "precious balms which break," not "the head" (for that would savour of violence, and might possibly give some bodily pain, a thing intolerable to the nerves of mammon) but the heart--an organ which, being spiritual, can of course be recognized by no laws of police or commerce. the object of the state, we are told, is "the conservation of body and goods"; there is nothing in that about broken hearts; nothing which should make it a duty to forbid such a system as a working-tailor here describes-- "fifteen or twenty years ago, such a thing as a journeyman tailor having to give security before he could get work was unknown; but now i and such as myself could not get a stitch to do first handed, if we did not either procure the security of some householder, or deposit £ in the hands of the employer. the reason of this is, the journeymen are so badly paid, that the employers know they can barely live on what they get, and consequently they are often driven to pawn the garments given out to them, in order to save themselves and their families from starving. if the journeyman can manage to scrape together £ , he has to leave it in the hands of his employer all the time that he is working for the house. i know one person who gives out the work for a fashionable west end slop-shop that will not take household security, and requires £ from each hand. i am informed by one of the parties who worked for this man that he has as many as hands in his employ, and that each of these has placed £ in his hands, so that altogether the poor people have handed over £ to increase the capital upon which he trades, and for which he pays no interest whatsoever." this recalls a similar case (mentioned by a poor stay-stitcher in another letter, published in the "morning chronicle"), of a large wholesale staymaker in the city, who had amassed a large fortune by beginning to trade upon the s. which he demanded to be left in his hands by his workpeople before he gave them employment. "two or three years back one of the slopsellers at the east end became bankrupt, and the poor people lost all the money that had been deposited as security for work in his hands. the journeymen who get the security of householders are enabled to do so by a system which is now in general practice at the east end. several bakers, publicans, chandler-shop keepers, and coal-shed keepers, make a trade of becoming security for those seeking slop-work. they consent to be responsible for the workpeople upon the condition of the men dealing at their shops. the workpeople who require such security are generally very good customers, from the fact of their either having large families, all engaged in the same work, or else several females or males working under them, and living at their house. the parties becoming securities thus not only greatly increase their trade, but furnish a second-rate article at a first-rate price. it is useless to complain of the bad quality or high price of the articles supplied by the securities, for the shopkeepers know, as well as the workpeople, that it is impossible for the hands to leave them without losing their work. i know one baker whose security was refused at the slop-shop because he was already responsible for so many, and he begged the publican to be his deputy, so that by this means the workpeople were obliged to deal at both baker's and publican's too. i never heard of a butcher making a trade of becoming security, _because the slopwork people cannot afford to consume much meat_. "the same system is also pursued by lodging-house keepers. they will become responsible if the workmen requiring security will undertake to lodge at their house." but of course the men most interested in keeping up the system are those who buy the clothes of these cheap shops. and who are they? not merely the blackguard gent--the butt of albert smith and punch, who flaunts at the casinos and cremorne gardens in vulgar finery wrung out of the souls and bodies of the poor; not merely the poor lawyer's clerk or reduced half-pay officer who has to struggle to look as respectable as his class commands him to look on a pittance often no larger than that of the day labourer--no, strange to say--and yet not strange, considering our modern eleventh commandment--"buy cheap and sell dear," the richest as well as the poorest imitate the example of king ryence and the tanners of meudon, at a great show establishment--to take one instance out of many--the very one where, as we heard just now, "however strong and healthy a man may be when he goes to work at that shop, in a month's time he will be a complete shadow, and have almost all his clothes in pawn"-- "we have also made garments for sir ---- ----, sir ---- ----, alderman ----, dr. ----, and dr. ----. we make for several of the aristocracy. we cannot say whom, because the tickets frequently come to us as lord ---- and the marquis of ----. this could not be a jew's trick, because the buttons on the liveries had coronets upon them. and again, we know the house is patronized largely by the aristocracy, clergy, and gentry, by the number of court-suits and liveries, surplices, regimentals, and ladies' riding-habits that we continually have to make up. _there are more clergymen among the customers than any other class, and often we have to work at home upon the sunday at their clothes, in order to get a living._ the customers are mostly ashamed of dealing at this house, for the men who take the clothes to the customers' houses in the cart have directions to pull up at the corner of the street. we had a good proof of the dislike of gentlefolks to have it known that they dealt at that shop for their clothes, for when the trousers buttons were stamped with the name of the firm, we used to have the garments returned, daily, to have other buttons put on them, and now the buttons are unstamped"!!! we shall make no comment on this extract. it needs none. if these men know how their clothes are made, they are past contempt. afraid of man, and not afraid of god! as if his eye could not see the cart laden with the plunder of the poor, because it stopped round the corner! if, on the other hand, they do _not_ know these things, and doubtless the majority do not,--it is their sin that they do not know it. woe to a society whose only apology to god and man is, "am i my brother's keeper?" men ought to know the condition of those by whose labour they live. had the question been the investment of a few pounds in a speculation, these gentlemen would have been careful enough about good security. ought they to take no security when they invest their money in clothes, that they are not putting on their backs accursed garments, offered in sacrifice to devils, reeking with the sighs of the starving, tainted--yes, tainted, indeed, for it comes out now that diseases numberless are carried home in these same garments from the miserable abodes where they are made. evidence to this effect was given in ; but mammon was too busy to attend to it. these wretched creatures, when they have pawned their own clothes and bedding, will use as substitutes the very garments they are making. so lord ----'s coat has been seen covering a group of children blotched with small-pox. the rev. d---- finds himself suddenly unpresentable from a cutaneous disease, which it is not polite to mention on the south of tweed, little dreaming that the shivering dirty being who made his coat has been sitting with his arms in the sleeves for warmth while he stitched at the tails. the charming miss c---- is swept off by typhus or scarlatina, and her parents talk about "god's heavy judgment and visitation"--had they tracked the girl's new riding-habit back to the stifling undrained hovel where it served as a blanket to the fever-stricken slopworker, they would have seen _why_ god had visited them, seen that his judgments are true judgments, and give his plain opinion of the system which "speaketh good of the covetous whom god abhorreth"--a system, to use the words of the "morning chronicle's" correspondent, "unheard of and unparalleled in the history of any country--a scheme so deeply laid for the introduction and supply of under-paid labour to the market, that it is impossible for the working man not to sink and be degraded, by it into the lowest depths of wretchedness and infamy--a system which is steadily and gradually increasing, and sucking more and more victims out of the honourable trade, who are really intelligent artizans, living in comparative comfort and civilization, into the dishonourable or sweating trade in which the slopworkers are generally almost brutified by their incessant toil, wretched pay, miserable food, and filthy homes." but to us, almost the worse feature in the whole matter is, that the government are not merely parties to, but actually the originators of this system. the contract system, as a working tailor stated, in the name of the rest, "had been mainly instrumental in destroying the living wages of the working man. now, the government were the sole originators of the system of contracts and of sweating. forty years ago, there was nothing known of contracts, except government contracts; and at that period the contractors were confined to making slops for the navy, the army, and the west india slaves. it was never dreamt of then that such a system was to come into operation in the better classes of trade, till ultimately it was destructive of masters as well as men. the government having been the cause of the contract system, and consequently of the sweating system, he called upon them to abandon it. the sweating system had established the show shops and the ticket system, both of which were countenanced by the government, till it had become a fashion to support them. "even the court assisted to keep the system in fashion, and the royal arms and royal warrants were now exhibited common enough by slopsellers." government said its duty was to do justice. but was it consistent with justice to pay only s. d. for making navy jackets, which would be paid s. for by every 'honourable' tradesman? was it consistent with justice for the government to pay for royal marine clothing (private's coat and epaulettes) s. d.? was it consistent with justice for the government to pay for making a pair of trousers (four or five hours' work) only - / d? and yet, when a contractor, noted for paying just wages to those he employed, brought this under the consideration of the admiralty, they declared they had nothing to do with it. here is their answer:-- "admiralty, march , . "sir,--having laid before my lords commissioners of the admiralty, your letter of the th inst., calling their attention to the extremely low prices paid for making up articles of clothing, provided for her majesty's naval service, i am commanded by their lordships to acquaint you, that they have no control whatever over the wages paid for making up contract clothing. their duty is to take care that the articles supplied are of good quality, and well made: the cost of the material and the workmanship are matters which rest with the contractor; and if the public were to pay him a higher price than that demanded, it would not ensure any advantage to the men employed by him, as their wages depend upon the amount of competition for employment amongst themselves. i am, sir, your most obedient servant, "h. g. ward. "w. shaw, esq." oh most impotent conclusion, however officially cautious, and "philosophically" correct! even if the wages did depend entirely on the amount of competition, on whom does the amount of competition depend? merely on the gross numbers of the workmen? somewhat, too, one would think, on the system according to which the labour and the wages are distributed. but right or wrong, is it not a pleasant answer for the poor working tailors, and one likely to increase their faith, hope, and charity towards the present commercial system, and those who deny the possibility of any other? "the government," says another tailor at the same meeting, "had really been the means of reducing prices in the tailoring trade to so low a scale that no human being, whatever his industry, could live and be happy in his lot. the government were really responsible for the first introduction of female labour. he would clearly prove what he had stated. he would refer first to the army clothing. our soldiers were comfortably clothed, as they had a right to be; but surely the men who made the clothing which was so comfortable, ought to be paid for their labour so as to be able to keep themselves comfortable and their families virtuous. but it was in evidence, that the persons working upon army clothing could not, upon an average, earn more than s. a-day. another government department, the post-office, afforded a considerable amount of employment to tailors; but those who worked upon the post-office clothing earned, at the most, only s. d. a-day. the police clothing was another considerable branch of tailoring; this, like the others, ought to be paid for at living prices; but the men at work at it could only earn s. d. a-day, supposing them to work hard all the time, fourteen or fifteen hours. the custom house clothing gave about the same prices. now, all these sorts of work were performed by time workers, who, as a natural consequence of the wages they received, were the most miserable of human beings. husband, wife, and family all worked at it; they just tried to breathe upon it; to live it never could be called. _yet the same government which paid such wretched wages, called upon the wretched people to be industrious, to be virtuous, and happy_, how was it possible, whatever their industry, to be virtuous and happy? the fact was, the men who, at the slack season, had been compelled to fall back upon these kinds of work, became so beggared and broken down by it, notwithstanding the assistance of their wives and families, that they were never able to rise out of it." and now comes the question--what is to be done with these poor tailors, to the number of between fifteen and twenty thousand? their condition, as it stands, is simply one of ever-increasing darkness and despair. the system which is ruining them is daily spreading, deepening. while we write, fresh victims are being driven by penury into the slopworking trade, fresh depreciations of labour are taking place. like ulysses' companions in the cave of polyphemus, the only question among them is, to scramble so far back as to have _a chance of being eaten at last_. before them is ever-nearing slavery, disease, and starvation. what can be done? first--this can be done. that no man who calls himself a christian--no man who calls himself a man--shall ever disgrace himself by dealing at any show-shop or slop-shop. it is easy enough to know them. the ticketed garments, the impudent puffs; the trumpery decorations, proclaim them,--every one knows them at first sight, he who pretends not to do so, is simply either a fool or a liar. let no man enter them--they are the temples of moloch--their thresholds are rank with human blood. god's curse is on them, and on those who, by supporting them, are partakers of their sins. above all, let no clergyman deal at them. poverty--and many clergymen are poor--doubly poor, because society often requires them to keep up the dress of gentlemen on the income of an artizan; because, too, the demands on their charity are quadruple those of any other class--yet poverty is no excuse. the thing is damnable--not christianity only, but common humanity cries out against it. woe to those who dare to outrage in private the principles which they preach in public! god is not mocked; and his curse will find out the priest at the altar, as well as the nobleman in his castle. but it is so hard to deprive the public of the luxury of cheap clothes! then let the public look out for some other means of procuring that priceless blessing. if that, on experiment, be found impossible--if the comfort of the few be for ever to be bought by the misery of the many--if civilization is to benefit every one except the producing class--then this world is truly the devil's world, and the sooner so ill-constructed and infernal a machine is destroyed by that personage, the better. but let, secondly, a dozen, or fifty, or a hundred journeymen say to one another: "it is competition that, is ruining us, and competition is division, disunion, every man for himself, every man against his brother. the remedy must be in association, co-operation, self-sacrifice for the sake of one another. we can work together at the honourable tailor's workshop--we can work and live together in the sweater's den for the profit of our employers; why should we not work and live together in our own workshops, or our own homes, for our own profit? the journeymen of the honourable trade are just as much interested as the slopworkers in putting down sweaters and slopsellers, since their numbers are constantly decreasing, so that their turn must come some day. let them, if no one else does, lend money to allow us to set up a workshop of our own, a shop of our own. if the money be not lent, still let us stint and strain ourselves to the very bone, if it were only to raise one sweater's security-money, which one of us should pay into the slopseller's hands, in his own name, but on behalf of all: that will at least save one sweater's profit out of our labour, and bestow it upon ourselves; and we will not spend that profit, but hoard it, till we have squeezed out all the sweaters one by one. then we will open our common shop, and sell at as low a price as the cheapest of the show shops. we _can_ do this,--by the abolition of sweaters' profits,--by the using, as far as possible, of one set of fires, lights, rooms, kitchens, and washhouses,--above all, by being true and faithful to one another, as all partners should be. and, then, all that the master slopsellers had better do, will be simply to vanish and become extinct." and again, let one man, or half-a-dozen men arise, who believe that the world is not the devil's world at all, but god's: that the multitude of the people is not, as malthusians aver, the ruin, but as solomon believed, "the strength of the rulers"; that men are not meant to be beasts of prey, eating one another up by competition, as in some confined pike pond, where the great pike having despatched the little ones, begin to devour each other, till one overgrown monster is left alone to die of starvation. let a few men who have money, and believe that, arise to play the man. let them help and foster the growth of association by all means. let them advise the honourable tailors, while it is time, to save themselves from being degraded into slopsellers by admitting their journeymen to a share in profits. let them encourage the journeymen to compete with nebuchadnezzar & co. at their own game. let them tell those journeymen that the experiment is even now being tried, and, in many instances successfully, by no less than one hundred and four associations of journeymen in paris. let them remind them of that great name which the parisian "ouvrier" so often forgets--of him whose everlasting fatherhood is the sole ground of all human brotherhood, whose wise and loving will is the sole source of all perfect order and government. let them, as soon as an association is formed, provide for them a properly ventilated workshop, and let it out to the associate tailors at a low, fair rent. i believe that they will not lose by it--because it is right. god will take care of their money. the world, it comes out now, is so well ordered by him, that model lodging-houses, public baths, wash-houses, insurance offices, all pay a reasonable profit to those who invest money in them--perhaps associate workshops may do the same. at all events, the owners of these show-shops realize a far higher profit than need be, while the buildings required for a tailoring establishment are surely not more costly than those absurd plate-glass fronts, and brass scroll-work chandeliers, and puffs, and paid poets. a large house might thus be taken, in some central situation, the upper floors of which might be fitted up as model lodging-rooms for the tailor's trade alone. the drawing-room floor might be the work-room; on the ground floor the shop; and, if possible, a room of call or registration office for unemployed journeymen, and a reading-room. why should not this succeed, if the owners of the house and the workers who rent it are only true to one another? every tyro in political economy knows that association involves a saving both of labour and of capital. why should it not succeed, when every one connected with the establishment, landlords and workmen, will have an interest in increasing its prosperity, and none whatever in lowering the wages of any party employed? but above all, so soon as these men are found working together for common profit, in the spirit of mutual self-sacrifice, let every gentleman and every christian, who has ever dealt with, or could ever have dealt with, nebuchadnezzar and co., or their fellows, make it a point of honour and conscience to deal with the associated workmen, and get others to do the like. _it is by securing custom, far more than by gifts or loans of money, that we can help the operatives._ we should but hang a useless burthen of debt round their necks by advancing capital, without affording them the means of disposing of their produce. be assured, that the finding of a tailors' model lodging house, work rooms, and shop, and the letting out of the two latter to an association, would be a righteous act to do. if the plan does not pay, what then? only a part of the money can be lost; and to have given that to an hospital or an almshouse would have been called praiseworthy and christian charity; how much more to have spent it not in the cure, but in the prevention of evil--in making almshouses less needful, and lessening the number of candidates for the hospital! regulations as to police order, and temperance, the workmen must, and, if they are worthy of the name of free men, they can organize for themselves. let them remember that an association of labour is very different from an association of capital. the capitalist only embarks his money on the venture; the workman embarks his time--that is, much at least of his life. still more different is the operatives' association from the single capitalist, seeking only to realize a rapid fortune, and then withdraw. the association knows no withdrawal from business; it must grow in length and in breadth, outlasting rival slopsellers, swallowing up all associations similar to itself, and which might end by competing with it. "monopoly!" cries a free-trader, with hair on end. not so, good friend; there will be no real free trade without association. who tells you that tailors' associations are to be the only ones? some such thing, as i have hinted, might surely be done. where there is a will there is a way. no doubt there are difficulties--howard and elizabeth fry, too, had their difficulties. brindley and brunel did not succeed at the first trial. it is the sluggard only who is always crying, "there is a lion in the streets." be daring--trust in god, and he will fight for you; man of money, whom these words have touched, godliness has the promise of this life, as well as of that to come. the thing must be done, and speedily; for if it be not done by fair means, it will surely do itself by foul. the continual struggle of competition, not only in the tailors' trade, but in every one which is not, like the navigator's or engineer's, at a premium from its novel and extraordinary demand, will weaken and undermine more and more the masters, who are already many of them speculating on borrowed capital, while it will depress the workmen to a point at which life will become utterly intolerable; increasing education will serve only to make them the more conscious of their own misery; the boiler will be strained to bursting pitch, till some jar, some slight crisis, suddenly directs the imprisoned forces to one point, and then-- what then? look at france, and see. parson lot. preface _to the undergraduates of cambridge._ i have addressed this preface to the young gentlemen of the university, first, because it is my duty to teach such of them as will hear me, modern history; and i know no more important part of modern history than the condition and the opinions of our own fellow-countrymen, some of which are set forth in this book. next, i have addressed them now, because i know that many of them, at various times, have taken umbrage at certain scenes of cambridge life drawn in this book. i do not blame them for having done so. on the contrary, i have so far acknowledged the justice of their censure, that while i have altered hardly one other word in this book, i have re-written all that relates to cambridge life. those sketches were drawn from my own recollections of - . whether they were overdrawn is a question between me and men of my own standing. but the book was published in ; and i am assured by men in whom i have the most thorough confidence, that my sketches had by then at least become exaggerated and exceptional, and therefore, as a whole, untrue; that a process of purification was going on rapidly in the university; and that i must alter my words if i meant to give the working men a just picture of her. circumstances took the property and control of the book out of my hand, and i had no opportunity of reconsidering and of altering the passages. those circumstances have ceased, and i take the first opportunity of altering all which my friends tell me should be altered. but even if, as early as , i had not been told that i must do so, i should have done so of my own accord, after the experiences of . i have received at cambridge a courtesy and kindness from my elders, a cordial welcome from my co-equals, and an earnest attention from the undergraduates with whom i have come in contact, which would bind me in honour to say nothing publicly against my university, even if i had aught to say. but i have nought. i see at cambridge nothing which does not gain my respect for her present state and hope for her future. increased sympathy between the old and young, increased intercourse between the teacher and the taught, increased freedom and charity of thought, and a steady purpose of internal self-reform and progress, seem to me already bearing good fruit, by making the young men regard their university with content and respect. and among the young men themselves, the sight of their increased earnestness and high-mindedness, increased sobriety and temperance, combined with a manliness not inferior to that of the stalwart lads of twenty years ago, has made me look upon my position among them as most noble, my work among them as most hopeful, and made me sure that no energy which i can employ in teaching them will ever have been thrown away. much of this improvement seems to me due to the late high-church movement; much to the influence of dr. arnold; much to that of mr. maurice; much to the general increase of civilization throughout the country: but whatever be the causes of it, the fact is patent; and i take delight in thus expressing my consciousness of it. another change i must notice in the tone of young gentlemen, not only at cambridge, but throughout britain, which is most wholesome and most hopeful. i mean their altered tone in speaking to and of the labouring classes. thirty years ago, and even later, the young men of the labouring classes were "the cads," "the snobs," "the blackguards"; looked on with a dislike, contempt, and fear, which they were not backward to return, and which were but too ready to vent themselves on both sides in ugly words and deeds. that hateful severance between the classes was, i believe, an evil of recent growth, unknown to old england. from the middle ages, up to the latter years of the french war, the relation between the english gentry and the labourers seems to have been more cordial and wholesome than in any other country of europe. but with the french revolution came a change for the worse. the revolution terrified too many of the upper, and excited too many of the lower classes; and the stern tory system of repression, with its bad habit of talking and acting as if "the government" and "the people" were necessarily in antagonism, caused ever increasing bad blood. besides, the old feudal ties between class and class, employer and employed, had been severed. large masses of working people had gathered in the manufacturing districts in savage independence. the agricultural labourers had been debased by the abuses of the old poor-law into a condition upon which one looks back now with half-incredulous horror. meanwhile, the distress of the labourers became more and more severe. then arose luddite mobs, meal mobs, farm riots, riots everywhere; captain swing and his rickburners, peterloo "massacres," bristol conflagrations, and all the ugly sights and rumours which made young lads, thirty or forty years ago, believe (and not so wrongly) that "the masses" were their natural enemies, and that they might have to fight, any year, or any day, for the safety of their property and the honour of their sisters. how changed, thank god! is all this now. before the influence of religion, both evangelical and anglican; before the spread of those liberal principles, founded on common humanity and justice, the triumph of which we owe to the courage and practical good sense of the whig party; before the example of a court, virtuous, humane, and beneficent; the attitude of the british upper classes has undergone a noble change. there is no aristocracy in the world, and there never has been one, as far as i know, which has so honourably repented, and brought forth fruits meet for repentance; which has so cheerfully asked what its duty was, that it might do it. it is not merely enlightened statesmen, philanthropists, devotees, or the working clergy, hard and heartily as they are working, who have set themselves to do good as a duty specially required of them by creed or by station. in the generality of younger laymen, as far as i can see, a humanity (in the highest sense of the word) has been awakened, which bids fair, in another generation, to abolish the last remnants of class prejudices and class grudges. the whole creed of our young gentlemen is becoming more liberal, their demeanour more courteous, their language more temperate. they inquire after the welfare, or at least mingle in the sports of the labouring man, with a simple cordiality which was unknown thirty years ago; they are prompt, the more earnest of them, to make themselves of use to him on the ground of a common manhood, if any means of doing good are pointed out to them; and that it is in any wise degrading to "associate with low fellows," is an opinion utterly obsolete, save perhaps among a few sons of squireens in remote provinces, or of parvenus who cannot afford to recognize the class from whence they themselves have risen. in the army, thanks to the purifying effect of the crimean and indian wars, the same altered tone is patent. officers feel for and with their men, talk to them, strive to instruct and amuse them more and more year by year; and--as a proof that the reform has not been forced on the officers by public opinion from without, but is spontaneous and from within, another instance of the altered mind of the aristocracy--the improvement is greatest in those regiments which are officered by men of the best blood; and in care for and sympathy with their men, her majesty's footguards stands first of all. god grant that the friendship which exists there between the leaders and the led may not be tested to the death amid the snow-drift or on the battle-field; but if it be so, i know too that it will stand the test. but if i wish for one absolute proof of the changed relation between the upper and the lower classes, i have only to point to the volunteer movement. in , in the face of the most real and fatal danger, the addington ministry was afraid of allowing volunteer regiments, and lord eldon, while pressing the necessity, could use as an argument that if the people did not volunteer for the government, they would against it. so broad was even then the gulf between the governed and the governors. how much broader did it become in after years! had invasion threatened us at any period between and , or even later, would any ministry have dared to allow volunteer regiments? would they have been justified in doing so, even if they had dared? and now what has come to pass, all the world knows: but all the world should know likewise, that it never would have come to pass save for--not merely the late twenty years of good government in state, twenty years of virtue and liberality in the court, but--the late twenty years of increasing right-mindedness in the gentry, who have now their reward in finding that the privates in the great majority of corps prefer being officered by men of a rank socially superior to their own. and as good always breeds fresh good, so this volunteer movement, made possible by the goodwill between classes, will help in its turn to increase that goodwill. already, by the performance of a common duty, and the experience of a common humanity, these volunteer corps are become centres of cordiality between class and class; and gentleman, tradesman, and workman, the more they see of each other, learn to like, to trust, and to befriend each other more and more; a good work in which i hope the volunteers of the university of cambridge will do their part like men and gentlemen; when, leaving this university, they become each of them, as they ought, an organizing point for fresh volunteers in their own districts. i know (that i may return to cambridge) no better example of the way in which the altered tone of the upper classes and the volunteer movement have acted and reacted upon each other, than may be seen in the cambridge working men's college, and its volunteer rifle corps, the th cambridgeshire. there we have--what perhaps could not have existed, what certainly did not exist twenty years ago--a school of a hundred men or more, taught for the last eight years gratuitously by men of the highest attainments in the university; by a dean--to whom, i believe, the success of the attempt is mainly owing; by professors, tutors, prizemen, men who are now head-masters of public schools, who have given freely to their fellow-men knowledge which has cost them large sums of money and the heavy labour of years. without insulting them by patronage, without interfering with their religious opinions, without tampering with their independence in any wise, but simply on the ground of a common humanity, they have been helping to educate these men, belonging for the most part, i presume, to the very class which this book sets forth as most unhappy and most dangerous--the men conscious of unsatisfied and unemployed intellect. and they have their reward in a practical and patent form. out of these men a volunteer corps is organized, officered partly by themselves, partly by gentlemen of the university; a nucleus of discipline, loyalty, and civilization for the whole population of cambridge. a noble work this has been, and one which may be the parent of works nobler still. it is the first instalment of, i will not say a debt, but a duty, which the universities owe to the working classes. i have tried to express in this book, what i know were, twenty years ago, the feelings of clever working men, looking upon the superior educational advantages of our class. i cannot forget, any more than the working man, that the universities were not founded exclusively, or even primarily, for our own class; that the great mass of students in the middle ages were drawn from the lower classes, and that sizarships, scholarships, exhibitions, and so forth, were founded for the sake of those classes, rather than of our own. how the case stands now, we all know. i do not blame the universities for the change. it has come about, i think, simply by competition. the change began, i should say, in the sixteenth century. then, after the wars of the roses, and the revival of letters, and the dissolution of the monasteries, the younger sons of gentlemen betook themselves to the pursuit of letters, fighting having become treasonable, and farming on a small scale difficult (perhaps owing to the introduction of large sheep-farms, which happened in those days), while no monastic orders were left to recruit the universities, as they did continually through the middle ages, from that labouring-class to which they and their scholars principally belonged. so the gentlemen's sons were free to compete against the sons of working men; and by virtue of their superior advantages they beat them out of the field. we may find through the latter half of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries, bequest after bequest for the purpose of stopping this change, and of enabling poor men's sons to enter the universities; but the tendency was too strong to be effectually resisted then. is it too strong to be resisted now? does not the increased civilization and education of the working classes call on the universities to consider whether they may not now try to become, what certainly they were meant to be, places of teaching and training for genius of every rank, and not merely for that of young gentlemen? why should not wealthy churchmen, in addition to the many good deeds in which they employ their wealth now-a-days, found fresh scholarships and exhibitions, confined to the sons of working men? if it be asked, how can they be so confined? what simpler method than that of connecting them with the national society, and bestowing them exclusively on lads who have distinguished themselves in our national schools? i believe that money spent in such a way, would be well spent both for the nation, the church, and the university. as for the introduction of such a class of lads lowering the tone of the university, i cannot believe it. there is room enough in cambridge for men of every rank. there are still, in certain colleges, owing to circumstances which i should be very sorry to see altered, a fair sprinkling of young men who, at least before they have passed through a cambridge career, would not be called well-bred. but they do not lower the tone of the university; the tone of the university raises them. wherever there is intellectual power, good manners are easily acquired; the public opinion of young men expresses itself so freely, and possibly coarsely, that priggishness and forwardness (the faults to which a clever national school pupil would be most prone) are soon hammered out of any cambridge man; and the result is, that some of the most distinguished and most popular men in cambridge, are men who have "risen from the ranks." all honour to them for having done so. but if they have succeeded so well, may there not be hundreds more in england who would succeed equally? and would it not be as just to the many, as useful to the university, in binding her to the people and the people to her, to invent some method for giving those hundreds a fair chance? i earnestly press this suggestion (especially at the present time of agitation among churchmen on the subject of education) upon the attention, not of the university itself, but of those wealthy men who wish well both to the university and to the people. not, i say, of the university: it is not from her that the proposal must come, but from her friends outside. she is doing her best with the tools which she has; fresh work will require fresh tools, and i trust that such will be some day found for her. i have now to tell those of them who may read this book, that it is not altogether out of date. those political passions, the last outburst of which it described, have, thank god, become mere matter of history by reason of the good government and the unexampled prosperity of the last twelve years: but fresh outbursts of them are always possible in a free country, whenever there is any considerable accumulation of neglects and wrongs; and meanwhile it is well--indeed it is necessary--for every student of history to know what manner of men they are who become revolutionaries, and what causes drive them to revolution; that they may judge discerningly and charitably of their fellow-men, whenever they see them rising, however madly, against the powers that be. as for the social evils described in this book, they have been much lessened in the last few years, especially by the movement for sanatory reform: but i must warn young men that they are not eradicated; that for instance, only last year, attention was called by this book to the working tailors in edinburgh, and their state was found, i am assured, to be even more miserable than that of the london men in . and i must warn them also that social evils, like dust and dirt, have a tendency to re-accumulate perpetually; so that however well this generation may have swept their house (and they have worked hard and honestly at it), the rising generation will have assuredly in twenty years' time to sweep it over again. one thing more i have to say, and that very earnestly, to the young men of cambridge. they will hear a "conservative reaction" talked of as imminent, indeed as having already begun. they will be told that this reaction is made more certain by the events now passing in north america; they will be bidden to look at the madnesses of an unbridled democracy, to draw from them some such lesson as the young spartans were to draw from the drunken helots, and to shun with horror any further attempts to enlarge the suffrage. but if they have learnt (as they should from the training of this university) accuracy of thought and language, they will not be content with such vague general terms as "conservatism" and "democracy": but will ask themselves--if this conservative reaction is at hand, what things is it likely to conserve; and still more, what ought it to conserve? if the violences and tyrannies of american democracy are to be really warnings to, then in what points does american democracy coincide with british democracy?--for so far and no farther can one be an example or warning for the other. and looking, as they probably will under the pressure of present excitement, at the latter question first, they will surely see that no real analogy would exist between american and english democracy, even were universal suffrage to be granted to-morrow. for american democracy, being merely arithmocratic, provides no representation whatsoever for the more educated and more experienced minority, and leaves the conduct of affairs to the uneducated and inexperienced many, with such results as we see. but those results are, i believe, simply impossible in a country which possesses hereditary monarchy and a house of lords, to give not only voice, but practical power to superior intelligence and experience. mr. j. s. mill, mr. stapleton, and mr. hare have urged of late the right of minorities to be represented as well as majorities, and have offered plans for giving them a fair hearing. that their demands are wise, as well as just, the present condition of the federal states proves but too painfully. but we must not forget meanwhile, that the minorities of britain are not altogether unrepresented. in a hereditary monarch who has the power to call into his counsels, private and public, the highest intellect of the land; in a house of lords not wholly hereditary, but recruited perpetually from below by the most successful (and therefore, on the whole, the most capable) personages; in a free press, conducted in all its most powerful organs by men of character and of liberal education, i see safeguards against any american tyranny of numbers, even if an enlargement of the suffrage did degrade the general tone of the house of commons as much as some expect. as long, i believe, as the throne, the house of lords, and the press, are what, thank god, they are, so long will each enlargement of the suffrage be a fresh source not of danger, but of safety; for it will bind the masses to the established order of things by that loyalty which springs from content; from the sense of being appreciated, trusted, dealt with not as children, but as men. there are those who will consider such language as this especially ill-timed just now, in the face of strikes and trades' union outrages. they point to these things as proofs of the unfitness of workmen for the suffrage; they point especially to the late abominable murder at sheffield, and ask, not without reason, would you give political power to men who would do that? now that the sheffield murder was in any wise planned or commanded by the trades' unions in general, i do not believe; nor, i think, does any one else who knows aught of the british workman. if it was not, as some of the sheffield men say, a private act of revenge, it was the act of only one or two trades' unions of that town, which are known; and their conduct has been already reprobated and denounced by the other trades' unions of england, but there is no denying that the case as against the trades' unions is a heavy one. it is notorious that they have in past years planned and commanded illegal acts of violence. it is patent that they are too apt, from a false sense of class-honour, to connive at such now, instead of being, as they ought to be, the first to denounce them. the workmen will not see, that by combining in societies for certain purposes, they make those societies responsible for the good and lawful behaviour of all their members, in all acts tending to further those purposes, and are bound to say to every man joining a trades' union: "you shall do nothing to carry out the objects which we have in view, save what is allowed by british law." they will not see that they are outraging the first principles of justice and freedom, by dictating to any man what wages he should receive, what master he shall work for, or any other condition which interferes with his rights as a free agent. but, in the face of these facts (and very painful and disappointing they are to me), i will ask the upper classes: do you believe that the average of trades' union members are capable of such villanies as that at sheffield? do you believe that the average of them are given to violence or illegal acts at all, even though they may connive at such acts in their foolish and hasty fellows, by a false class-honour, not quite unknown, i should say, in certain learned and gallant professions? do you fancy that there are not in these trades' unions, tens of thousands of loyal, respectable, rational, patient men, as worthy of the suffrage as any average borough voter? if you do so, you really know nothing about the british workman. at least, you are confounding the workman of with the workman of , and fancying that he alone, of all classes, has gained nothing by the increased education, civilization, and political experience of thirty busy and prosperous years. you are unjust to the workman; and more, you are unjust to your own class. for thirty years past, gentlemen and ladies of all shades of opinion have been labouring for and among the working classes, as no aristocracy on earth ever laboured before; and do you suppose that all that labour has been in vain? that it has bred in the working classes no increased reverence for law, no increased content with existing institutions, no increased confidence in the classes socially above them? if so, you must have as poor an opinion of the capabilities of the upper classes, as you have of those of the lower. so far from the misdoings of trades' unions being an argument against the extension of the suffrage, they are, in my opinion, an argument for it. i know that i am in a minority just now. i know that the common whisper is now, not especially of those who look for a conservative reaction, that these trades' unions must be put down by strong measures: and i confess that i hear such language with terror. punish, by all means, most severely, all individual offences against individual freedom, or personal safety; but do not interfere, surely, with the trades' unions themselves. do not try to bar these men of their right as free englishmen to combine, if they choose, for what they consider their own benefit. look upon these struggles between employers and employed as fair battles, in which, by virtue of the irreversible laws of political economy, the party who is in the right is almost certain to win; and interfere in no wise, save to see fair play, and lawful means used on both sides alike. if you do more; if you interfere in any wise with the trades' unions themselves, you will fail, and fail doubly. you will not prevent the existence of combinations: you will only make them secret, dark, revolutionary: you will demoralize the working man thereby as surely as the merchant is demoralized by being converted into a smuggler; you will heap up indignation, spite, and wrath against the day of wrath; and finally, to complete your own failure, you will drive the working man to demand an extension of the suffrage, in tones which will very certainly get a hearing. he cares, or seems to care, little about the suffrage now, just because he thinks that he can best serve his own interests by working these trades' unions. take from him that means of redress (real or mistaken, no matter); and he will seek redress in a way in which you wish him still less to seek it; by demanding a vote and obtaining one. that consummation, undesirable as it may seem to many, would perhaps be the best for the peace of the trades. these trades' unions, still tainted with some of the violence, secrecy, false political economy which they inherit from the evil times of - , last on simply, i believe, because the workman feels that they are his only organ, that he has no other means of making his wants and his opinions known to the british government. had he a vote, he believes (and i believe with him) he could send at least a few men to parliament who would state his case fairly in the house of commons, and would not only render a reason for him, but hear reason against him, if need were. he would be content with free discussion if he could get that. it is the feeling that he cannot get it that drives him often into crooked and dark ways. if any answer, that the representatives, whom he would choose would be merely noisy demagogues, i believe them to be mistaken. no one can have watched the preston strike, however much he may have disapproved, as i did, of the strike itself, without seeing from the temper, the self-restraint, the reasonableness, the chivalrous honour of the men, that they were as likely to choose a worthy member for the house of commons as any town constituency in england; no one can have watched the leaders of the working men for the last ten years without finding among them men capable of commanding the attention and respect of the house of commons, not merely by their eloquence, surprising as that is, but by their good sense, good feeling, and good breeding. some training at first, some rubbing off of angles, they might require: though two at least i know, who would require no such training, and who would be ornaments to any house of commons; the most inexperienced of the rest would not give the house one-tenth the trouble which is given by a certain clique among the representatives of the sister isle; and would, moreover, learn his lesson in a week, instead of never learning it at all, like some we know too well. yet catholic emancipation has pacified ireland, though it has brought into the house an inferior stamp of members: and much more surely would an extension of the suffrage pacify the trades, while it would bring into the house a far superior stamp of member to those who compose the clique of which i have spoken. but why, i hear some one say impatiently, talk about this subject of all others at this moment, when nobody, not even the working classes, cares about a reform bill? because i am speaking to young men, who have not yet entered public life; and because i wish them to understand, that just because the question of parliamentary reform is in abeyance now, it will not be in abeyance ten years or twenty years hence. the question will be revived, ere they are in the maturity of their manhood; and they had best face that certain prospect, and learn to judge wisely and accurately on the subject, before they are called on, as they will be, to act upon it. if it be true that the present generation has done all that it can do, or intends to do, towards the suffrage (and i have that confidence in our present rulers, that i would submit without murmuring to their decision on the point), it is all the more incumbent on the rising generation to learn how to do (as assuredly they will have to do) the work which their fathers have left undone. the question may remain long in abeyance, under the influence of material prosperity such as the present; or under the excitement of a war, as in pitt's time; but let a period of distress or disaster come, and it will be re-opened as of yore. the progress towards institutions more and more popular may be slow, but it is sure. whenever any class has conceived the hope of being fairly represented, it is certain to fulfil its own hopes, unless it employs, or provokes, violence impossible in england. the thing will be. let the young men of britain take care that it is done rightly when it is done. and how ought it to be done? that will depend upon any circumstances now future and uncertain. it will depend upon the pace at which sound education spreads among the working classes. it will depend, too, very much--i fear only too much--upon the attitude of the upper classes to the lower, in this very question of trades' unions and of strikes. it will depend upon their attitude toward the unrepresented classes during the next few years, upon this very question of extended suffrage. and, therefore, i should advise, i had almost said entreat, any young men over whom i have any influence, to read and think freely and accurately upon the subject; taking, if i may propose to them a text-book, mr. mill's admirable treatise on "representative government." as for any theory of my own, if i had one i should not put it forward. how it will not be done, i can see clearly enough. it will not be done well by the old charter. it will not be done well by merely lowering the money qualification of electors. but it may be done well by other methods beside; and i can trust the freedom and soundness of the english mind to discover the best method of all, when it is needed. let therefore this "conservative reaction" which i suspect is going on in the minds of many young men at cambridge, consider what it has to conserve. it is not asked to conserve the throne. that, thank god, can take good care of itself. let it conserve the house of lords; and that will be conserved, just in proportion as the upper classes shall copy the virtues of royalty; both of him who is taken from us, and of her who is left. let the upper classes learn from them, that the just and wise method of strengthening their political power, is to labour after that social power, which comes only by virtue and usefulness. let them make themselves, as the present sovereign has made herself, morally necessary to the people; and then there is no fear of their being found politically unnecessary. no other course is before them, if they wish to make their "conservative reaction" a permanent, even an endurable fact. if any young gentlemen fancy (and some do) that they can strengthen their class by making any secret alliance with the throne against the masses, then they will discover rapidly that the sovereigns of the house of brunswick are grown far too wise, and far too noble-hearted, to fall once more into that trap. if any of them (and some do) fancy that they can better their position by sneering, whether in public or in their club, at a reformed house of commons and a free press, they will only accelerate the results which they most dread, by forcing the ultra-liberal party of the house, and, what is even worse, the most intellectual and respectable portion of the press, to appeal to the people against them; and if again they are tempted (as too many of them are) to give up public life as becoming too vulgar for them, and prefer ease and pleasure to the hard work and plain-speaking of the house of commons; then they will simply pay the same penalty for laziness and fastidiousness which has been paid by the spanish aristocracy; and will discover that if they think their intellect unnecessary to the nation, the nation will rapidly become of the same opinion, and go its own way without them. but if they are willing to make themselves, as they easily can, the best educated, the most trustworthy, the most virtuous, the most truly liberal-minded class of the commonweal; if they will set themselves to study the duties of rank and property, as of a profession to which they are called by god, and the requirements of which they must fulfil; if they will acquire, as they can easily, a sound knowledge both of political economy, and of the social questions of the day; if they will be foremost with their personal influence in all good works; if they will set themselves to compete on equal terms with the classes below them, and, as they may, outrival them: then they will find that those classes will receive them not altogether on equal terms; that they will accede to them a superiority, undefined perhaps, but real and practical enough to conserve their class and their rank, in every article for which a just and prudent man would wish. but if any young gentlemen look forward (as i fear a few do still) to a conservative reaction of any other kind than this; to even the least return to the tory maxims and methods of george the fourth's time; to even the least stoppage of what the world calls progress--which i should define as the putting in practice the results of inductive science; then do they, like king picrochole in rabelais, look for a kingdom which shall be restored to them at the coming of the cocqcigrues. the cocqcigrues are never coming; and none know that better than the present able and moderate leaders of the conservative party; none will be more anxious to teach that fact to their young adherents, and to make them swim with the great stream, lest it toss them contemptuously ashore upon its banks, and go on its way unheeding. return to the system of -- , is, i thank god, impossible. even though men's hearts should fail them, they must onward, they know not whither: though god does know. the bigot, who believes in a system, and not in the living god; the sentimentalist, who shrinks from facts because they are painful to his taste; the sluggard, who hates a change because it disturbs his ease; the simply stupid person, who cannot use his eyes and ears; all these may cry feebly to the world to do what it has never done since its creation--stand still awhile, that they may get their breaths. but the brave and honest gentleman--who believes that god is not the tempter and deceiver, but the father and the educator of man--he will not shrink, even though the pace may be at moments rapid, the path be at moments hid by mist; for he will believe that freedom and knowledge, as well as virtue, are the daughters of the most high; and he will follow them and call on the rest to follow them, whithersoever they may lead; and will take heart for himself and for his class, by the example of that great prince who is of late gone home. for if, like that most royal soul, he and his shall follow with single eye and steadfast heart, freedom, knowledge, and virtue; then will he and his be safe, as royalty is safe in england now; because both god and man have need thereof. preface. _written in ._ addressed to the working men of great britain. my friends,--since i wrote this book five years ago, i have seen a good deal of your class, and of their prospects. much that i have seen has given me great hope; much has disappointed me; nothing has caused me to alter the opinions here laid down. much has given me hope; especially in the north of england. i believe that there, at least, exists a mass of prudence, self-control, genial and sturdy manhood, which will be england's reserve-force for generations yet to come. the last five years, moreover, have certainly been years of progress for the good cause. the great drag upon it--namely, demagogism--has crumbled to pieces of its own accord; and seems now only to exhibit itself in anilities like those of the speakers who inform a mob of boys and thieves that wheat has lately been thrown into the thames to keep up prices, or advise them to establish, by means hitherto undiscovered, national granaries, only possible under the despotism of a pharaoh. since the th of april, (one of the most lucky days which the english workman ever saw), the trade of the mob-orator has dwindled down to such last shifts as these, to which the working man sensibly seems merely to answer, as he goes quietly about his business, "why will you still keep talking, signor benedick? nobody marks you." but the th of april, , has been a beneficial crisis, not merely in the temper of the working men, so called, but in the minds of those who are denominated by them "the aristocracy." there is no doubt that the classes possessing property have been facing, since , all social questions with an average of honesty, earnestness, and good feeling which has no parallel since the days of the tudors, and that hundreds and thousands of "gentlemen and ladies" in great britain now are saying, "show what we ought to do to be just to the workman, and we will do it, whatsoever it costs." they may not be always correct (though they generally are so) in their conceptions of what ought to be done; but their purpose is good and righteous; and those who hold it are daily increasing in number. the love of justice and mercy toward the handicraftsman is spreading rapidly as it never did before in any nation upon earth; and if any man still represents the holders of property, as a class, as the enemies of those whom they employ, desiring their slavery and their ignorance, i believe that he is a liar and a child of the devil, and that he is at his father's old work, slandering and dividing between man and man. these words may be severe: but they are deliberate; and working men are, i hope, sufficiently accustomed to hear me call a spade a spade, when i am pleading for them, to allow me to do the same when i am pleading to them. of the disappointing experiences which i have had i shall say nothing, save in as far as i can, by alluding to them, point out to the working man the causes which still keep him weak: but i am bound to say that those disappointments have strengthened my conviction that this book, in the main, speaks the truth. i do not allude, of course, to the thoughts, and feelings of the hero. they are compounded of right and wrong, and such as i judged (and working men whom i am proud to number among my friends have assured me that i judged rightly) that a working man of genius would feel during the course of his self-education. these thoughts and feelings (often inconsistent and contradictory to each other), stupid or careless, or ill-willed persons, have represented as my own opinions, having, as it seems to me, turned the book upside down before they began to read it. i am bound to pay the working men, and their organs in the press, the compliment of saying that no such misrepresentations proceeded from them. however deeply some of them may have disagreed with me, all of them, as far as i have been able to judge, had sense to see what i meant; and so, also, have the organs of the high-church party, to whom, differing from them on many points, i am equally bound to offer my thanks for their fairness. but, indeed, the way in which this book, in spite of its crudities, has been received by persons of all ranks and opinions, who instead of making me an offender for a word, have taken the book heartily and honestly, in the spirit and not in the letter, has made me most hopeful for the british mind, and given me a strong belief that, in spite of all foppery, luxury, covetousness, and unbelief, the english heart is still strong and genial, able and willing to do and suffer great things, as soon as the rational way of doing and suffering them becomes plain. had i written this book merely to please my own fancy, this would be a paltry criterion, at once illogical and boastful; but i wrote it, god knows, in the fear of god, that i might speak what seems to me the truth of god. i trusted in him to justify me, in spite of my own youth, inexperience, hastiness, clumsiness; and he has done it; and, i trust, will do it to the end. and now, what shall i say to you, my friends, about the future? your destiny is still in your own hands. for the last seven years you have let it slip through your fingers. if you are better off than you were in , you owe it principally to those laws of political economy (as they are called), which i call the brute natural accidents of supply and demand, or to the exertions which have been made by upright men of the very classes whom demagogues taught you to consider as your natural enemies. pardon me if i seem severe; but, as old aristotle has it, "both parties being my friends, it is a sacred duty to honour truth first." and is this not the truth? how little have the working men done to carry out that idea of association in which, in - , they were all willing to confess their salvation lay. had the money which was wasted in the hapless preston strike been wisely spent in relieving the labour market by emigration, or in making wages more valuable by enabling the workman to buy from co-operative stores and mills his necessaries at little above cost price, how much sorrow and heart-burning might have been saved to the iron-trades. had the real english endurance and courage which was wasted in that strike been employed in the cause of association, the men might have been, ere now, far happier than they are ever likely to be, without the least injury to the masters. what, again, has been done toward developing the organization of the trades' unions into its true form, association for distribution, from its old, useless, and savage form of association for the purpose of resistance to masters--a war which is at first sight hopeless, even were it just, because the opposite party holds in his hand the supplies of his foe as well as his own, and therefore can starve him out at his leisure? what has been done, again, toward remedying the evils of the slop system, which this book especially exposed? the true method for the working men, if they wished to save their brothers and their brothers' wives and daughters from degradation, was to withdraw their custom from the slopsellers, and to deal, even at a temporary increase of price, with associate workmen. have they done so? they can answer for themselves. in london (as in the country towns), the paltry temptation of buying in the cheapest market has still been too strong for the labouring man. in scotland and in the north of england, thank god, the case has been very different; and to the north i must look still, as i did when i wrote alton locke, for the strong men in whose hands lies the destiny of the english handicraftsman. god grant that the workmen of the south of england may bestir themselves ere it be too late, and discover that the only defence against want is self-restraint; the only defence against slavery, obedience to rule; and that, instead of giving themselves up, bound hand and foot, by their own fancy for a "freedom" which is but selfish and conceited license, to the brute accidents of the competitive system, they may begin to organize among themselves associations for buying and selling the necessaries of life, which may enable them to weather the dark season of high prices and stagnation, which is certain sooner or later, to follow in the footsteps of war. on politics i have little to say. my belief remains unchanged that true christianity, and true monarchy also, are not only compatible with, but require as their necessary complement, true freedom for every man of every class; and that the charter, now defunct, was just as wise and as righteous a "reform bill" as any which england had yet had, or was likely to have. but i frankly say that my experience of the last five years gives me little hope of any great development of the true democratic principle in britain, because it gives me little sign that the many are fit for it. remember always that democracy means a government not merely by numbers of isolated individuals, but by a demos--by men accustomed to live in demoi, or corporate bodies, and accustomed, therefore, to the self-control, obedience to law, and self-sacrificing public spirit, without which a corporate body cannot exist: but that a "democracy" of mere numbers is no democracy, but a mere brute "arithmocracy," which is certain to degenerate into an "ochlocracy," or government by the mob, in which the numbers have no real share: an oligarchy of the fiercest, the noisiest, the rashest, and the most shameless, which is surely swallowed up either by a despotism, as in france, or as in athens, by utter national ruin, and helpless slavery to a foreign invader. let the workmen of britain train themselves in the corporate spirit, and in the obedience and self-control which it brings, as they easily can in associations, and bear in mind always that _only he who can obey is fit to rule_; and then, when they are fit for it, the charter may come, or things, i trust, far better than the charter; and till they have done so, let them thank the just and merciful heavens for keeping out of their hands any power, and for keeping off their shoulders any responsibility, which they would not be able to use aright. i thank god heartily, this day, that i have no share in the government of great britain; and i advise my working friends to do the same, and to believe that, when they are fit to take their share therein, all the powers of earth cannot keep them from taking it; and that, till then, happy is the man who does the duty which lies nearest him, who educates his family, raises his class, performs his daily work as to god and to his country, not merely to his employer and himself; for it is only he that is faithful over a few things who will be made, or will be happy in being made, ruler over many things. yours ever, c. k. alton locke, tailor and poet. chapter i. a poet's childhood. i am a cockney among cockneys. italy and the tropics, the highlands and devonshire, i know only in dreams. even the surrey hills, of whose loveliness i have heard so much, are to me a distant fairy-land, whose gleaming ridges i am worthy only to behold afar. with the exception of two journeys, never to be forgotten, my knowledge of england is bounded by the horizon which encircles richmond hill. my earliest recollections are of a suburban street; of its jumble of little shops and little terraces, each exhibiting some fresh variety of capricious ugliness; the little scraps of garden before the doors, with their dusty, stunted lilacs and balsam poplars, were my only forests; my only wild animals, the dingy, merry sparrows, who quarrelled fearlessly on my window-sill, ignorant of trap or gun. from my earliest childhood, through long nights of sleepless pain, as the midnight brightened into dawn, and the glaring lamps grew pale, i used to listen, with pleasant awe, to the ceaseless roll of the market-waggons, bringing up to the great city the treasures of the gay green country, the land of fruits and flowers, for which i have yearned all my life in vain. they seemed to my boyish fancy mysterious messengers from another world: the silent, lonely night, in which they were the only moving things, added to the wonder. i used to get out of bed to gaze at them, and envy the coarse men and sluttish women who attended them, their labour among verdant plants and rich brown mould, on breezy slopes, under god's own clear sky. i fancied that they learnt what i knew i should have learnt there; i knew not then that "the eye only sees that which it brings with it the power of seeing." when will their eyes be opened? when will priests go forth into the highways and the hedges, and preach to the ploughman and the gipsy the blessed news, that there too, in every thicket and fallow-field, is the house of god,--there, too, the gate of heaven? i do not complain that i am a cockney. that, too, is god's gift. he made me one, that i might learn to feel for poor wretches who sit stifled in reeking garrets and workrooms, drinking in disease with every breath,--bound in their prison-house of brick and iron, with their own funeral pall hanging over them, in that canopy of fog and poisonous smoke, from their cradle to their grave. i have drunk of the cup of which they drink. and so i have learnt--if, indeed, i have learnt--to be a poet--a poet of the people. that honour, surely, was worth buying with asthma, and rickets, and consumption, and weakness, and--worst of all to me--with ugliness. it was god's purpose about me; and, therefore, all circumstances combined to imprison me in london. i used once, when i worshipped circumstance, to fancy it my curse, fate's injustice to me, which kept me from developing my genius, asserting my rank among poets. i longed to escape to glorious italy, or some other southern climate, where natural beauty would have become the very element which i breathed; and yet, what would have come of that? should i not, as nobler spirits than i have done, have idled away my life in elysian dreams, singing out like a bird into the air, inarticulately, purposeless, for mere joy and fulness of heart; and taking no share in the terrible questionings, the terrible strugglings of this great, awful, blessed time--feeling no more the pulse of the great heart of england stirring me? i used, as i said, to call it the curse of circumstance that i was a sickly, decrepit cockney. my mother used to tell me that it was the cross which god had given me to bear. i know now that she was right there. she used to say that my disease was god's will. i do not think, though, that she spoke right there also. i think that it was the will of the world and of the devil, of man's avarice and laziness and ignorance. and so would my readers, perhaps, had they seen the shop in the city where i was born and nursed, with its little garrets reeking with human breath, its kitchens and areas with noisome sewers. a sanitary reformer would not be long in guessing the cause of my unhealthiness. he would not rebuke me--nor would she, sweet soul! now that she is at rest and bliss--for my wild longings to escape, for my envying the very flies and sparrows their wings that i might flee miles away into the country, and breathe the air of heaven once, and die. i have had my wish. i have made two journeys far away into the country, and they have been enough for me. my mother was a widow. my father, whom i cannot recollect, was a small retail tradesman in the city. he was unfortunate; and when he died, my mother came down, and lived penuriously enough, i knew not how till i grew older, down in that same suburban street. she had been brought up an independent. after my father's death she became a baptist, from conscientious scruples. she considered the baptists, as i do, as the only sect who thoroughly embody the calvinistic doctrines. she held it, as i do, an absurd and impious thing for those who believe mankind to be children of the devil till they have been consciously "converted," to baptise unconscious infants and give them the sign of god's mercy on the mere chance of that mercy being intended for them. when god had proved by converting them, that they were not reprobate and doomed to hell by his absolute and eternal will, then, and not till then, dare man baptise them into his name. she dared not palm a presumptuous fiction on herself, and call it "charity." so, though we had both been christened during my father's lifetime, she purposed to have us rebaptised, if ever that happened--which, in her sense of the word, never happened, i am afraid, to me. she gloried in her dissent; for she was sprung from old puritan blood, which had flowed again and again beneath the knife of star-chamber butchers, and on the battle-fields of naseby and sedgemoor. and on winter evenings she used to sit with her bible on her knee, while i and my little sister susan stood beside her and listened to the stories of gideon and barak, and samson and jephthah, till her eye kindled up, and her thoughts passed forth from that old hebrew time home into those english times which she fancied, and not untruly, like them. and we used to shudder, and yet listen with a strange fascination, as she told us how her ancestor called his seven sons off their small cambridge farm, and horsed and armed them himself to follow behind cromwell, and smite kings and prelates with "the sword of the lord and of gideon." whether she were right or wrong, what is it to me? what is it now to her, thank god? but those stories, and the strict, stern puritan education, learnt from the independents and not the baptists, which accompanied them, had their effect on me, for good and ill. my mother moved by rule and method; by god's law, as she considered, and that only. she seldom smiled. her word was absolute. she never commanded twice, without punishing. and yet there were abysses of unspoken tenderness in her, as well as clear, sound, womanly sense and insight. but she thought herself as much bound to keep down all tenderness as if she had been some ascetic of the middle ages--so do extremes meet! it was "carnal," she considered. she had as yet no right to have any "spiritual affection" for us. we were still "children of wrath and of the devil,"--not yet "convinced of sin," "converted, born again." she had no more spiritual bond with us, she thought, than she had with a heathen or a papist. she dared not even pray for our conversion, earnestly as she prayed on every other subject. for though the majority of her sect would have done so, her clear logical sense would yield to no such tender inconsistency. had it not been decided from all eternity? we were elect, or we were reprobate. could her prayers alter that? if he had chosen us, he would call us in his own good time: and, if not,--. only again and again, as i afterwards discovered from a journal of hers, she used to beseech god with agonized tears to set her mind at rest by revealing to her his will towards us. for that comfort she could at least rationally pray. but she received no answer. poor, beloved mother! if thou couldst not read the answer, written in every flower and every sunbeam, written in the very fact of our existence here at all, what answer would have sufficed thee. and yet, with all this, she kept the strictest watch over our morality. fear, of course, was the only motive she employed; for how could our still carnal understandings be affected with love to god? and love to herself was too paltry and temporary to be urged by one who knew that her life was uncertain, and who was always trying to go down to the deepest eternal ground and reason of everything, and take her stand upon that. so our god, or gods rather, till we were twelve years old, were hell, the rod, the ten commandments, and public opinion. yet under them, not they, but something deeper far, both in her and us, preserved us pure. call it natural character, conformation of the spirit,--conformation of the brain, if you like, if you are a scientific man and a phrenologist. i never yet could dissect and map out my own being, or my neighbour's, as you analysts do. to me, i myself, ay, and each person round me, seem one inexplicable whole; to take away a single faculty whereof, is to destroy the harmony, the meaning, the life of all the rest. that there is a duality in us--a lifelong battle between flesh and spirit--we all, alas! know well enough; but which is flesh and which is spirit, what philosophers in these days can tell us? still less bad we two found out any such duality or discord in ourselves; for we were gentle and obedient children. the pleasures of the world did not tempt us. we did not know of their existence; and no foundlings educated in a nunnery ever grew up in a more virginal and spotless innocence--if ignorance be such--than did susan and i. the narrowness of my sphere of observation only concentrated the faculty into greater strength. the few natural objects which i met--and they, of course, constituted my whole outer world (for art and poetry were tabooed both by my rank and my mother's sectarianism, and the study of human beings only develops itself as the boy grows into the man)--these few natural objects, i say, i studied with intense keenness. i knew every leaf and flower in the little front garden; every cabbage and rhubarb plant in battersea fields was wonderful and beautiful to me. clouds and water i learned to delight in, from my occasional lingerings on battersea bridge, and yearning westward looks toward the sun setting above rich meadows and wooded gardens, to me a forbidden el dorado. i brought home wild-flowers and chance beetles and butterflies, and pored over them, not in the spirit of a naturalist, but of a poet. they were to me god's angels shining in coats of mail and fairy masquerading dresses. i envied them their beauty, their freedom. at last i made up my mind, in the simple tenderness of a child's conscience, that it was wrong to rob them of the liberty for which i pined,--to take them away from the beautiful broad country whither i longed to follow them; and i used to keep them a day or two, and then, regretfully, carry them back, and set them loose on the first opportunity, with many compunctions of heart, when, as generally happened, they had been starved to death in the mean time. they were my only recreations after the hours of the small day-school at the neighbouring chapel, where i learnt to read, write, and sum; except, now and then, a london walk, with my mother holding my hand tight the whole way. she would have hoodwinked me, stopped my ears with cotton, and led me in a string,--kind, careful soul!--if it had been reasonably safe on a crowded pavement, so fearful was she lest i should be polluted by some chance sight or sound of the babylon which she feared and hated--almost as much as she did the bishops. the only books which i knew were the pilgrim's progress and the bible. the former was my shakespeare, my dante, my vedas, by which i explained every fact and phenomenon of life. london was the city of destruction, from which i was to flee; i was christian; the wicket of the way of life i had strangely identified with the turnpike at battersea-bridge end; and the rising ground of mortlake and wimbledon was the land of beulah--the enchanted mountains of the shepherds. if i could once get there i was saved: a carnal view, perhaps, and a childish one; but there was a dim meaning and human reality in it nevertheless. as for the bible, i knew nothing of it really, beyond the old testament. indeed, the life of christ had little chance of becoming interesting to me. my mother had given me formally to understand that it spoke of matters too deep for me; that "till converted, the natural man could not understand the things of god": and i obtained little more explanation of it from the two unintelligible, dreary sermons to which i listened every dreary sunday, in terror lest a chance shuffle of my feet, or a hint of drowsiness,--natural result of the stifling gallery and glaring windows and gas lights,--should bring down a lecture and a punishment when i returned home. oh, those "sabbaths!"--days, not of rest, but utter weariness, when the beetles and the flowers were put by, and there was nothing to fill up the long vacuity but books of which i could not understand a word: when play, laughter, or even a stare out of window at the sinful, merry, sabbath-breaking promenaders, were all forbidden, as if the commandment had run, "in it thou shalt take no manner of amusement, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter." by what strange ascetic perversion has _that_ got to mean "keeping holy the sabbath-day"? yet there was an hour's relief in the evening, when either my mother told us old testament stories, or some preacher or two came in to supper after meeting; and i used to sit in the corner and listen to their talk; not that i understood a word, but the mere struggle to understand--the mere watching my mother's earnest face--my pride in the reverent flattery with which the worthy men addressed her as "a mother in israel," were enough to fill up the blank for me till bed-time. of "vital christianity" i heard much; but, with all my efforts, could find out nothing. indeed, it did not seem interesting enough to tempt me to find out much. it seemed a set of doctrines, believing in which was to have a magical effect on people, by saving them from the everlasting torture due to sins and temptations which i had never felt. now and then, believing, in obedience to my mother's assurances, and the solemn prayers of the ministers about me, that i was a child of hell, and a lost and miserable sinner, i used to have accesses of terror, and fancy that i should surely wake next morning in everlasting flames. once i put my finger a moment into the fire, as certain papists, and protestants too, have done, not only to themselves, but to their disciples, to see if it would be so very dreadfully painful; with what conclusions the reader may judge.... still, i could not keep up the excitement. why should i? the fear of pain is not the fear of sin, that i know of; and, indeed, the thing was unreal altogether in my case, and my heart, my common sense, rebelled against it again and again; till at last i got a terrible whipping for taking my little sister's part, and saying that if she was to die,--so gentle, and obedient, and affectionate as she was,--god would be very unjust in sending her to hell-fire, and that i was quite certain he would do no such thing--unless he were the devil: an opinion which i have since seen no reason to change. the confusion between the king of hell and the king of heaven has cleared up, thank god, since then! so i was whipped and put to bed--the whipping altering my secret heart just about as much as the dread of hell-fire did. i speak as a christian man--an orthodox churchman (if you require that shibboleth). was i so very wrong? what was there in the idea of religion which was represented to me at home to captivate me? what was the use of a child's hearing of "god's great love manifested in the scheme of redemption," when he heard, in the same breath, that the effects of that redemption were practically confined only to one human being out of a thousand, and that the other nine hundred and ninety-nine were lost and damned from their birth-hour to all eternity--not only by the absolute will and reprobation of god (though that infernal blasphemy i heard often enough), but also, putting that out of the question, by the mere fact of being born of adam's race? and this to a generation to whom god's love shines out in every tree and flower and hedge-side bird; to whom the daily discoveries of science are revealing that love in every microscopic animalcule which peoples the stagnant pool! this to working men, whose craving is only for some idea which shall give equal hopes, claims, and deliverances, to all mankind alike! this to working men, who, in the smiles of their innocent children, see the heaven which they have lost--the messages of baby-cherubs, made in god's own image! this to me, to whom every butterfly, every look at my little sister, contradicted the lie! you may say that such thoughts were too deep for a child; that i am ascribing to my boyhood the scepticism of my manhood; but it is not so; and what went on in my mind goes on in the minds of thousands. it is the cause of the contempt into which not merely sectarian protestantism, but christianity altogether, has fallen in the minds of the thinking workmen. clergymen, who anathematize us for wandering into unitarianism--you, you have driven us thither. you must find some explanation of the facts of christianity more in accordance with the truths which we do know, and will live and die for, or you can never hope to make us christians; or, if we do return to the true fold, it will be as i returned, after long, miserable years of darkling error, to a higher truth than most of you have yet learned to preach. but those old jewish heroes did fill my whole heart and soul. i learnt from them lessons which i never wish to unlearn. whatever else i saw about them, this i saw,--that they were patriots, deliverers from that tyranny and injustice from which the child's heart,--"child of the devil" though you may call him,--instinctively, and, as i believe, by a divine inspiration, revolts. moses leading his people out of egypt; gideon, barak, and samson, slaying their oppressors; david, hiding in the mountains from the tyrant, with his little band of those who had fled from the oppressions of an aristocracy of nabals; jehu, executing god's vengeance on the kings--they were my heroes, my models; they mixed themselves up with the dim legends about the reformation martyrs, cromwell and hampden, sidney and monmouth, which i had heard at my mother's knee. not that the perennial oppression of the masses, in all ages and countries, had yet risen on me as an awful, torturing, fixed idea. i fancied, poor fool! that tyranny was the exception, and not the rule. but it was the mere sense of abstract pity and justice which was delighted in me. i thought that these were old fairy tales, such as never need be realized again. i learnt otherwise in after years. i have often wondered since, why all cannot read the same lesson as i did in those old hebrew scriptures--that they, of all books in the world, have been wrested into proofs of the divine right of kings, the eternal necessity of slavery! but the eye only sees what it brings with it the power of seeing. the upper classes, from their first day at school, to their last day at college, read of nothing but the glories of salamis and marathon, of freedom and of the old republics. and what comes of it? no more than their tutors know will come of it, when they thrust into the boys' hands books which give the lie in every page to their own political superstitions. but when i was just turned of thirteen, an altogether new fairy-land was opened to me by some missionary tracts and journals, which were lent to my mother by the ministers. pacific coral islands and volcanoes, cocoa-nut groves and bananas, graceful savages with paint and feathers--what an el dorado! how i devoured them and dreamt of them, and went there in fancy, and preached small sermons as i lay in my bed at night to tahitians and new zealanders, though i confess my spiritual eyes were, just as my physical eyes would have been, far more busy with the scenery than with the souls of my audience. however, that was the place for me, i saw clearly. and one day, i recollect it well, in the little dingy, foul, reeking, twelve foot square back-yard, where huge smoky party-walls shut out every breath of air and almost all the light of heaven, i had climbed up between the water-butt and the angle of the wall for the purpose of fishing out of the dirty fluid which lay there, crusted with soot and alive with insects, to be renewed only three times in the seven days, some of the great larvæ and kicking monsters which made up a large item in my list of wonders: all of a sudden the horror of the place came over me; those grim prison-walls above, with their canopy of lurid smoke; the dreary, sloppy, broken pavement; the horrible stench of the stagnant cesspools; the utter want of form, colour, life, in the whole place, crushed me down, without my being able to analyse my feelings as i can now; and then came over me that dream of pacific islands, and the free, open sea; and i slid down from my perch, and bursting into tears threw myself upon my knees in the court, and prayed aloud to god to let me be a missionary. half fearfully i let out my wishes to my mother when she came home. she gave me no answer; but, as i found out afterwards,--too late, alas! for her, if not for me,--she, like mary, had "laid up all these things, and treasured them in her heart." you may guess, then, my delight when, a few days afterwards, i heard that a real live missionary was coming to take tea with us. a man who had actually been in new zealand!--the thought was rapture. i painted him to myself over and over again; and when, after the first burst of fancy, i recollected that he might possibly not have adopted the native costume of that island, or, if he had, that perhaps it would look too strange for him to wear it about london, i settled within myself that he was to be a tall, venerable-looking man, like the portraits of old puritan divines which adorned our day-room; and as i had heard that "he was powerful in prayer," i adorned his right hand with that mystic weapon "all-prayer," with which christian, when all other means have failed, finally vanquishes the fiend--which instrument, in my mind, was somewhat after the model of an infernal sort of bill or halbert--all hooks, edges, spikes, and crescents--which i had passed, shuddering, once, in the hand of an old suit of armour in wardour street. he came--and with him the two ministers who often drank tea with my mother; both of whom, as they played some small part in the drama of my after-life, i may as well describe here. the elder was a little, sleek, silver-haired old man, with a blank, weak face, just like a white rabbit. he loved me, and i loved him too, for there were always lollipops in his pocket for me and susan. had his head been equal to his heart!--but what has been was to be--and the dissenting clergy, with a few noble exceptions among the independents, are not the strong men of the day--none know that better than the workmen. the old man's name was bowyer. the other, mr. wigginton, was a younger man; tall, grim, dark, bilious, with a narrow forehead, retreating suddenly from his eyebrows up to a conical peak of black hair over his ears. he preached "higher doctrine," _i.e._, more fatalist and antinomian than his gentler colleague,--and, having also a stentorian voice, was much the greater favourite at the chapel. i hated him--and if any man ever deserved hatred, he did. well, they came. my heart was in my mouth as i opened the door to them, and sank back again to the very lowest depths of my inner man when my eyes fell on the face and figure of the missionary--a squat, red-faced, pig-eyed, low-browed man, with great soft lips that opened back to his very ears: sensuality, conceit, and cunning marked on every feature--an innate vulgarity, from which the artisan and the child recoil with an instinct as true, perhaps truer, than that of the courtier, showing itself in every tone and motion--i shrank into a corner, so crestfallen that i could not even exert myself to hand round the bread and butter, for which i got duly scolded afterwards. oh! that man!--how he bawled and contradicted, and laid down the law, and spoke to my mother in a fondling, patronizing way, which made me, i knew not why, boil over with jealousy and indignation. how he filled his teacup half full of the white sugar to buy which my mother had curtailed her yesterday's dinner--how he drained the few remaining drops of the threepennyworth of cream, with which susan was stealing off to keep it as an unexpected treat for my mother at breakfast the next morning--how he talked of the natives, not as st. paul might of his converts, but as a planter might of his slaves; overlaying all his unintentional confessions of his own greed and prosperity, with cant, flimsy enough for even a boy to see through, while his eyes were not blinded with the superstition that a man must be pious who sufficiently interlards his speech with a jumble of old english picked out of our translation of the new testament. such was the man i saw. i don't deny that all are not like him. i believe there are noble men of all denominations, doing their best according to their light, all over the world; but such was the one i saw--and the men who were sent home to plead the missionary cause, whatever the men may be like who stay behind and work, are, from my small experience, too often such. it appears to me to be the rule that many of those who go abroad as missionaries, go simply because they are men of such inferior powers and attainments that if they stayed in england they would starve. three parts of his conversation, after all, was made up of abuse of the missionaries of the church of england, not for doing nothing, but for being so much more successful than his own sect; accusing them, in the same breath, of being just of the inferior type of which he was himself, and also of being mere university fine gentlemen. really, i do not wonder, upon his own showing, at the savages preferring them to him; and i was pleased to hear the old white-headed minister gently interpose at the end of one of his tirades--"we must not be jealous, my brother, if the establishment has discovered what we, i hope, shall find out some day, that it is not wise to draft our missionaries from the offscouring of the ministry, and serve god with that which costs us nothing except the expense of providing for them beyond seas." there was somewhat of a roguish twinkle in the old man's eye as he said it, which emboldened me to whisper a question to him. "why is it, sir, that in olden times the heathens used to crucify the missionaries and burn them, and now they give them beautiful farms, and build them houses, and carry them about on their backs?" the old man seemed a little puzzled, and so did the company, to whom he smilingly retailed my question. as nobody seemed inclined to offer a solution, i ventured one myself. "perhaps the heathens are grown better than they used to be?" "the heart of man," answered the tall, dark minister, "is, and ever was, equally at enmity with god." "then, perhaps," i ventured again, "what the missionaries preach now is not quite the same as what the missionaries used to preach in st. paul's time, and so the heathens are not so angry at it?" my mother looked thunder at me, and so did all except my white-headed friend, who said, gently enough, "it may be that the child's words come from god." whether they did or not, the child took very good care to speak no more words till he was alone with his mother; and then finished off that disastrous evening by a punishment for the indecency of saying, before his little sister, that he thought it "a great pity the missionaries taught black people to wear ugly coats and trousers; they must have looked so much handsomer running about with nothing on but feathers and strings of shells." so the missionary dream died out of me, by a foolish and illogical antipathy enough; though, after all, it was a child of my imagination only, not of my heart; and the fancy, having bred it, was able to kill it also. and david became my ideal. to be a shepherd-boy, and sit among beautiful mountains, and sing hymns of my own making, and kill lions and bears, with now and then the chance of a stray giant--what a glorious life! and if david slew giants with a sling and a stone, why should not i?--at all events, one ought to know how; so i made a sling out of an old garter and some string, and began to practise in the little back-yard. but my first shot broke a neighbour's window, value sevenpence, and the next flew back in my face, and cut my head open; so i was sent supperless to bed for a week, till the sevenpence had been duly saved out of my hungry stomach--and, on the whole, i found the hymn-writing side of david's character the more feasible; so i tried, and with much brains-beating, committed the following lines to a scrap of dirty paper. and it was strangely significant, that in this, my first attempt, there was an instinctive denial of the very doctrine of "particular redemption," which i had been hearing all my life, and an instinctive yearning after the very being in whom i had been told i had "no part nor lot" till i was "converted." here they are. i am not ashamed to call them--doggerel though they be--an inspiration from him of whom they speak. if not from him, good readers, from whom? jesus, he loves one and all; jesus, he loves children small; their souls are sitting round his feet, on high, before his mercy-seat. when on earth he walked in shame, children small unto him came; at his feet they knelt and prayed, on their heads his hands he laid. came a spirit on them then, greater than of mighty men; a spirit gentle, meek, and mild, a spirit good for king and child. oh! that spirit give to me, jesus, lord, where'er i be! so-- but i did not finish them, not seeing very clearly what to do with that spirit when i obtained it; for, indeed, it seemed a much finer thing to fight material apollyons with material swords of iron, like my friend christian, or to go bear and lion hunting with david, than to convert heathens by meekness--at least, if true meekness was at all like that of the missionary whom i had lately seen. i showed the verses in secret to my little sister. my mother heard us singing them together, and extorted, grimly enough, a confession of the authorship. i expected to be punished for them (i was accustomed weekly to be punished for all sorts of deeds and words, of the harmfulness of which i had not a notion). it was, therefore, an agreeable surprise when the old minister, the next sunday evening, patted my head, and praised me for them. "a hopeful sign of young grace, brother," said he to the dark tall man. "may we behold here an infant timothy!" "bad doctrine, brother, in that first line--bad doctrine, which i am sure he did not learn from our excellent sister here. remember, my boy, henceforth, that jesus does _not_ love one and all--not that i am angry with you. the carnal mind cannot be expected to understand divine things, any more than the beasts that perish. nevertheless, the blessed message of the gospel stands true, that christ loves none but his bride, the church. his merits, my poor child, extend to none but the elect. ah! my dear sister locke, how delightful to think of the narrow way of discriminating grace! how it enhances the believer's view of his own exceeding privileges, to remember that there be few that be saved!" i said nothing. i thought myself only too lucky to escape so well from the danger of having done anything out of my own head. but somehow susan and i never altered it when we sang it to ourselves. * * * * * i thought it necessary, for the sake of those who might read my story, to string together these few scattered recollections of my boyhood,--to give, as it were, some sample of the cotyledon leaves of my young life-plant, and of the soil in which it took root, ere it was transplanted--but i will not forestall my sorrows. after all, they have been but types of the woes of thousands who "die and give no sign." those to whom the struggles of every, even the meanest, human being are scenes of an awful drama, every incident of which is to be noted with reverent interest, will not find them void of meaning; while the life which opens in my next chapter is, perhaps, full enough of mere dramatic interest (and whose life is not, were it but truly written?) to amuse merely as a novel. ay, grim and real is the action and suffering which begins with my next page,--as you yourself would have found, high-born reader (if such chance to light upon this story), had you found yourself at fifteen, after a youth of convent-like seclusion, settled, apparently for life--in a tailor's workshop. ay--laugh!--we tailors can quote poetry as well as make your court-dresses: you sit in a cloud and sing, like pictured angels, and say the world runs smooth--while right below welters the black fermenting heap of griefs whereon your state is built.... chapter ii. the tailor's workroom. have you done laughing! then i will tell you how the thing came to pass. my father had a brother, who had steadily risen in life, in proportion as my father fell. they had both begun life in a grocer's shop. my father saved enough to marry, when of middle age, a woman of his own years, and set up a little shop, where there were far too many such already, in the hope--to him, as to the rest of the world, quite just and innocent--of drawing away as much as possible of his neighbours' custom. he failed, died--as so many small tradesmen do--of bad debts and a broken heart, and left us beggars. his brother, more prudent, had, in the meantime, risen to be foreman; then he married, on the strength of his handsome person, his master's blooming widow; and rose and rose, year by year, till, at the time of which i speak, he was owner of a first-rate grocery establishment in the city, and a pleasant villa near herne hill, and had a son, a year or two older than myself, at king's college, preparing for cambridge and the church--that being now-a-days the approved method of converting a tradesman's son into a gentleman,--whereof let artisans, and gentlemen also, take note. my aristocratic readers--if i ever get any, which i pray god i may--may be surprised at so great an inequality of fortune between two cousins; but the thing is common in our class. in the higher ranks, a difference in income implies none in education or manners, and the poor "gentleman" is a fit companion for dukes and princes--thanks to the old usages of norman chivalry, which after all were a democratic protest against the sovereignty, if not of rank, at least of money. the knight, however penniless, was the prince's equal, even his superior, from whose hands he must receive knighthood; and the "squire of low degree," who honourably earned his spurs, rose also into that guild, whose qualifications, however barbaric, were still higher ones than any which the pocket gives. but in the commercial classes money most truly and fearfully "makes the man." a difference in income, as you go lower, makes more and more difference in the supply of the common necessaries of life; and worse--in education and manners, in all which polishes the man, till you may see often, as in my case, one cousin a cambridge undergraduate, and the other a tailor's journeyman. my uncle one day came down to visit us, resplendent in a black velvet waistcoat, thick gold chain, and acres of shirt-front; and i and susan were turned to feed on our own curiosity and awe in the back-yard, while he and my mother were closeted together for an hour or so in the living-room. when he was gone, my mother called me in; and with eyes which would have been tearful had she allowed herself such a weakness before us, told me very solemnly and slowly, as if to impress upon me the awfulness of the matter, that i was to be sent to a tailor's workrooms the next day. and an awful step it was in her eyes, as she laid her hands on my head and murmured to herself, "behold, i send you forth as a lamb in the midst of wolves. be ye, therefore, wise as serpents, and harmless as doves." and then, rising hastily to conceal her own emotion, fled upstairs, where we could hear her throw herself on her knees by the bedside, and sob piteously. that evening was spent dolefully enough, in a sermon of warnings against all manner of sins and temptations, the very names of which i had never heard, but to which, as she informed me, i was by my fallen nature altogether prone: and right enough was she in so saying, though as often happens, the temptations from which i was in real danger were just the ones of which she had no notion--fighting more or less extinct satans, as mr. carlyle says, and quite unconscious of the real, modern, man-devouring satan close at her elbow. to me, in spite of all the terror which she tried to awaken in me, the change was not unwelcome; at all events, it promised me food for my eyes and my ears,--some escape from the narrow cage in which, though i hardly dare confess it to myself, i was beginning to pine. little i dreamt to what a darker cage i was to be translated! not that i accuse my uncle of neglect or cruelty, though the thing was altogether of his commanding. he was as generous to us as society required him to be. we were entirely dependent on him, as my mother told me then for the first time, for support. and had he not a right to dispose of my person, having bought it by an allowance to my mother of five-and-twenty pounds a year? i did not forget that fact; the thought of my dependence on him rankled in me, till it almost bred hatred in me to a man who had certainly never done or meant anything to me but in kindness. for what could he make me but a tailor--or a shoemaker? a pale, consumptive, rickety, weakly boy, all forehead and no muscle--have not clothes and shoes been from time immemorial the appointed work of such? the fact that that weakly frame is generally compensated by a proportionally increased activity of brain, is too unimportant to enter into the calculations of the great king laissez-faire. well, my dear society, it is you that suffer for the mistake, after all, more than we. if you do tether your cleverest artisans on tailors' shopboards and cobblers' benches, and they--as sedentary folk will--fall a thinking, and come to strange conclusions thereby, they really ought to be much more thankful to you than you are to them. if thomas cooper had passed his first five-and-twenty years at the plough tail instead of the shoemaker's awl, many words would have been left unsaid which, once spoken, working men are not likely to forget. with a beating heart i shambled along by my mother's side next day to mr. smith's shop, in a street off piccadilly; and stood by her side, just within the door, waiting till some one would condescend to speak to us, and wondering when the time would come when i, like the gentleman who skipped up and down the shop, should shine glorious in patent-leather boots, and a blue satin tie sprigged with gold. two personages, both equally magnificent, stood talking with their backs to us; and my mother, in doubt, like myself, as to which of them was the tailor, at last summoned up courage to address the wrong one, by asking if he were mr. smith. the person addressed answered by a most polite smile and bow, and assured her that he had not that honour; while the other he-he'ed, evidently a little flattered by the mistake, and then uttered in a tremendous voice these words: "i have nothing for you, my good woman--go. mr. elliot! how did you come to allow these people to get into the establishment?" "my name is locke, sir, and i was to bring my son here this morning." "oh--ah!--mr. elliot, see to these persons. as i was saying, my lard, the crimson velvet suit, about thirty-five guineas. by-the-by, that coat ours? i thought so--idea grand and light--masses well broken--very fine chiaroscuro about the whole--an aristocratic wrinkle just above the hips--which i flatter myself no one but myself and my friend mr. cooke really do understand. the vapid smoothness of the door dummy, my lard, should be confined to the regions of the strand. mr. elliot, where are you? just be so good as to show his lardship that lovely new thing in drab and _blue foncé_. ah! your lardship can't wait.--now, my good woman, is this the young man?" "yes," said my mother: "and--and--god deal so with you, sir, as you deal with the widow and the orphan." "oh--ah--that will depend very much, i should say, on how the widow and the orphan deal with me. mr. elliot, take this person into the office and transact the little formalities with her, jones, take the young man up-stairs to the work-room." i stumbled after mr. jones up a dark, narrow, iron staircase till we emerged through a trap-door into a garret at the top of the house. i recoiled with disgust at the scene before me; and here i was to work--perhaps through life! a low lean-to room, stifling me with the combined odours of human breath and perspiration, stale beer, the sweet sickly smell of gin, and the sour and hardly less disgusting one of new cloth. on the floor, thick with dust and dirt, scraps of stuff and ends of thread, sat some dozen haggard, untidy, shoeless men, with a mingled look of care and recklessness that made me shudder. the windows were tight closed to keep out the cold winter air; and the condensed breath ran in streams down the panes, chequering the dreary outlook of chimney-tops and smoke. the conductor handed me over to one of the men. "here, crossthwaite, take this younker and make a tailor of him. keep him next you, and prick him up with your needle if he shirks." he disappeared down the trap-door, and mechanically, as if in a dream, i sat down by the man and listened to his instructions, kindly enough bestowed. but i did not remain in peace two minutes. a burst of chatter rose as the foreman vanished, and a tall, bloated, sharp-nosed young man next me bawled in my ear,-- "i say, young'un, fork out the tin and pay your footing at conscrumption hospital." "what do you mean?" "aint he just green?--down with the stumpy--a tizzy for a pot of half-and-half." "i never drink beer." "then never do," whispered the man at my side; "as sure as hell's hell, it's your only chance." there was a fierce, deep earnestness in the tone which made me look up at the speaker, but the other instantly chimed in-- "oh, yer don't, don't yer, my young father mathy? then yer'll soon learn it here if yer want to keep yer victuals down." "and i have promised to take my wages home to my mother." "oh criminy! hark to that, my coves! here's a chap as is going to take the blunt home to his mammy." "t'aint much of it the old'un'll see," said another. "ven yer pockets it at the cock and bottle, my kiddy, yer won't find much of it left o' sunday mornings." "don't his mother know he's out?" asked another, "and won't she know it-- "ven he's sitting in his glory half-price at the victory. "oh! no, ve never mentions her--her name is never heard. certainly not, by no means. why should it?" "well, if yer won't stand a pot," quoth the tall man, "i will, that's all, and blow temperance. 'a short life and a merry one,' says the tailor-- "the ministers talk a great deal about port, and they makes cape wine very dear, but blow their hi's if ever they tries to deprive a poor cove of his beer. "here, sam, run to the cock and bottle for a pot of half-and-half to my score." a thin, pale lad jumped up and vanished, while my tormentor turned to me: "i say, young'un, do you know why we're nearer heaven here than our neighbours?" "i shouldn't have thought so," answered i with a _naïveté_ which raised a laugh, and dashed the tall man for a moment. "yer don't? then i'll tell yer. a cause we're a top of the house in the first place, and next place yer'll die here six months sooner nor if yer worked in the room below. aint that logic and science, orator?" appealing to crossthwaite. "why?" asked i. "a cause you get all the other floors' stinks up here as well as your own. concentrated essence of man's flesh, is this here as you're a breathing. cellar workroom we calls rheumatic ward, because of the damp. ground-floor's fever ward--them as don't get typhus gets dysentery, and them as don't get dysentery gets typhus--your nose'd tell yer why if you opened the back windy. first floor's ashmy ward--don't you hear 'um now through the cracks in the boards, a puffing away like a nest of young locomotives? and this here most august and upper-crust cockloft is the conscrumptive hospital. first you begins to cough, then you proceeds to expectorate--spittoons, as you see, perwided free gracious for nothing--fined a kivarten if you spits on the floor-- "then your cheeks they grows red, and your nose it grows thin, and your bones they stick out, till they comes through your skin: "and then, when you've sufficiently covered the poor dear shivering bare backs of the hairystocracy-- "die, die, die, away you fly, your soul is in the sky! "as the hinspired shakspeare wittily remarks." and the ribald lay down on his back, stretched himself out, and pretended to die in a fit of coughing, which last was, alas! no counterfeit, while poor i, shocked and bewildered, let my tears fall fast upon my knees. "fine him a pot!" roared one, "for talking about kicking the bucket. he's a nice young man to keep a cove's spirits up, and talk about 'a short life and a merry one.' here comes the heavy. hand it here to take the taste of that fellow's talk out of my mouth." "well, my young'un," recommenced my tormentor, "and how do you like your company?" "leave the boy alone," growled crossthwaite; "don't you see he's crying?" "is that anything good to eat? give me some on it if it is--it'll save me washing my face." and he took hold of my hair and pulled my head back. "i'll tell you what, jemmy downes," said crossthwaite, in a voice which made him draw back, "if you don't drop that, i'll give you such a taste of my tongue as shall turn you blue." "you'd better try it on then. do--only just now--if you please." "be quiet, you fool!" said another. "you're a pretty fellow to chaff the orator. he'll slang you up the chimney afore you can get your shoes on." "fine him a kivarten for quarrelling," cried another; and the bully subsided into a minute's silence, after a _sotto voce_--"blow temperance, and blow all chartists, say i!" and then delivered himself of his feelings in a doggerel song: "some folks leads coves a dance, with their pledge of temperance, and their plans for donkey sociation; and their pockets full they crams by their patriotic flams, and then swears 'tis for the good of the nation. "but i don't care two inions for political opinions, while i can stand my heavy and my quartern; for to drown dull care within, in baccy, beer, and gin, is the prime of a working-tailor's fortin! "there's common sense for yer now; hand the pot here." i recollect nothing more of that day, except that i bent myself to my work with assiduity enough to earn praises from crossthwaite. it was to be done, and i did it. the only virtue i ever possessed (if virtue it be) is the power of absorbing my whole heart and mind in the pursuit of the moment, however dull or trivial, if there be good reason why it should be pursued at all. i owe, too, an apology to my readers for introducing all this ribaldry. god knows, it is as little to my taste as it can be to theirs, but the thing exists; and those who live, if not by, yet still besides such a state of things, ought to know what the men are like to whose labour, ay, lifeblood, they own their luxuries. they are "their brothers' keepers," let them deny it as they will. thank god, many are finding that out; and the morals of the working tailors, as well as of other classes of artisans, are rapidly improving: a change which has been brought about partly by the wisdom and kindness of a few master tailors, who have built workshops fit for human beings, and have resolutely stood out against the iniquitous and destructive alterations in the system of employment. among them i may, and will, whether they like it or not, make honourable mention of mr. willis, of st. james's street, and mr. stultz, of bond street. but nine-tenths of the improvement has been owing, not to the masters, but to the men themselves; and who among them, my aristocratic readers, do you think, have been the great preachers and practisers of temperance, thrift, charity, self-respect, and education. who?--shriek not in your belgravian saloons--the chartists; the communist chartists: upon whom you and your venal press heap every kind of cowardly execration and ribald slander. you have found out many things since peterloo; add that fact to the number. it may seem strange that i did not tell my mother into what a pandemonium i had fallen, and got her to deliver me; but a delicacy, which was not all evil, kept me back; i shrank from seeming to dislike to earn my daily bread, and still more from seeming to object to what she had appointed for me. her will had been always law; it seemed a deadly sin to dispute it. i took for granted, too, that she knew what the place was like, and that, therefore, it must be right for me. and when i came home at night, and got back to my beloved missionary stories, i gathered materials enough to occupy my thoughts during the next day's work, and make me blind and deaf to all the evil around me. my mother, poor dear creature, would have denounced my day-dreams sternly enough, had she known of their existence; but were they not holy angels from heaven? guardians sent by that father, whom i had been taught _not_ to believe in, to shield my senses from pollution? i was ashamed, too, to mention to my mother the wickedness which i saw and heard. with the delicacy of an innocent boy, i almost imputed the very witnessing of it as a sin to myself; and soon i began to be ashamed of more than the mere sitting by and hearing. i found myself gradually learning slang-insolence, laughing at coarse jokes, taking part in angry conversations; my moral tone was gradually becoming lower; but yet the habit of prayer remained, and every night at my bedside, when i prayed to "be converted and made a child of god," i prayed that the same mercy might be extended to my fellow-workmen, "if they belonged to the number of the elect." those prayers may have been answered in a wider and deeper sense than i then thought of. but, altogether, i felt myself in a most distracted, rudderless state. my mother's advice i felt daily less and less inclined to ask. a gulf was opening between us; we were moving in two different worlds, and she saw it, and imputed it to me as a sin; and was the more cold to me by day, and prayed for me (as i knew afterwards) the more passionately while i slept. but help or teacher i had none. i knew not that i had a father in heaven. how could he be my father till i was converted? i was a child of the devil, they told me; and now and then i felt inclined to take them at their word, and behave like one. no sympathizing face looked on me out of the wide heaven--off the wide earth, none. i was all boiling with new hopes, new temptations, new passions, new sorrows, and "i looked to the right hand and to the left, and no man cared for my soul." i had felt myself from the first strangely drawn towards crossthwaite, carefully as he seemed to avoid me, except to give me business directions in the workroom. he alone had shown me any kindness; and he, too, alone was untainted with the sin around him. silent, moody, and preoccupied, he was yet the king of the room. his opinion was always asked, and listened to. his eye always cowed the ribald and the blasphemer; his songs, when he rarely broke out into merriment, were always rapturously applauded. men hated, and yet respected him. i shrank from him at first, when i heard him called a chartist; for my dim notions of that class were, that they were a very wicked set of people, who wanted to kill all the soldiers and policemen and respectable people, and rob all the shops of their contents. but, chartist or none, crossthwaite fascinated me. i often found myself neglecting my work to study his face. i liked him, too, because he was as i was--small, pale, and weakly. he might have been five-and-twenty; but his looks, like those of too many a working man, were rather those of a man of forty. wild grey eyes gleamed out from under huge knitted brows, and a perpendicular wall of brain, too large for his puny body. he was not only, i soon discovered, a water-drinker, but a strict "vegetarian" also; to which, perhaps, he owed a great deal of the almost preternatural clearness, volubility, and sensitiveness of his mind. but whether from his ascetic habits, or the un-healthiness of his trade, the marks of ill-health were upon him; and his sallow cheek, and ever-working lip, proclaimed too surely-- the fiery soul which, working out its way, fretted the pigmy body to decay; and o'er informed the tenement of clay. i longed to open my heart to him. instinctively i felt that he was a kindred spirit. often, turning round suddenly in the workroom, i caught him watching me with an expression which seemed to say, "poor boy, and art thou too one of us? hast thou too to fight with poverty and guidelessness, and the cravings of an unsatisfied intellect, as i have done!" but when i tried to speak to him earnestly, his manner was peremptory and repellent. it was well for me that so it was--well for me, i see now, that it was not from him my mind received the first lessons in self-development. for guides did come to me in good time, though not such, perhaps, as either my mother or my readers would have chosen for me. my great desire now was to get knowledge. by getting that i fancied, as most self-educated men are apt to do, should surely get wisdom. books, i thought, would tell me all i needed. but where to get the books? and which? i had exhausted our small stock at home; i was sick and tired, without knowing why, of their narrow conventional view of everything. after all, i had been reading them all along, not for their doctrines but for their facts, and knew not where to find more, except in forbidden paths. i dare not ask my mother for books, for i dare not confess to her that religious ones were just what i did not want; and all history, poetry, science, i had been accustomed to hear spoken of as "carnal learning, human philosophy," more or less diabolic and ruinous to the soul. so, as usually happens in this life--"by the law was the knowledge of sin"--and unnatural restrictions on the development of the human spirit only associated with guilt of conscience, what ought to have been an innocent and necessary blessing. my poor mother, not singular in her mistake, had sent me forth, out of an unconscious paradise into the evil world, without allowing me even the sad strength which comes from eating of the tree of knowledge of good and evil; she expected in me the innocence of the dove, as if that was possible on such an earth as this, without the wisdom of the serpent to support it. she forbade me strictly to stop and look into the windows of print shops, and i strictly obeyed her. but she forbade me, too, to read any book which i had not first shown her; and that restriction, reasonable enough in the abstract, practically meant, in the case of a poor boy like myself, reading no books at all. and then came my first act of disobedience, the parent of many more. bitterly have i repented it, and bitterly been punished. yet, strange contradiction! i dare not wish it undone. but such is the great law of life. punished for our sins we surely are; and yet how often they become our blessings, teaching us that which nothing else can teach us! nothing else? one says so. rich parents, i suppose, say so, when they send their sons to public schools "to learn life." we working men have too often no other teacher than our own errors. but surely, surely, the rich ought to have been able to discover some mode of education in which knowledge may be acquired without the price of conscience, yet they have not; and we must not complain of them for not giving such a one to the working man when they have not yet even given it to their own children. in a street through which i used to walk homeward was an old book shop, piled and fringed outside and in with books of every age, size, and colour. and here i at last summoned courage to stop, and timidly and stealthily taking out some volume whose title attracted me, snatch hastily a few pages and hasten on, half fearful of being called on to purchase, half ashamed of a desire which i fancied every one else considered as unlawful as my mother did. sometimes i was lucky enough to find the same volume several days running, and to take up the subject where i had left it off; and thus i contrived to hurry through a great deal of "childe harold," "lara," and the "corsair"--a new world of wonders to me. they fed, those poems, both my health and my diseases; while they gave me, little of them as i could understand, a thousand new notions about scenery and man, a sense of poetic melody and luxuriance as yet utterly unknown. they chimed in with all my discontent, my melancholy, my thirst after any life of action and excitement, however frivolous, insane, or even worse. i forgot the corsair's sinful trade in his free and daring life; rather, i honestly eliminated the bad element--in which, god knows, i took no delight--and kept the good one. however that might be, the innocent--guilty pleasure grew on me day by day. innocent, because human--guilty, because disobedient. but have i not paid the penalty? one evening, however, i fell accidentally on a new book--"the life and poems of j. bethune." i opened the story of his life--became interested, absorbed--and there i stood, i know not how long, on the greasy pavement, heedless of the passers who thrust me right and left, reading by the flaring gas-light that sad history of labour, sorrow, and death.--how the highland cotter, in spite of disease, penury, starvation itself, and the daily struggle to earn his bread by digging and ditching, educated himself--how he toiled unceasingly with his hands--how he wrote his poems in secret on dirty scraps of paper and old leaves of books--how thus he wore himself out, manful and godly, "bating not a jot of heart or hope," till the weak flesh would bear no more; and the noble spirit, unrecognized by the lord of the soil, returned to god who gave it. i seemed to see in his history a sad presage of my own. if he, stronger, more self-restrained, more righteous far than ever i could be, had died thus unknown, unassisted, in the stern battle with social disadvantages, what must be my lot? and tears of sympathy, rather than of selfish fear, fell fast upon the book. a harsh voice from the inner darkness of the shop startled me. "hoot, laddie, ye'll better no spoil my books wi' greeting ower them." i replaced the book hastily, and was hurrying on, but the same voice called me back in a more kindly tone. "stop a wee, my laddie. i'm no angered wi' ye. come in, and we'll just ha' a bit crack thegither." i went in, for there was a geniality in the tone to which i was unaccustomed, and something whispered to me the hope of an adventure, as indeed it proved to be, if an event deserves that name which decided the course of my whole destiny. "what war ye greeting about, then? what was the book?" "'bethune's life and poems,' sir," i said. "and certainly they did affect me very much." "affect ye? ah, johnnie bethune, puir fellow! ye maunna take on about sic like laddies, or ye'll greet your e'en out o' your head. it's mony a braw man beside johnnie bethune has gane johnnie-bethune's gate." though unaccustomed to the scotch accent, i could make out enough of this speech to be in nowise consoled by it. but the old man turned the conversation by asking me abruptly my name, and trade, and family. "hum, hum, widow, eh? puir body! work at smith's shop, eh? ye'll ken john crossthwaite, then? ay? hum, hum; an' ye're desirous o' reading books? vara weel--let's see your cawpabilities." and he pulled me into the dim light of the little back window, shoved back his spectacles, and peering at me from underneath them, began, to my great astonishment, to feel my head all over. "hum, hum, a vara gude forehead--vara gude indeed. causative organs large, perceptive ditto. imagination superabundant--mun be heeded. benevolence, conscientiousness, ditto, ditto. caution--no that large--might be developed," with a quiet chuckle, "under a gude scot's education. just turn your head into profile, laddie. hum, hum. back o' the head a'thegither defective. firmness sma'--love of approbation unco big. beware o' leeing, as ye live; ye'll need it. philoprogenitiveness gude. ye'll be fond o' bairns, i'm guessing?" "of what?" "children, laddie,--children." "very," answered i, in utter dismay at what seemed to me a magical process for getting at all my secret failings. "hum, hum! amative and combative organs sma'--a general want o' healthy animalism, as my freen' mr. deville wad say. and ye want to read books?" i confessed my desire, without, alas! confessing that my mother had forbidden it. "vara weel; then books i'll lend ye, after i've had a crack wi' crossthwaite aboot ye, gin i find his opinion o' ye satisfactory. come to me the day after to-morrow. an' mind, here are my rules:--a' damage done to a book to be paid for, or na mair books lent; ye'll mind to take no books without leave; specially ye'll mind no to read in bed o' nights,--industrious folks ought to be sleeping' betimes, an' i'd no be a party to burning puir weans in their beds; and lastly, ye'll observe not to read mair than five books at once." i assured him that i thought such a thing impossible; but he smiled in his saturnine way, and said-- "we'll see this day fortnight. now, then, i've observed ye for a month past over that aristocratic byron's poems. and i'm willing to teach the young idea how to shoot--but no to shoot itself; so ye'll just leave alane that vinegary, soul-destroying trash, and i'll lend ye, gin i hear a gude report of ye, 'the paradise lost,' o' john milton--a gran' classic model; and for the doctrine o't, it's just aboot as gude as ye'll hear elsewhere the noo. so gang your gate, and tell john crossthwaite, privately, auld sandy mackaye wad like to see him the morn's night." i went home in wonder and delight. books! books! books! i should have my fill of them at last. and when i said my prayers at night, i thanked god for this unexpected boon; and then remembered that my mother had forbidden it. that thought checked the thanks, but not the pleasure. oh, parents! are there not real sins enough in the world already, without your defiling it, over and above, by inventing new ones? chapter iii. sandy mackaye. that day fortnight came,--and the old scotchman's words came true. four books of his i had already, and i came in to borrow a fifth; whereon he began with a solemn chuckle: "eh, laddie, laddie, i've been treating ye as the grocers do their new prentices. they first gie the boys three days' free warren among the figs and the sugar-candy, and they get scunnered wi' sweets after that. noo, then, my lad, ye've just been reading four books in three days--and here's a fifth. ye'll no open this again." "oh!" i cried, piteously enough, "just let me finish what i am reading. i'm in the middle of such a wonderful account of the hornitos of jurullo." "hornets or wasps, a swarm o' them ye're like to have at this rate; and a very bad substitute ye'll find them for the attic bee. now tak' tent. i'm no in the habit of speaking without deliberation, for it saves a man a great deal of trouble in changing his mind. if ye canna traduce to me a page o' virgil by this day three months, ye read no more o' my books. desultory reading is the bane o' lads. ye maun begin with self-restraint and method, my man, gin ye intend to gie yoursel' a liberal education. so i'll just mak' you a present of an auld latin grammar, and ye maun begin where your betters ha' begun before you." "but who will teach me latin?" "hoot, man! who'll teach a man anything except himsel'? it's only gentlefolks and puir aristocrat bodies that go to be spoilt wi' tutors and pedagogues, cramming and loading them wi' knowledge, as ye'd load a gun, to shoot it all out again, just as it went down, in a college examination, and forget all aboot it after." "ah!" i sighed, "if i could have gone to college!" "what for, then? my father was a hieland farmer, and yet he was a weel learned man: and 'sandy, my lad,' he used to say, 'a man kens just as much as he's taught himsel', and na mair. so get wisdom; and wi' all your getting, get understanding.' and so i did. and mony's the greek exercise i've written in the cowbyres. and mony's the page o' virgil, too, i've turned into good dawric scotch to ane that's dead and gane, poor hizzie, sitting under the same plaid, with the sheep feeding round us, up among the hills, looking out ower the broad blue sea, and the wee haven wi' the fishing cobles--" there was a long solemn pause. i cannot tell why, but i loved the man from that moment; and i thought, too, that he began to love me. those few words seemed a proof of confidence, perhaps all the deeper, because accidental and unconscious. i took the virgil which he lent me, with hamilton's literal translation between the lines, and an old tattered latin grammar; i felt myself quite a learned man--actually the possessor of a latin book! i regarded as something almost miraculous the opening of this new field for my ambition. not that i was consciously, much less selfishly, ambitious. i had no idea as yet to be anything but a tailor to the end; to make clothes--perhaps in a less infernal atmosphere--but still to make clothes and live thereby. i did not suspect that i possessed powers above the mass. my intense longing after knowledge had been to me like a girl's first love--a thing to be concealed from every eye--to be looked at askance even by myself, delicious as it was, with holy shame and trembling. and thus it was not cowardice merely, but natural modesty, which put me on a hundred plans of concealing my studies from my mother, and even from my sister. i slept in a little lean-to garret at the back of the house, some ten feet long by six wide. i could just stand upright against the inner wall, while the roof on the other side ran down to the floor. there was no fireplace in it, or any means of ventilation. no wonder i coughed all night accordingly, and woke about two every morning with choking throat and aching head. my mother often said that the room was "too small for a christian to sleep in, but where could she get a better?" such was my only study. i could not use it as such, however, at night without discovery; for my mother carefully looked in every evening, to see that my candle was out. but when my kind cough woke me, i rose, and creeping like a mouse about the room--for my mother and sister slept in the next chamber, and every sound was audible through the narrow partition--i drew my darling books out from under a board of the floor, one end of which i had gradually loosened at odd minutes, and with them a rushlight, earned by running on messages, or by taking bits of work home, and finishing them for my fellows. no wonder that with this scanty rest, and this complicated exertion of hands, eyes, and brain, followed by the long dreary day's work of the shop, my health began to fail; my eyes grew weaker and weaker; my cough became more acute; my appetite failed me daily. my mother noticed the change, and questioned me about it, affectionately enough. but i durst not, alas! tell the truth. it was not one offence, but the arrears of months of disobedience which i should have had to confess; and so arose infinite false excuses, and petty prevarications, which embittered and clogged still more my already overtasked spirit. about my own ailments--formidable as i believed they were--i never had a moment's anxiety. the expectation of early death was as unnatural to me as it is, i suspect, to almost all. i die? had i not hopes, plans, desires, infinite? could i die while they were unfulfilled? even now, i do not believe i shall die yet. i will not believe it--but let that pass. yes, let that pass. perhaps i have lived long enough--longer than many a grey-headed man. there is a race of mortals who become old in their youth, and die ere middle age. and might not those days of mine then have counted as months?--those days when, before starting forth to walk two miles to the shop at six o'clock in the morning, i sat some three or four hours shivering on my bed, putting myself into cramped and painful postures, not daring even to cough, lest my mother should fancy me unwell, and come in to see me, poor dear soul!--my eyes aching over the page, my feet wrapped up in the bedclothes, to keep them from the miserable pain of the cold; longing, watching, dawn after dawn, for the kind summer mornings, when i should need no candlelight. look at the picture awhile, ye comfortable folks, who take down from your shelves what books you like best at the moment, and then lie back, amid prints and statuettes, to grow wise in an easy-chair, with a blazing fire and a camphine lamp. the lower classes uneducated! perhaps you would be so too, if learning cost you the privation which it costs some of them. but this concealment could not last. my only wonder is, that i continued to get whole months of undiscovered study. one morning, about four o'clock, as might have been expected, my mother heard me stirring, came in, and found me sitting crosslegged on my bed, stitching away, indeed, with all my might, but with a virgil open before me. she glanced at the book, clutched it with one hand and my arm with the other, and sternly asked, "where did you get this heathen stuff?" a lie rose to my lips; but i had been so gradually entangled in the loathed meshes of a system of concealment, and consequent prevarication, that i felt as if one direct falsehood would ruin for ever my fast-failing self-respect, and i told her the whole truth. she took the book and left the room. it was saturday morning, and i spent two miserable days, for she never spoke a word to me till the two ministers had made their appearance, and drank their tea on sunday evening: then at last she opened: "and now, mr. wigginton, what account have you of this mr. mackaye, who has seduced my unhappy boy from the paths of obedience?" "i am sorry to say, madam," answered the dark man, with a solemn snuffle, "that he proves to be a most objectionable and altogether unregenerate character. he is, as i am informed, neither more nor less than a chartist, and an open blasphemer." "he is not!" i interrupted, angrily. "he has told me more about god, and given me better advice, than any human being, except my mother." "ah! madam, so thinks the unconverted heart, ignorant that the god of the deist is not the god of the bible--a consuming fire to all but his beloved elect; the god of the deist, unhappy youth, is a mere self-invented, all-indulgent phantom--a will-o'-the-wisp, deluding the unwary, as he has deluded you, into the slough of carnal reason and shameful profligacy." "do you mean to call me a profligate?" i retorted fiercely, for my blood was up, and i felt i was fighting for all which i prized in the world: "if you do, you lie. ask my mother when i ever disobeyed her before? i have never touched a drop of anything stronger than water; i have slaved over-hours to pay for my own candle, i have!--i have no sins to accuse myself of, and neither you nor any person know of any. do you call me a profligate because i wish to educate myself and rise in life?" "ah!" groaned my poor mother to herself, "still unconvinced of sin!" "the old adam, my dear madam, you see,--standing, as he always does, on his own filthy rags of works, while all the imaginations of his heart are only evil continually. listen to me, poor sinner--" "i will not listen to you," i cried, the accumulated disgust of years bursting out once and for all, "for i hate and despise you, eating my poor mother here out of house and home. you are one of those who creep into widows' houses, and for pretence make long prayers. you, sir, i will hear," i went on, turning to the dear old man who had sat by shaking his white locks with a sad and puzzled air, "for i love you." "my dear sister locke," he began, "i really think sometimes--that is, ahem--with your leave, brother--i am almost disposed--but i should wish to defer to your superior zeal--yet, at the same time, perhaps, the desire for information, however carnal in itself, may be an instrument in the lord's hands--you know what i mean. i always thought him a gracious youth, madam, didn't you? and perhaps--i only observe it in passing--the lord's people among the dissenting connexions are apt to undervalue human learning as a means--of course, i mean, only as a means. it is not generally known, i believe, that our reverend puritan patriarchs, howe and baxter, owen and many more, were not altogether unacquainted with heathen authors; nay, that they may have been called absolutely learned men. and some of our leading ministers are inclined--no doubt they will be led rightly in so important a matter--to follow the example of the independents in educating their young ministers, and turning satan's weapons of heathen mythology against himself, as st. paul is said to have done. my dear boy, what books have you now got by you of mr. mackaye's?" "milton's poems and a latin virgil." "ah!" groaned the dark man; "will poetry, will latin save an immortal soul?" "i'll tell you what, sir; you say yourself that it depends on god's absolute counsel whether i am saved or not. so, if i am elect, i shall be saved whatever i do; and if i am not, i shall be damned whatever i do; and in the mean time you had better mind your own business, and let me do the best i can for this life, as the next is all settled for me." this flippant, but after all not unreasonable speech, seemed to silence the man; and i took the opportunity of running up-stairs and bringing down my milton. the old man was speaking as i re-entered. "and you know, my dear madam, mr. milton was a true converted man, and a puritan." "he was oliver cromwell's secretary," i added. "did he teach you to disobey your mother?" asked my mother. i did not answer; and the old man, after turning over a few leaves, as if he knew the book well, looked up. "i think, madam, you might let the youth keep these books, if he will promise, as i am sure he will, to see no more of mr. mackaye." i was ready to burst out crying, but i made up my mind and answered, "i must see him once again, or he will think me so ungrateful. he is the best friend that i ever had, except you, mother. besides, i do not know if he will lend me any, after this." my mother looked at the old minister, and then gave a sullen assent. "promise me only to see him once--but i cannot trust you. you have deceived me once, alton, and you may again!" "i shall not, i shall not," i answered proudly. "you do not know me"--and i spoke true. "you do not know yourself, my poor dear foolish child!" she replied--and that was true too. "and now, dear friends," said the dark man, "let us join in offering up a few words of special intercession." we all knelt down, and i soon discovered that by the special intercession was meant a string of bitter and groundless slanders against poor me, twisted into the form of a prayer for my conversion, "if it were god's will." to which i responded with a closing "amen," for which i was sorry afterwards, when i recollected that it was said in merely insolent mockery. but the little faith i had was breaking up fast--not altogether, surely, by my own fault. [footnote: the portraits of the minister and the missionary are surely exceptions to their class, rather than the average. the baptists have had their andrew fuller and robert hall, and among missionaries dr. carey, and noble spirits in plenty. but such men as those who excited alton locke's disgust are to be met with, in every sect; in the church of england, and in the church of rome. and it is a real and fearful scandal to the young, to see such men listened to as god's messengers, in spite of their utter want of any manhood or virtue, simply because they are "orthodox," each according to the shibboleths of his hearers, and possess that vulpine "discretion of dulness," whose miraculous might dean swift sets forth in his "essay on the fates of clergymen." such men do exist, and prosper; and as long as they are allowed to do so, alton lockes will meet them, and be scandalized by them.--ed.] at all events, from that day i was emancipated from modern puritanism. the ministers both avoided all serious conversation with me; and my mother did the same; while, with a strength of mind, rare among women, she never alluded to the scene of that sunday evening. it was a rule with her never to recur to what was once done and settled. what was to be, might be prayed over. but it was to be endured in silence; yet wider and wider ever from that time opened the gulf between us. i went trembling the next afternoon to mackaye and told my story. he first scolded me severely for disobeying my mother. "he that begins o' that gate, laddie, ends by disobeying god and his ain conscience. gin ye're to be a scholar, god will make you one--and if not, ye'll no mak' yoursel' ane in spite o' him and his commandments." and then he filled his pipe and chuckled away in silence; at last he exploded in a horse-laugh. "so ye gied the ministers a bit o' yer mind? 'the deil's amang the tailors' in gude earnest, as the sang says. there's johnnie crossthwaite kicked the papist priest out o' his house yestreen. puir ministers, it's ill times wi' them! they gang about keckling and screighing after the working men, like a hen that's hatched ducklings, when she sees them tak' the water. little dunkeld's coming to london sune, i'm thinking. "hech! sic a parish, a parish, a parish; hech! sic a parish as little dunkeld! they hae stickit the minister, hanged the precentor, dung down the steeple, and drucken the bell." "but may i keep the books a little while, mr. mackaye?" "keep them till ye die, gin ye will. what is the worth o' them to me? what is the worth o' anything to me, puir auld deevil, that ha' no half a dizen years to live at the furthest. god bless ye, my bairn; gang hame, and mind your mither, or it's little gude books'll do ye." chapter iv. tailors and soldiers. i was now thrown again utterly on my own resources. i read and re-read milton's "poems" and virgil's "Æneid" for six more months at every spare moment; thus spending over them, i suppose, all in all, far more time than most gentlemen have done. i found, too, in the last volume of milton, a few of his select prose works: the "areopagitica," the "defence of the english people," and one or two more, in which i gradually began to take an interest; and, little of them as i could comprehend, i was awed by their tremendous depth and power, as well as excited by the utterly new trains of thought into which they led me. terrible was the amount of bodily fatigue which i had to undergo in reading at every spare moment, while walking to and fro from my work, while sitting up, often from midnight till dawn, stitching away to pay for the tallow-candle which i burnt, till i had to resort to all sorts of uncomfortable contrivances for keeping myself awake, even at the expense of bodily pain--heaven forbid that i should weary my readers by describing them! young men of the upper classes, to whom study--pursue it as intensely as you will--is but the business of the day, and every spare moment relaxation; little you guess the frightful drudgery undergone by a man of the people who has vowed to educate himself,--to live at once two lives, each as severe as the whole of yours,--to bring to the self-imposed toil of intellectual improvement, a body and brain already worn out by a day of toilsome manual labour. i did it. god forbid, though, that i should take credit to myself for it. hundreds more have done it, with still fewer advantages than mine. hundreds more, an ever-increasing army of martyrs, are doing it at this moment: of some of them, too, perhaps you may hear hereafter. i had read through milton, as i said, again and again; i had got out of him all that my youth and my unregulated mind enabled me to get. i had devoured, too, not without profit, a large old edition of "fox's martyrs," which the venerable minister lent me, and now i was hungering again for fresh food, and again at a loss where to find it. i was hungering, too, for more than information--for a friend. since my intercourse with sandy mackaye had been stopped, six months had passed without my once opening my lips to any human being upon the subjects with which my mind was haunted day and night. i wanted to know more about poetry, history, politics, philosophy--all things in heaven and earth. but, above all, i wanted a faithful and sympathizing ear into which to pour all my doubts, discontents, and aspirations. my sister susan, who was one year younger than myself, was growing into a slender, pretty, hectic girl of sixteen. but she was altogether a devout puritan. she had just gone through the process of conviction of sin and conversion; and being looked upon at the chapel as an especially gracious professor, was either unable or unwilling to think or speak on any subject, except on those to which i felt a growing distaste. she had shrunk from me, too, very much, since my ferocious attack that sunday evening on the dark minister, who was her special favourite. i remarked it, and it was a fresh cause of unhappiness and perplexity. at last i made up my mind, come what would, to force myself upon crossthwaite. he was the only man whom i knew who seemed able to help me; and his very reserve had invested him with a mystery, which served to heighten my imagination of his powers. i waylaid him one day coming out of the workroom to go home, and plunged at once desperately into the matter. "mr. crossthwaite, i want to speak to you. i want to ask you to advise me." "i have known that a long time." "then why did you never say a kind word to me?" "because i was waiting to see whether you were worth saying a kind word to. it was but the other day, remember, you were a bit of a boy. now, i think, i may trust you with a thing or two. besides, i wanted to see whether you trusted me enough to ask me. now you've broke the ice at last, in with you, head and ears, and see what you can fish out." "i am very unhappy--" "that's no new disorder that i know of." "no; but i think the reason i am unhappy is a strange one; at least, i never read of but one person else in the same way. i want to educate myself, and i can't." "you must have read precious little then, if you think yourself in a strange way. bless the boy's heart! and what the dickens do you want to be educating yourself for, pray?" this was said in a tone of good-humoured banter, which gave me courage. he offered to walk homewards with me; and, as i shambled along by his side, i told him all my story and all my griefs. i never shall forget that walk. every house, tree, turning, which we passed that day on our way, is indissolubly connected in my mind with some strange new thought which arose in me just at each spot; and recurs, so are the mind and the senses connected, as surely as i repass it. i had been telling him about sandy mackaye. he confessed to an acquaintance with him; but in a reserved and mysterious way, which only heightened my curiosity. we were going through the horse guards, and i could not help lingering to look with wistful admiration on the huge mustachoed war-machines who sauntered about the court-yard. a tall and handsome officer, blazing in scarlet and gold, cantered in on a superb horse, and, dismounting, threw the reins to a dragoon as grand and gaudy as himself. did i envy him? well--i was but seventeen. and there is something noble to the mind, as well as to the eye, in the great strong man, who can fight--a completeness, a self-restraint, a terrible sleeping power in him. as mr. carlyle says, "a soldier, after all, is--one of the few remaining realities of the age. all other professions almost promise one thing, and perform--alas! what? but this man promises to fight, and does it; and, if he be told, will veritably take out a long sword and kill me." so thought my companion, though the mood in which he viewed the fact was somewhat different from my own. "come on," he said, peevishly clutching me by the arm; "what do you want dawdling? are you a nursery-maid, that you must stare at those red-coated butchers?" and a deep curse followed. "what harm have they done you?" "i should think i owed them turn enough." "what?" "they cut my father down at sheffield,--perhaps with the very swords he helped to make,--because he would not sit still and starve, and see us starving around him, while those who fattened on the sweat of his brow, and on those lungs of his, which the sword-grinding dust was eating out day by day, were wantoning on venison and champagne. that's the harm they've done me, my chap!" "poor fellows!--they only did as they were ordered, i suppose." "and what business have they to let themselves be ordered? what right, i say--what right has any free, reasonable soul on earth, to sell himself for a shilling a day to murder any man, right or wrong--even his own brother or his own father--just because such a whiskered, profligate jackanapes as that officer, without learning, without any god except his own looking-glass and his opera-dancer--a fellow who, just because he is born a gentleman, is set to command grey-headed men before he can command his own meanest passions. good heavens! that the lives of free men should be entrusted to such a stuffed cockatoo; and that free men should be such traitors to their country, traitors to their own flesh and blood, as to sell themselves, for a shilling a day and the smirks of the nursery-maids, to do that fellow's bidding!" "what are you a-grumbling here about, my man?--gotten the cholera?" asked one of the dragoons, a huge, stupid-looking lad. "about you, you young long-legged cut-throat," answered crossthwaite, "and all your crew of traitors." "help, help, coomrades o' mine!" quoth the dragoon, bursting with laughter; "i'm gaun be moorthered wi' a little booy that's gane mad, and toorned chartist." i dragged crossthwaite off; for what was jest to the soldiers, i saw, by his face, was fierce enough earnest to him. we walked on a little, in silence. "now," i said, "that was a good-natured fellow enough, though he was a soldier. you and he might have cracked many a joke together, if you did but understand each other;--and he was a countryman of yours, too." "i may crack something else besides jokes with him some day," answered he, moodily. "'pon my word, you must take care how you do it. he is as big as four of us." "that vile aristocrat, the old italian poet--what's his name?--ariosto--ay!--he knew which quarter the wind was making for, when he said that fire-arms would be the end of all your old knights and gentlemen in armour, that hewed down unarmed innocents as if they had been sheep. gunpowder is your true leveller--dash physical strength! a boy's a man with a musket in his hand, my chap!" "god forbid," i said, "that i should ever be made a man of in that way, or you either. i do not think we are quite big enough to make fighters; and if we were, what have we got to fight about?" "big enough to make fighters?" said he, half to himself; "or strong enough, perhaps?--or clever enough?--and yet alexander was a little man, and the petit caporal, and nelson, and cæsar, too; and so was saul of tarsus, and weakly he was into the bargain. Æsop was a dwarf, and so was attila; shakspeare was lame; alfred, a rickety weakling; byron, clubfooted;--so much for body _versus_ spirit--brute force _versus_ genius--genius." i looked at him; his eyes glared like two balls of fire. suddenly he turned to me. "locke, my boy, i've made an ass of myself, and got into a rage, and broken a good old resolution of mine, and a promise that i made to my dear little woman--bless her! and said things to you that you ought to know nothing of for this long time; but those red-coats always put me beside myself. god forgive me!" and he held out his hand to me cordially. "i can quite understand your feeling deeply on one point," i said, as i took it, "after the sad story you told me; but why so bitter on all? what is there so very wrong about things, that we must begin fighting about it?" "bless your heart, poor innocent! what is wrong?--what is not wrong? wasn't there enough in that talk with mackaye, that you told me of just now, to show anybody that, who can tell a hawk from a hand-saw?" "was it wrong in him to give himself such trouble about the education of a poor young fellow, who has no tie on him, who can never repay him?" "no; that's just like him. he feels for the people, for he has been one of us. he worked in a printing-office himself many a year, and he knows the heart of the working man. but he didn't tell you the whole truth about education. he daren't tell you. no one who has money dare speak out his heart; not that he has much certainly; but the cunning old scot that he is, he lives by the present system of things, and he won't speak ill of the bridge which carries him over--till the time comes." i could not understand whither all this tended, and walked on silent and somewhat angry, at hearing the least slight cast on mackaye. "don't you see, stupid?" he broke out at last. "what did he say to you about gentlemen being crammed by tutors and professors? have not you as good a right to them as any gentleman?" "but he told me they were no use--that every man must educate himself." "oh! all very fine to tell you the grapes are sour, when you can't reach them. bah, lad! can't you see what comes of education?--that any dolt, provided he be a gentleman, can be doctored up at school and college, enough to make him play his part decently--his mighty part of ruling us, and riding over our heads, and picking our pockets, as parson, doctor, lawyer, member of parliament--while we--you now, for instance--cleverer than ninety-nine gentlemen out of a hundred, if you had one-tenth the trouble taken with you that is taken with every pig-headed son of an aristocrat--" "am i clever?" asked i, in honest surprise. "what! haven't you found that out yet? don't try to put that on me. don't a girl know when she's pretty, without asking her neighbours?" "really, i never thought about it." "more simpleton you. old mackaye has, at all events; though, canny scotchman that he is, he'll never say a word to you about it, yet he makes no secret of it to other people. i heard him the other day telling some of our friends that you were a thorough young genius." i blushed scarlet, between pleasure and a new feeling; was it ambition? "why, hav'n't you a right to aspire to a college education as any do-nothing canon there at the abbey, lad?" "i don't know that i have a right to anything." "what, not become what nature intended you to become? what has she given you brains for, but to be educated and used? oh! i heard a fine lecture upon that at our club the other night. there was a man there--a gentleman, too, but a thorough-going people's man, i can tell you, mr. o'flynn. what an orator that man is to be sure! the irish Æschines, i hear they call him in conciliation hall. isn't he the man to pitch into the mammonites? 'gentlemen and ladies,' says he, 'how long will a diabolic society'--no, an effete society it was--'how long will an effete, emasculate, and effeminate society, in the diabolic selfishness of its eclecticism, refuse to acknowledge what my immortal countryman, burke, calls the "dei voluntatem in rebus revelatam"--the revelation of nature's will in the phenomena of matter? the cerebration of each is the prophetic sacrament of the yet undeveloped possibilities of his mentation. the form of the brain alone, and not the possession of the vile gauds of wealth and rank, constitute man's only right to education--to the glories of art and science. those beaming eyes and roseate lips beneath me proclaim a bevy of undeveloped aspasias, of embryo cleopatras, destined by nature, and only restrained by man's injustice, from ruling the world by their beauty's eloquence. those massive and beetling brows, gleaming with the lambent flames of patriotic ardour--what is needed to unfold them into a race of shakspeares and of gracchi, ready to proclaim with sword and lyre the divine harmonies of liberty, equality, and fraternity, before a quailing universe?'" "it sounds very grand," replied i, meekly; "and i should like very much certainly to have a good education. but i can't see whose injustice keeps me out of one if i can't afford to pay for it." "whose? why, the parson's to be sure. they've got the monopoly of education in england, and they get their bread by it at their public schools and universities; and of course it's their interest to keep up the price of their commodity, and let no man have a taste of it who can't pay down handsomely. and so those aristocrats of college dons go on rolling in riches, and fellowships, and scholarships, that were bequeathed by the people's friends in old times, just to educate poor scholars like you and me, and give us our rights as free men." "but i thought the clergy were doing so much to educate the poor. at least, i hear all the dissenting ministers grumbling at their continual interference." "ay, educating them to make them slaves and bigots. they don't teach them what they teach their own sons. look at the miserable smattering of general information--just enough to serve as sauce for their great first and last lesson of 'obey the powers that be'--whatever they be; leave us alone in our comforts, and starve patiently; do, like good boys, for it's god's will. and then, if a boy does show talent in school, do they help him up in life? not they; when he has just learnt enough to whet his appetite for more, they turn him adrift again, to sink and drudge--to do his duty, as they call it, in that state of life to which society and the devil have called him." "but there are innumerable stories of great englishmen who have risen from the lowest ranks." "ay; but where are the stories of those who have not risen--of all the noble geniuses who have ended in desperation, drunkenness, starvation, suicide, because no one would take the trouble of lifting them up, and enabling them to walk in the path which nature had marked out for them? dead men tell no tales; and this old whited sepulchre, society, ain't going to turn informer against itself." "i trust and hope," i said, sadly, "that if god intends me to rise, he will open the way for me; perhaps the very struggles and sorrows of a poor genius may teach him more than ever wealth and prosperity could." "true, alton, my boy! and that's my only comfort. it does make men of us, this bitter battle of life. we working men, when we do come out of the furnace, come out, not tinsel and papier mache, like those fops of red-tape statesmen, but steel and granite, alton, my boy--that has been seven times tried in the fire: and woe to the papier mache gentleman that runs against us! but," he went on, sadly, "for one who comes safe through the furnace, there are a hundred who crack in the burning. you are a young bear, my lad, with all your sorrows before you; and you'll find that a working man's training is like the red indian children's. the few who are strong enough to stand it grow up warriors; but all those who are not fire-and-water-proof by nature--just die, alton, my lad, and the tribe thinks itself well rid of them." so that conversation ended. but it had implanted in my bosom a new seed of mingled good and evil, which was destined to bear fruit, precious perhaps as well as bitter. god knows, it has hung on the tree long enough. sour and harsh from the first, it has been many a year in ripening. but the sweetness of the apple, the potency of the grape, as the chemists tell us, are born out of acidity--a developed sourness. will it be so with my thoughts? dare i assert, as i sit writing here, with the wild waters slipping past the cabin windows, backwards and backwards ever, every plunge of the vessel one forward leap from the old world--worn-out world i had almost called it, of sham civilization and real penury--dare i hope ever to return and triumph? shall i, after all, lay my bones among my own people, and hear the voices of freemen whisper in my dying ears? silence, dreaming heart! sufficient for the day is the evil thereof--and the good thereof also. would that i had known that before! above all, that i had known it on that night, when first the burning thought arose in my heart, that i was unjustly used; that society had not given me my rights. it came to me as a revelation, celestial-infernal, full of glorious hopes of the possible future in store for me through the perfect development of all my faculties; and full, too, of fierce present rage, wounded vanity, bitter grudgings against those more favoured than myself, which grew in time almost to cursing against the god who had made me a poor untutored working man, and seemed to have given me genius only to keep me in a tantalus' hell of unsatisfied thirst. ay, respectable gentlemen and ladies, i will confess all to you--you shall have, if you enjoy it, a fresh opportunity for indulging that supreme pleasure which the press daily affords you of insulting the classes whose powers most of you know as little as you do their sufferings. yes; the chartist poet is vain, conceited, ambitious, uneducated, shallow, inexperienced, envious, ferocious, scurrilous, seditious, traitorous.--is your charitable vocabulary exhausted? then ask yourselves, how often have you yourself honestly resisted and conquered the temptation to any one of these sins, when it has come across you just once in a way, and not as they came to me, as they come to thousands of the working men, daily and hourly, "till their torments do, by length of time, become their elements"? what, are we covetous too? yes! and if those who have, like you, still covet more, what wonder if those who have nothing covet something? profligate too? well, though that imputation as a generality is utterly calumnious, though your amount of respectable animal enjoyment per annum is a hundred times as great as that of the most self-indulgent artizan, yet, if you had ever felt what it is to want, not only every luxury of the senses, but even bread to eat, you would think more mercifully of the man who makes up by rare excesses, and those only of the limited kinds possible to him, for long intervals of dull privation, and says in his madness, "let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!" we have our sins, and you have yours. ours may be the more gross and barbaric, but yours are none the less damnable; perhaps all the more so, for being the sleek, subtle, respectable, religious sins they are. you are frantic enough, if our part of the press calls you hard names, but you cannot see that your part of the press repays it back to us with interest. _we_ see those insults, and feel them bitterly enough; and do not forget them, alas! soon enough, while they pass unheeded by your delicate eyes as trivial truisms. horrible, unprincipled, villanous, seditious, frantic, blasphemous, are epithets, of course, when applied to--to how large a portion of the english people, you will some day discover to your astonishment. when will that come, and how? in thunder, and storm, and garments rolled in blood? or like the dew on the mown grass, and the clear shining of the sunlight after april rain? yes, it was true. society had not given me my rights. and woe unto the man on whom that idea, true or false, rises lurid, filling all his thoughts with stifling glare, as of the pit itself. be it true, be it false, it is equally a woe to believe it; to have to live on a negation; to have to worship for our only idea, as hundreds of thousands of us have this day, the hatred, of the things which are. ay, though, one of us here and there may die in faith, in sight of the promised land, yet is it not hard, when looking from the top of pisgah into "the good time coming," to watch the years slipping away one by one, and death crawling nearer and nearer, and the people wearying themselves in the fire for very vanity, and jordan not yet passed, the promised land not yet entered? while our little children die around us, like lambs beneath the knife, of cholera and typhus and consumption, and all the diseases which the good time can and will prevent; which, as science has proved, and you the rich confess, might be prevented at once, if you dared to bring in one bold and comprehensive measure, and not sacrifice yearly the lives of thousands to the idol of vested interests, and a majority in the house. is it not hard to men who smart beneath such things to help crying aloud--"thou cursed moloch-mammon, take my life if thou wilt; let me die in the wilderness, for i have deserved it; but these little ones in mines and factories, in typhus-cellars, and tooting pandemoniums, what have they done? if not in their fathers' cause, yet still in theirs, were it so great a sin to die upon a barricade?" or after all, my working brothers, is it true of our promised land, even as of that jewish one of old, that the _priests'_ feet must first cross the mystic stream into the good land and large which god has prepared for us? is it so indeed? then in the name of the lord of hosts, ye priests of his, why will ye not awake, and arise, and go over jordan, that the people of the lord may follow you? chapter v. the sceptic's mother. my readers will perceive from what i have detailed, that i was not likely to get any positive ground of comfort from crossthwaite; and from within myself there was daily less and less hope of any. daily the struggle became more intolerable between my duty to my mother and my duty to myself--that inward thirst for mental self-improvement, which, without any clear consciousness of its sanctity or inspiration, i felt, and could not help feeling, that i _must_ follow. no doubt it was very self-willed and ambitious of me to do that which rich men's sons are flogged for not doing, and rewarded with all manner of prizes, scholarships, fellowships for doing. but the nineteenth year is a time of life at which self-will is apt to exhibit itself in other people besides tailors; and those religious persons who think it no sin to drive their sons on through classics and mathematics, in hopes of gaining them a station in life, ought not to be very hard upon me for driving myself on through the same path without any such selfish hope of gain--though perhaps the very fact of my having no wish or expectation of such advantage will constitute in their eyes my sin and folly, and prove that i was following the dictates merely of a carnal lust, and not of a proper worldly prudence. i really do not wish to be flippant or sneering. i have seen the evil of it as much as any man, in myself and in my own class. but there are excuses for such a fault in the working man. it does sour and madden him to be called presumptuous and ambitious for the very same aspirations which are lauded up to the skies in the sons of the rich--unless, indeed, he will do one little thing, and so make his peace with society. if he will desert his own class; if he will try to become a sham gentleman, a parasite, and, if he can, a mammonite, the world will compliment him on his noble desire to "_rise in life_." he will have won his spurs, and be admitted into that exclusive pale of knighthood, beyond which it is a sin to carry arms even in self-defence. but if the working genius dares to be true to his own class--to stay among them--to regenerate them--to defend them--to devote his talents to those among whom god placed him and brought him up--then he is the demagogue, the incendiary, the fanatic, the dreamer. so you would have the monopoly of talent, too, exclusive worldlings? and yet you pretend to believe in the miracle of pentecost, and the religion that was taught by the carpenter's son, and preached across the world by fishermen! i was several times minded to argue the question out with my mother, and assert for myself the same independence of soul which i was now earning for my body by my wages. once i had resolved to speak to her that very evening; but, strangely enough, happening to open the bible, which, alas! i did seldom at that time, my eye fell upon the chapter where jesus, after having justified to his parents his absence in the temple, while hearing the doctors and asking them questions, yet went down with them to nazareth after all, and was subject unto them. the story struck me vividly as a symbol of my own duties. but on reading further, i found more than one passage which seemed to me to convey a directly opposite lesson, where his mother and his brethren, fancying him mad, attempted to interfere with his labours, and asserting their family rights as reasons for retaining him, met with a peremptory rebuff. i puzzled my head for some time to find out which of the two cases was the more applicable to my state of self-development. the notion of asking for teaching from on high on such a point had never crossed me. indeed, if it had, i did not believe sufficiently either in the story or in the doctrines connected with it, to have tried such a resource. and so, as may be supposed, my growing self-conceit decided for me that the latter course was the fitting one. and yet i had not energy to carry it out. i was getting so worn out in body and mind from continual study and labour, stinted food and want of sleep, that i could not face the thought of an explosion, such as i knew must ensue, and i lingered on in the same unhappy state, becoming more and more morose in manner to my mother, while i was as assiduous as ever in all filial duties. but i had no pleasure in home. she seldom spoke to me. indeed, there was no common topic about which we could speak. besides, ever since that fatal sunday evening, i saw that she suspected me and watched me. i had good reason to believe that she set spies upon my conduct. poor dear mother! god forbid that i should accuse thee for a single care of thine, for a single suspicion even, prompted as they all were by a mother's anxious love. i would never have committed these things to paper, hadst thou not been far beyond the reach or hearing of them; and only now, in hopes that they may serve as a warning, in some degree to mothers, but ten times more to children. for i sinned against thee, deeply and shamefully, in thought and deed, while thou didst never sin against me; though all thy caution did but hasten the fatal explosion which came, and perhaps must have come, under some form or other, in any case. i had been detained one night in the shop till late; and on my return my mother demanded, in a severe tone, the reason of my stay; and on my telling her, answered as severely that she did not believe me; that she had too much reason to suspect that i had been with bad companions. "who dared to put such a thought into your head?" she "would not give up her authorities, but she had too much reason to believe them." again i demanded the name of my slanderer, and was refused it. and then. i burst out, for the first time in my life, into a real fit of rage with her. i cannot tell how i dared to say what i did, but i was weak, nervous, irritable--my brain excited beyond all natural tension. above all, i felt that she was unjust to me; and my good conscience, as well as my pride, rebelled. "you have never trusted me," i cried, "you have watched me--" "did you not deceive me once already?" "and if i did," i answered, more and more excited, "have i not slaved for you, stinted myself of clothes to pay your rent? have i not run to and fro for you like a slave, while i knew all the time you did not respect me or trust me? if you had only treated me as a child and an idiot, i could have borne it. but you have been thinking of me all the while as an incarnate fiend--dead in trespasses and sins--a child of wrath and the devil. what right have you to be astonished if i should do my father's works?" "you may be ignorant of vital religion," she answered; "and you may insult me. but if you make a mock of god's word, you leave my house. if you can laugh at religion, you can deceive me." the pent-up scepticism of years burst forth. "mother," i said, "don't talk to me about religion, and election, and conversion, and all that--i don't believe one word of it. nobody does, except good kind people--(like you, alas! i was going to say, but the devil stopped the words at my lips)--who must needs have some reason to account for their goodness. that bowyer--he's a soft heart by nature, and as he is, so he does--religion has had nothing to do with that, any more than it has with that black-faced, canting scoundrel who has been telling you lies about me. much his heart is changed. he carries sneak and slanderer written in his face--and sneak and slanderer he will be, elect or none. religion? nobody believes in it. the rich don't; or they wouldn't fill their churches up with pews, and shut the poor out, all the time they are calling them brothers. they believe the gospel? then why do they leave the men who make their clothes to starve in such hells on earth as our workroom? no more do the tradespeople believe in it; or they wouldn't go home from sermon to sand the sugar, and put sloe-leaves in the tea, and send out lying puffs of their vamped-up goods, and grind the last farthing out of the poor creatures who rent their wretched stinking houses. and as for the workmen--they laugh at it all, i can tell you. much good religion is doing for them! you may see it's fit only for women and children--for go where you will, church or chapel, you see hardly anything but bonnets and babies! i don't believe a word of it,--once and for all. i'm old enough to think for myself, and a free-thinker i will be, and believe nothing but what i know and understand." i had hardly spoken the words, when i would have given worlds to recall them--but it was to be--and it was. sternly she looked at me full in the face, till my eyes dropped before her gaze. then she spoke steadily and slowly: "leave this house this moment. you are no son of mine henceforward. do you think i will have my daughter polluted by the company of an infidel and a blasphemer?" "i will go," i answered fiercely; "i can get my own living at all events!" and before i had time to think, i had rushed upstairs, packed up my bundle, not forgetting the precious books, and was on my way through the frosty, echoing streets, under the cold glare of the winter's moon. i had gone perhaps half a mile, when the thought of home rushed over me--the little room where i had spent my life--the scene of all my childish joys and sorrows--which i should never see again, for i felt that my departure was for ever. then i longed to see my mother once again--not to speak to her--for i was at once too proud and too cowardly to do that--but to have a look at her through the window. one look--for all the while, though i was boiling over with rage and indignation, i felt that it was all on the surface--that in the depths of our hearts i loved her and she loved me. and yet i wished to be angry, wished to hate her. strange contradiction of the flesh and spirit! hastily and silently i retraced my steps to the house. the gate was padlocked. i cautiously stole over the palings to the window--the shutter was closed and fast. i longed to knock--i lifted my hand to the door, and dare not: indeed, i knew that it was useless, in my dread of my mother's habit of stern determination. that room--that mother i never saw again. i turned away; sickened at heart, i was clambering back again, looking behind me towards the window, when i felt a strong grip on my collar, and turning round, had a policeman's lantern flashed in my face. "hullo, young'un, and what do you want here?" with a strong emphasis, after the fashion of policemen, on all his pronouns. "hush! or you'll alarm my mother!" "oh! eh! forgot the latch-key, you sucking don juan, that's it, is it? late home from the victory?" i told him simply how the case stood, and entreated him to get me a night's lodging, assuring him that my mother would not admit me, or i ask to be admitted. the policeman seemed puzzled, but after scratching his hat in lieu of his head for some seconds, replied, "this here is the dodge--you goes outside and lies down on the kerb-stone; whereby i spies you a-sleeping in the streets, contrary to act o' parliament; whereby it is my duty to take you to the station-house; whereby you gets a night's lodging free gracious for nothing, and company perwided by her majesty." "oh, not to the station-house!" i cried in shame and terror. "werry well; then you must keep moving all night continually, whereby you avoids the hact; or else you goes to a twopenny-rope shop and gets a lie down. and your bundle you'd best leave at my house. twopenny-rope society a'n't particular. i'm going off my beat; you walk home with me and leave your traps. everybody knows me--costello, v , that's my number." so on i went with the kind-hearted man, who preached solemnly to me all the way on the fifth commandment. but i heard very little of it; for before i had proceeded a quarter of a mile, a deadly faintness and dizziness came over me, i staggered, and fell against the railings. "and have you been drinking arter all?" "i never--a drop in my life--nothing but bread-and-water this fortnight." and it was true. i had been paying for my own food, and had stinted myself to such an extent, that between starvation, want of sleep, and over-exertion, i was worn to a shadow, and the last drop had filled the cup; the evening's scene and its consequences had been too much for me, and in the middle of an attempt to explain matters to the policeman, i dropped on the pavement, bruising my face heavily. he picked me up, put me under one arm and my bundle under the other, and was proceeding on his march, when three men came rollicking up. "hullo, poleax--costello--what's that? work for us? a demp unpleasant body?" "oh, mr. bromley, sir! hope you're well, sir! werry rum go this here, sir! i finds this cove in the streets. he says his mother turned him out o' doors. he seems very fair spoken, and very bad in he's head, and very bad in he's chest, and very bad in he's legs, he does. and i can't come to no conclusions respecting my conduct in this here case, nohow!" "memorialize the health of towns commission," suggested one. "bleed him in the great toe," said the second. "put a blister on the back of his left eye-ball," said a third. "case of male asterisks," observed the first. "rj. aquæ pumpis puræ quantum suff. applicatur exterò pro re natâ. j. bromley, m.d., and don't he wish he may get through!"-- "tip us your daddle, my boy," said the second speaker. "i'll tell you what, bromley, this fellow's very bad. he's got no more pulse than the pimlico sewer. run in into the next pot'us. here--you lay hold of him, bromley--that last round with the cabman nearly put my humerus out." the huge, burly, pea-jacketed medical student--for such i saw at once he was--laid hold of me on the right tenderly enough, and walked me off between him and the policeman. i fell again into a faintness, from which i was awakened by being shoved through the folding-doors of a gin-shop, into a glare of light and hubbub of blackguardism, and placed on a settle, while my conductor called out-- "pots round, mary, and a go of brandy hot with, for the patient. here, young'un, toss it off, it'll make your hair grow." i feebly answered that i never had drunk anything stronger than water. "high time to begin, then; no wonder you're so ill. well, if you won't, i'll make you--" and taking my head under his arm, he seized me by the nose, while another poured the liquor down my throat--and certainly it revived me at once. a drunken drab pulled another drunken, drab off the settle to make room for the "poor young man"; and i sat there with a confused notion that something strange and dreadful had happened to me, while the party drained their respective quarts of porter, and talked over the last boat-race with the leander. "now then, gen'l'men," said the policeman, 'if you think he's recovered, we'll take him home to his mother; she ought for to take him in, surely." "yes, if she has as much heart in her as a dried walnut." but i resisted stoutly; though i longed to vindicate my mother's affection, yet i could not face her. i entreated to be taken to the station-house; threatened, in my desperation, to break the bar glasses, which, like doll tearsheet's abuse, only elicited from the policeman a solemn "very well"; and under the unwonted excitement of the brandy, struggled so fiercely, and talked so incoherently, that the medical students interfered. "we shall have this fellow in phrenitis, or laryngitis, or dothenenteritis, or some other itis, before long, if he's aggravated." "and whichever it is, it'll kill him. he has no more stamina left than a yard of pump water." "i should consider him chargeable to the parish," suggested the bar-keeper. "exactually so, my solomon of licensed victuallers. get a workhouse order for him, costello." "and i should consider, also, sir," said the licensed victualler, with increased importance, "having been a guardian myself, and knowing the hact, as the parish couldn't refuse, because they're in power to recover all hexpenses out of his mother." "to be sure; it's all the unnatural old witch's fault." "no, it is not," said i, faintly. "wait till your opinion's asked, young'un. go kick up the authorities, policeman." "now, i'll just tell you how that'll work, gemmen," answered the policeman, solemnly. "i goes to the overseer--werry good sort o' man--but he's in bed. i knocks for half an hour. he puts his nightcap out o' windy, and sends me to the relieving-officer. werry good sort o' man he too; but he's in bed. i knocks for another half-hour. he puts his nightcap out o' windy--sends me to the medical officer for a certificate. medical officer's gone to a midwifery case. i hunts him for an hour or so. he's got hold of a babby with three heads, or summat else; and two more women a-calling out for him like blazes. 'he'll come to-morrow morning.' now, i just axes your opinion of that there most procrastinationest go." the big student, having cursed the parochial authorities in general, offered to pay for my night's lodging at the public-house. the good man of the house demurred at first, but relented on being reminded of the value of a medical student's custom: whereon, without more ado, two of the rough diamonds took me between them, carried me upstairs, undressed me, and put me to bed, as tenderly as if they had been women. "he'll have the tantrums before morning, i'm afraid," said one. "very likely to turn to typhus," said the other. "well, i suppose--it's a horrid bore, but "what must be must; man is but dust, if you can't get crumb, you must just eat crust. "send me up a go of hot with, and i'll sit up with him till he's asleep, dead, or better." "well, then, i'll stay too; we may just as well make a night of it here as well as anywhere else." and he pulled a short black pipe out of his pocket, and sat down to meditate with his feet on the hobs of the empty grate; the other man went down for the liquor; while i, between the brandy and exhaustion, fell fast asleep, and never stirred till i woke the next morning with a racking headache, and saw the big student standing by my bedside, having, as i afterwards heard, sat by me till four in the morning. "hallo, young'un, come to your senses? headache, eh? slightly comato-crapulose? we'll give you some soda and salvolatile, and i'll pay for your breakfast." and so he did, and when he was joined by his companions on their way to st. george's, they were very anxious, having heard my story, to force a few shillings on me "for luck," which, i need not say, i peremptorily refused, assuring them that i could and would get my own living, and never take a farthing from any man. "that's a plucky dog, though he's a tailor," i heard them say, as, after overwhelming them with thanks, and vowing, amid shouts of laughter, to repay them every farthing i had cost them, i took my way, sick and stunned, towards my dear old sandy mackaye's street. rough diamonds indeed! i have never met you again, but i have not forgotten you. your early life may be a coarse, too often a profligate one--but you know the people, and the people know you: and your tenderness and care, bestowed without hope of repayment, cheers daily many a poor soul in hospital wards and fever-cellars--to meet its reward some day at the people's hands. you belong to us at heart, as the paris barricades can tell. alas! for the society which stifles in after-life too many of your better feelings, by making you mere flunkeys and parasites, dependent for your livelihood on the caprices and luxuries of the rich. chapter vi. the dulwich gallery. sandy mackaye received me in a characteristic way--growled at me for half an hour for quarrelling with my mother, and when i was at my wit's end, suddenly offered me a bed in his house and the use of his little sitting-room--and, bliss too great to hope! of his books also; and when i talked of payment, told me to hold my tongue and mind my own business. so i settled myself at once; and that very evening he installed himself as my private tutor, took down a latin book, and set me to work on it. "an' mind ye, laddie," said he, half in jest and half in earnest, "gin i find ye playing truant, and reading a' sorts o' nonsense instead of minding the scholastic methods and proprieties, i'll just bring ye in a bill at the year's end o' twa guineas a week for lodgings and tuition, and tak' the law o' ye; so mind and read what i tell ye. do you comprehend noo?" i did comprehend, and obeyed him, determining to repay him some day--and somehow--how i did not very clearly see. thus i put myself more or less into the old man's power; foolishly enough the wise world will say. but i had no suspicion in my character; and i could not look at those keen grey eyes, when, after staring into vacancy during some long preachment, they suddenly flashed round at me, and through me, full of fun and quaint thought, and kindly earnestness, and fancy that man less honest than his face seemed to proclaim him. by-the-by, i have as yet given no description of the old eccentric's abode--an unpardonable omission, i suppose, in these days of dutch painting and boz. but the omission was correct, both historically and artistically, for i had as yet only gone to him for books, books, nothing but books; and i had been blind to everything in his shop but that fairy-land of shelves, filled, in my simple fancy, with inexhaustible treasures, wonder-working, omnipotent, as the magic seal of solomon. it was not till i had been settled and at work for several nights in his sanctum, behind the shop, that i began to become conscious what a strange den that sanctum was. it was so dark, that without a gaslight no one but he could see to read there, except on very sunny days. not only were the shelves which covered every inch of wall crammed with books and pamphlets, but the little window was blocked up with them, the floor was piled with bundles of them, in some places three feet deep, apparently in the wildest confusion--though there was some mysterious order in them which he understood, and symbolized, i suppose, by the various strange and ludicrous nicknames on their tickets--for he never was at fault a moment if a customer asked for a book, though it were buried deep in the chaotic stratum. out of this book alluvium a hole seemed to have been dug near the fireplace, just big enough to hold his arm-chair and a table, book-strewn like everything else, and garnished with odds and ends of mss., and a snuffer-tray containing scraps of half-smoked tobacco, "pipe-dottles," as he called them, which were carefully resmoked over and over again, till nothing but ash was left. his whole culinary utensils--for he cooked as well as eat in this strange hole--were an old rusty kettle, which stood on one hob, and a blue plate which, when washed, stood on the other. a barrel of true aberdeen meal peered out of a corner, half buried in books, and a "keg o' whusky, the gift o' freens," peeped in like case out of another. this was his only food. "it was a' poison," he used to say, "in london. bread full o' alum and bones, and sic filth--meat over-driven till it was a' braxy--water sopped wi' dead men's juice. naething was safe but gude scots parrich and athol brose." he carried his water-horror so far as to walk some quarter of a mile every morning to fill his kettle at a favourite pump. "was he a cannibal, to drink out o' that pump hard-by, right under the kirkyard?" but it was little he either ate or drank--he seemed to live upon tobacco. from four in the morning till twelve at night, the pipe never left his lips, except when he went into the outer shop. "it promoted meditation, and drove awa' the lusts o' the flesh. ech! it was worthy o' that auld tyrant, jamie, to write his counter-blast to the poor man's freen! the hypocrite! to gang preaching the virtues o' evil-savoured smoke 'ad dæmones abigendos,--and then rail again tobacco, as if it was no as gude for the purpose as auld rags and horn shavings!" sandy mackaye had a great fancy for political caricatures, rows of which, there being no room for them on the walls, hung on strings from the ceiling--like clothes hung out to dry--and among them dangled various books to which he had taken an antipathy, principally high tory and benthamite, crucified, impaled through their covers, and suspended in all sorts of torturing attitudes. among them, right over the table, figured a copy of icon basilike dressed up in a paper shirt, all drawn over with figures of flames and devils, and surmounted by a peaked paper cap, like a victim at an _auto-da-fé_. and in the midst of all this chaos grinned from the chimney-piece, among pipes and pens, pinches of salt and scraps of butter, a tall cast of michael angelo's well-known skinless model--his pristine white defaced by a cap of soot upon the top of his scalpless skull, and every muscle and tendon thrown into horrible relief by the dirt which had lodged among the cracks. there it stood, pointing with its ghastly arm towards the door, and holding on its wrist a label with the following inscription:-- here stand i, the working man, get more off me if you can. i questioned mackaye one evening about those hanged and crucified books, and asked him if he ever sold any of them. "ou, ay," he said; "if folks are fools enough to ask for them, i'll just answer a fool according to his folly." "but," i said, "mr. mackaye, do you think it right to sell books of the very opinions of which you disapprove so much?" "hoot, laddie, it's just a spoiling o' the egyptians; so mind yer book, and dinna tak in hand cases o' conscience for ither folk. yell ha' wark eneugh wi' yer ain before ye're dune." and he folded round his knees his joseph's coat, as he called it, an old dressing-gown with one plaid sleeve, and one blue one, red shawl-skirts, and a black broadcloth back, not to mention, innumerable patches of every imaginable stuff and colour, filled his pipe, and buried his nose in "harrington's oceana." he read at least twelve hours every day of his life, and that exclusively old history and politics, though his favourite books were thomas carlyle's works. two or three evenings in the week, when he had seen me safe settled at my studies, he used to disappear mysteriously for several hours, and it was some time before i found out, by a chance expression, that he was attending some meeting or committee of working-men. i begged him to take me there with him. but i was stopped by a laconic answer-- "when ye're ready." "and when shall i be ready, mr. mackaye?" "read yer book till i tell ye." and he twisted himself into his best coat, which had once been black, squeezed on his little scotch cap, and went out. * * * * * i now found myself, as the reader may suppose, in an element far more congenial to my literary tastes, and which compelled far less privation of sleep and food in order to find time and means for reading; and my health began to mend from the very first day. but the thought of my mother haunted me; and mackaye seemed in no hurry to let me escape from it, for he insisted on my writing to her in a penitent strain, informing her of my whereabouts, and offering to return home if she should wish it. with feelings strangely mingled between the desire of seeing her again and the dread of returning to the old drudgery of surveillance, i sent the letter, and waited the whole week without any answer. at last, one evening, when i returned from work, sandy seemed in a state of unusual exhilaration. he looked at me again and again, winking and chuckling to himself in a way which showed me that his good spirits had something to do with my concerns: but he did not open on the subject till i had settled to my evening's reading. then, having brewed himself an unusually strong mug of whisky-toddy, and brought out with great ceremony a clean pipe, he commenced. "alton, laddie, i've been fiechting philistines for ye the day." "ah! have you heard from my mother?" "i wadna say that exactly; but there's been a gran bailie body wi' me that calls himsel' your uncle, and a braw young callant, a bairn o' his, i'm thinking." "ah! that's my cousin--george; and tell me--do tell me, what you said to them." "ou--that'll be mair concern o' mine than o' yourn. but ye're no going back to your mither." my heart leapt up with--joy; there is no denying it--and then i burst into tears. "and she won't see me? has she really cast me off?" "why, that'll be verra much as ye prosper, i'm thinking. ye're an unaccreedited hero, the noo, as thomas carlyle has it. 'but gin ye do weel by yoursel', saith the psalmist, 'ye'll find a' men speak well o' ye'--if ye gang their gate. but ye're to gang to see your uncle at his shop o' monday next, at one o'clock. now stint your greeting, and read awa'." on the next monday i took a holiday, the first in which i had ever indulged myself; and having spent a good hour in scrubbing away at my best shoes and sunday suit, started, in fear and trembling, for my uncle's "establishment." i was agreeably surprised, on being shown into the little back office at the back of the shop, to meet with a tolerably gracious reception from the good-natured mammonite. he did not shake hands with me, it is true;--was i not a poor relation? but he told me to sit down, commended me for the excellent character which he had of me both from my master and mackaye, and then entered on the subject of my literary tastes. he heard i was a precious clever fellow. no wonder, i came of a clever stock; his poor dear brother had plenty of brains for everything but business. "and you see, my boy" (with a glance at the big ledgers and busy shop without), "i knew a thing or two in my time, or i should not have been here. but without capital, _i_ think brains a curse. still we must make the best of a bad matter; and if you are inclined to help to raise the family name--not that i think much of book writers myself--poor starving devils, half of them--but still people do talk about them--and a man might get a snug thing as newspaper editor, with interest; or clerk to something or other--always some new company in the wind now--and i should have no objection, if you seemed likely to do us credit, to speak a word for you. i've none of your mother's confounded puritanical notions, i can tell you; and, what's more, i have, thank heaven, as fine a city connexion as any man. but you must mind and make yourself a good accountant--learn double entry on the italian method--that's a good practical study; and if that old sawney is soft enough to teach you other things gratis, he may as well teach you that too. i'll bet he knows something about it--the old scotch fox. there now--that'll do--there's five shillings for you--mind you don't lose them--and if i hear a good account of you, why, perhaps--but there's no use making promises." at this moment a tall handsome young man, whom i did not at first recognize as my cousin george, swung into the office, and shook me cordially by the hand. "hullo, alton, how are you? why, i hear you're coming out as a regular genius--breaking out in a new place, upon my honour! have you done with him, governor?" "well, i think i have. i wish you'd have a talk with him, my boy. i'm sorry i can't see more of him, but i have to meet a party on business at the west-end at two, and alderman tumbril and family dine with us this evening, don't they? i think our small table will be full." "of course it will. come along with me, and we'll have a chat in some quiet out-of-the-way place. this city is really so noisy that you can't hear your own ears, as our dean says in lecture." so he carried me off, down back streets and alleys, a little puzzled at the extreme cordiality of his manner. perhaps it sprung, as i learned afterward to suspect, from his consistent and perpetual habit of ingratiating himself with every one whom he approached. he never cut a chimney-sweep if he knew him. and he found it pay. the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light. perhaps it sprung also, as i began to suspect in the first hundred yards of our walk, from the desire of showing off before me the university clothes, manners, and gossip, which he had just brought back with him from cambridge. i had not seen him more than three or four times in my life before, and then he appeared to me merely a tall, handsome, conceited, slangy boy. but i now found him much improved--in all externals at least. he had made it his business, i knew, to perfect himself in all athletic pursuits which were open to a londoner. as he told me that day--he found it pay, when one got among gentlemen. thus he had gone up to cambridge a capital skater, rower, pugilist--and billiard player. whether or not that last accomplishment ought to be classed in the list of athletic sports, he contrived, by his own account, to keep it in that of paying ones. in both these branches he seemed to have had plenty of opportunities of distinguishing himself at college; and his tall, powerful figure showed the fruit of these exercises in a stately and confident, almost martial, carriage. something jaunty, perhaps swaggering, remained still in his air and dress, which yet sat not ungracefully on him; but i could see that he had been mixing in society more polished and artificial than that to which we had either of us been accustomed, and in his smart rochester, well-cut trousers, and delicate french boots, he excited, i will not deny it, my boyish admiration and envy. "well," he said, as soon as we were out of the shop, "which way? got a holiday? and how did you intend to spend it?" "i wanted very much," i said, meekly, "to see the pictures at the national gallery." "oh! ah! pictures don't pay; but, if you like--much better ones at dulwich--that's the place to go to--you can see the others any day--and at dulwich, you know, they've got--why let me see--" and he ran over half-a-dozen outlandish names of painters, which, as i have never again met with them, i am inclined on the whole to consider as somewhat extemporaneous creations. however, i agreed to go. "ah! capital--very nice quiet walk, and convenient for me--very little out of my way home. i'll walk there with you." "one word for your neighbour and two for yourself," thought i; but on we walked. to see good pictures had been a long cherished hope of mine. everything beautiful in form or colour was beginning of late to have an intense fascination for me. i had, now that i was emancipated, gradually dared to feed my greedy eyes by passing stares into the print-shop windows, and had learnt from them a thousand new notions, new emotions, new longings after beauties of nature, which seemed destined never to be satisfied. but pictures, above all, foreign ones, had been in my mother's eyes, anathema maranatha, as vile popish and pagan vanities, the rags of the scarlet woman no less than the surplice itself--and now, when it came to the point, i hesitated at an act of such awful disobedience, even though unknown to her. my cousin, however, laughed down my scruples, told me i was out of leading-strings now, and, which was true enough, that it was "a * * * * deal better to amuse oneself in picture galleries without leave, than live a life of sneaking and lying under petticoat government, as all home-birds were sure to do in the long-run." and so i went on, while my cousin kept up a running fire of chat the whole way, intermixing shrewd, bold observations upon every woman who passed, with sneers at the fellows of the college to which we were going--their idleness and luxury--the large grammar-school which they were bound by their charter to keep up, and did not--and hints about private interest in high quarters, through which their wealthy uselessness had been politely overlooked, when all similar institutions in the kingdom were subject to the searching examination of a government commission. then there were stories of boat-races and gay noblemen, breakfast parties, and lectures on greek plays flavoured with a spice of cambridge slang, all equally new to me--glimpses into a world of wonders, which made me feel, as i shambled along at his side, trying to keep step with his strides, more weakly and awkward and ignorant than ever. we entered the gallery. i was in a fever of expectation. the rich sombre light of the rooms, the rich heavy warmth of the stove-heated air, the brilliant and varied colouring and gilded frames which embroidered the walls, the hushed earnestness of a few artists, who were copying, and the few visitors who were lounging from picture to picture, struck me at once with mysterious awe. but my attention was in a moment concentrated on one figure opposite to me at the furthest end. i hurried straight towards it. when i had got half-way up the gallery i looked round for my cousin. he had turned aside to some picture of a venus which caught my eye also, but which, i remember now, only raised in me then a shudder and a blush, and a fancy that the clergymen must be really as bad as my mother had taught me to believe, if they could allow in their galleries pictures of undressed women. i have learnt to view such things differently now, thank god. i have learnt that to the pure all things are pure. i have learnt the meaning of that great saying--the foundation of all art, as well as all modesty, all love, which tells us how "the man and his wife were both naked, and not ashamed." but this book is the history of my mental growth; and my mistakes as well as my discoveries are steps in that development, and may bear a lesson in them. how i have rambled! but as that day was the turning-point of my whole short life, i may be excused for lingering upon every feature of it. timidly, but eagerly, i went up to the picture, and stood entranced before it. it was guido's st. sebastian. all the world knows the picture, and all the world knows, too, the defects of the master, though in this instance he seems to have risen above himself, by a sudden inspiration, into that true naturalness, which is the highest expression of the spiritual. but the very defects of the picture, its exaggeration, its theatricality, were especially calculated to catch the eye of a boy awaking out of the narrow dulness of puritanism. the breadth and vastness of light and shade upon those manly limbs, so grand and yet so delicate, standing out against the background of lurid night, the helplessness of the bound arms, the arrow quivering in the shrinking side, the upturned brow, the eyes in whose dark depths enthusiastic faith seemed conquering agony and shame, the parted lips, which seemed to ask, like those martyrs in the revelations, reproachful, half-resigned, "o lord, how long?"--gazing at that picture since, i have understood how the idolatry of painted saints could arise in the minds even of the most educated, who were not disciplined by that stern regard for fact which is--or ought to be--the strength of englishmen. i have understood the heart of that italian girl, whom some such picture of st. sebastian, perhaps this very one, excited, as the venus of praxiteles the grecian boy, to hopeless love, madness, and death. then i had never heard of st. sebastian. i did not dream of any connexion between that, or indeed any picture, and christianity; and yet, as i stood before it, i seemed to be face to face with the ghosts of my old puritan forefathers, to see the spirit which supported them on pillories and scaffolds--the spirit of that true st. margaret, the scottish maiden whom claverhouse and his soldiers chained to a post on the sea-sands to die by inches in the rising tide, till the sound of her hymns was slowly drowned in the dash of the hungry leaping waves. my heart swelled within me, my eyes seemed bursting from my head with the intensity of my gaze, and great tears, i knew not why, rolled slowly down my face. a woman's voice close to me, gentle yet of deeper tone than most, woke me from my trance. "you seem to be deeply interested in that picture?" i looked round, yet not at the speaker. my eyes before they could meet hers, were caught by an apparition the most beautiful i had ever yet beheld. and what--what--have i seen equal to her since? strange, that i should love to talk of her. strange, that i fret at myself now because i cannot set down on paper line by line, and hue by hue, that wonderful loveliness of which--. but no matter. had i but such an imagination as petrarch, or rather, perhaps, had i his deliberate cold self-consciousness, what volumes of similes and conceits i might pour out, connecting that peerless face and figure with all lovely things which heaven and earth contain. as it is, because i cannot say all, i will say nothing, but repeat to the end again and again, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beyond all statue, picture, or poet's dream. seventeen--slight but rounded, a masque and features delicate and regular, as if fresh from the chisel of praxiteles--i must try to describe after all, you see--a skin of alabaster (privet-flowers, horace and ariosto would have said, more true to nature), stained with the faintest flush; auburn hair, with that peculiar crisped wave seen in the old italian pictures, and the warm, dark hazel eyes which so often accompany it; lips like a thread of vermillion, somewhat too thin, perhaps--but i thought little of that then; with such perfect finish and grace in every line and hue of her features and her dress, down to the little fingers and nails, which showed through her thin gloves, that she seemed to my fancy fresh from the innermost chamber of some enchanted palace, "where no air of heaven could visit her cheek too roughly." i dropped my eyes quite dazzled. the question was repeated by a lady who stood with her, whose face i remarked then--as i did to the last, alas!--too little; dazzled at the first by outward beauty, perhaps because so utterly unaccustomed to it. "it is indeed a wonderful picture," i said, timidly. "may i ask what is the subject of it?" "oh! don't you know?" said the young beauty, with a smile that thrilled through me. "it is st. sebastian." "i--i am very much ashamed," i answered, colouring up, "but i do not know who st. sebastian was. was he a popish saint?" a tall, stately old man, who stood with the two ladies, laughed kindly. "no, not till they made him one against his will; and at the same time, by putting him into the mill which grinds old folks young again, converted him from a grizzled old roman tribune into the young apollo of popery." "you will puzzle your hearer, my dear uncle," said the same deep-toned woman's voice which had first spoken to me. "as you volunteered the saint's name, lillian, you shall also tell his history." simply and shortly, with just feeling enough to send through me a fresh thrill of delighted interest, without trenching the least on the most stately reserve, she told me the well known history of the saint's martyrdom. if i seem minute in my description, let those who read my story remember that such courteous dignity, however natural, i am bound to believe, it is to them, was to me an utterly new excellence in human nature. all my mother's spartan nobleness of manner seemed unexpectedly combined with all my little sister's careless ease. "what a beautiful poem the story would make!" said i, as soon as i recovered my thoughts. "well spoken, young man," answered the old gentleman. "let us hope that your seeing a subject for a good poem will be the first step towards your writing one." as he spoke, he bent on me two clear grey eyes, full of kindliness, mingled with practised discernment. i saw that he was evidently a clergyman; but what his tight silk stockings and peculiar hat denoted i did not know. there was about him the air of a man accustomed equally to thought, to men, and to power. and i remarked somewhat maliciously, that my cousin, who had strutted up towards us on seeing me talking to two ladies, the instant he caught sight of those black silk stockings and that strange hat, fell suddenly in countenance, and sidling off somewhat meekly into the background, became absorbed in the examination of a holy family. i answered something humbly, i forget what, which led to a conversation. they questioned me as to my name, my mother, my business, my studies; while i revelled in the delight of stolen glances at my new-found venus victrix, who was as forward as any of them in her questions and her interest. perhaps she enjoyed, at least she could not help seeing, the admiration for herself which i took no pains to conceal. at last the old man cut the conversation short by a quiet "good morning, sir," which astonished me. i had never heard words whose tone was so courteous and yet so chillingly peremptory. as they turned away, he repeated to himself once or twice, as if to fix them in his mind, my name and my master's, and awoke in me, perhaps too thoughtlessly, a tumult of vain hopes. once and again the beauty and her companion looked back towards me, and seemed talking of me, and my face was burning scarlet, when my cousin swung up in his hard, off-hand way. "by jove, alton, my boy! you're a knowing fellow. i congratulate you! at your years, indeed! to rise a dean and two beauties at the first throw, and hook them fast!" "a dean!" i said, in some trepidation. "ay, a live dean--didn't you see the cloven foot sticking out from under his shoe-buckle? what news for your mother! what will the ghosts of your grandfathers to the seventh generation say to this, alton? colloquing in pagan picture galleries with shovel-hatted philistines! and that's not the worst, alton," he ran on. "those daughters of moab--those daughters of moab--." "hold your tongue," i said, almost crying with vexation. "look there, if you want to save your good temper. there, she is looking back again--not at poor me, though. what a lovely girl she is!--and a real lady--_l'air noble_--the real genuine grit, as sam slick says, and no mistake. by jove, what a face! what hands! what feet! what a figure--in spite of crinolines and all abominations! and didn't she know it? and didn't she know that you knew it too?" and he ran on descanting coarsely on beauties which i dared not even have profaned by naming, in a way that made me, i knew not why, mad with jealousy and indignation. she seemed mine alone in all the world. what right had any other human being, above all, he, to dare to mention her? i turned again to my st. sebastian. that movement only brought on me a fresh volley of banter. "oh, that's the dodge, is it, to catch intellectual fine ladies?--to fall into an ecstatic attitude before a picture--but then we must have alton's genius, you know, to find out which the fine pictures are. i must read up that subject, by-the-by. it might be a paying one among the dons. for the present, here goes in for an attitude. will this do, alton?" and he arranged himself admiringly before the picture in an attitude so absurd and yet so graceful, that i did not know whether to laugh at him or hate him. "at all events," he added, dryly, "it will be as good as playing the evangelical at carus's tea-parties, or taking the sacrament regularly for fear one's testimonials should be refused." and then he looked at me, and through me, in his intense, confident way, to see that his hasty words had not injured him with me. he used to meet one's eye as boldly as any man i ever saw; but it was not the simple gaze of honesty and innocence, but an imperious, searching look, as if defying scrutiny. his was a true mesmeric eye, if ever there was one. no wonder it worked the miracles it did. "come along," he said, suddenly seizing my arm. "don't you see they're leaving? out of the gallery after them, and get a good look at the carriage and the arms upon it. i saw one standing there as we came in. it may pay us--you, that is--to know it again." we went out, i holding him back, i knew not why, and arrived at the outer gate just in time to see them enter the carriage and drive off. i gazed to the last, but did not stir. "good boy," he said, "knowing still. if you had bowed, or showed the least sign of recognition, you would have broken the spell." but i hardly heard what he said, and stood gazing stupidly after the carriage as it disappeared. i did not know then what had happened to me. i know now, alas! too well. chapter vii. first love. truly i said, i did not know what had happened to me. i did not attempt to analyse the intense, overpowering instinct which from that moment made the lovely vision i had seen the lodestar of all my thoughts. even now, i can see nothing in those feelings of mine but simple admiration--idolatry, if you will--of physical beauty. doubtless there was more--doubtless--i had seen pretty faces before, and knew that they were pretty, but they had passed from my retina, like the prints of beauties which i saw in the shop windows, without exciting a thought--even a conscious emotion of complacency. but this face did not pass away. day and night i saw it, just as i had seen it in the gallery. the same playful smile--the same glance alternately turned to me, and the glowing picture above her head--and that was all i saw or felt. no child ever nestled upon its mother's shoulder with feelings more celestially pure, than those with which i counted over day and night each separate lineament of that exceeding loveliness. romantic? extravagant? yes; if the world be right in calling a passion romantic just in proportion as it is not merely hopeless, but pure and unselfish, drawing its delicious power from no hope or faintest desire of enjoyment, but merely from simple delight in its object--then my passion was most romantic. i never thought of disparity in rank. why should i? that could not blind the eyes of my imagination. she was beautiful, and that was all, and all in all to me; and had our stations been exchanged, and more than exchanged; had i been king cophetua, or she the beggar-maid, i should have gloried in her just as much. beloved sleepless hours, which i spent in picturing that scene to myself, with all the brilliance of fresh recollection! beloved hours! how soon you pass away! soon--soon my imagination began to fade; the traces of her features on my mind's eye became confused and dim; and then came over me the fierce desire to see her again, that i might renew the freshness of that charming image. thereon grew up an agony of longing--an agony of weeks, and months, and years. where could i find that face again? was my ruling thought from morning till eve. i knew that it was hopeless to look for her at the gallery where i had first seen her. my only hope was, that at some place of public resort at the west end i might catch, if but for a moment, an inspiring glance of that radiant countenance. i lingered round the burton arch and hyde park gate--but in vain. i peered into every carriage, every bonnet that passed me in the thoroughfares--in vain. i stood patiently at the doors of exhibitions and concerts, and playhouses, to be shoved back by policemen, and insulted by footmen--but in vain. then i tried the fashionable churches, one by one; and sat in the free seats, to listen to prayers and sermons, not a word of which, alas! i cared to understand, with my eyes searching carefully every pew and gallery, face by face; always fancying, in self-torturing waywardness, that she might be just in the part of the gallery which i could not see. oh! miserable days of hope deferred, making the heart sick! miserable gnawing of disappointment with which i returned at nightfall, to force myself down to my books! equally miserable rack of hope on which my nerves were stretched every morning when i rose, counting the hours till my day's work should be over, and my mad search begin again! at last "my torment did by length of time become my element." i returned steadily as ever to the studies which i had at first neglected, much to mackaye's wonder and disgust; and a vain hunt after that face became a part of my daily task, to be got through with the same dull, sullen effort, with which all i did was now transacted. mackaye, i suppose, at first, attributed my absences and idleness to my having got into bad company. but it was some weeks before he gently enough told me his suspicions, and they were answered by a burst of tears, and a passionate denial, which set them at rest forever. but i had not courage to tell him what was the matter with me. a sacred modesty, as well as a sense of the impossibility of explaining my emotions, held me back. i had a half-dread, too, to confess the whole truth, of his ridiculing a fancy, to say the least, so utterly impracticable; and my only confidant was a picture in the national gallery, in one of the faces of which i had discovered some likeness to my venus; and there i used to go and stand at spare half hours, and feel the happier for staring and staring, and whispering to the dead canvas the extravagances of my idolatry. but soon the bitter draught of disappointment began to breed harsher thoughts in me. those fine gentlemen who rode past me in the park, who rolled by in carriages, sitting face to face with ladies, as richly dressed, if not as beautiful, as she was--they could see her when they liked--why not i? what right had their eyes to a feast denied to mine? they, too, who did not appreciate, adore that beauty as i did--for who could worship her like me? at least they had not suffered for her as i had done; they had not stood in rain and frost, fatigue, and blank despair--watching--watching--month after month; and i was making coats for them! the very garment i was stitching at, might, in a day's time, be in her presence--touching her dress; and its wearer bowing, and smiling, and whispering--he had not bought that bliss by watching in the ram. it made me mad to think of it. i will say no more about it. that is a period of my life on which i cannot even now look back without a shudder. at last, after perhaps a year or more, i summoned up courage to tell my story to sandy mackaye, and burst out with complaints more pardonable, perhaps, than reasonable. "why have i not as good a right to speak to her, to move in the same society in which she moves, as any of the fops of the day? is it because these aristocrats are more intellectual than i? i should not fear to measure brains against most of them now; and give me the opportunities which they have, and i would die if i did not outstrip them. why have i not those opportunities? is that fault of others to be visited on me? is it because they are more refined than i? what right have they, if this said refinement be so necessary a qualification, a difference so deep--that, without it, there is to be an everlasting gulf between man and man--what right have they to refuse to let me share in it, to give me the opportunity of acquiring it?" "wad ye ha' them set up a dancing academy for working men, wi' 'manners tocht here to the lower classes'? they'll no break up their ain monopoly; trust them for it! na: if ye want to get amang them, i'll tell ye the way o't. write a book o' poems, and ca' it 'a voice fra' the goose, by a working tailor'--and then--why, after a dizen years or so of starving and scribbling for your bread, ye'll ha' a chance o' finding yoursel' a lion, and a flunkey, and a licker o' trenchers--ane that jokes for his dinner, and sells his soul for a fine leddy's smile--till ye presume to think they're in earnest, and fancy yoursel' a man o' the same blude as they, and fa' in love wi' one o' them--and then they'll teach you your level, and send ye off to gauge whusky like burns, or leave ye' to die in a ditch as they did wi' puir thom." "let me die, anywhere or anyhow, if i can but be near her--see her--" "married to anither body?--and nursing anither body's bairns. ah boy, boy--do ye think that was what ye were made for; to please yersel wi' a woman's smiles, or e'en a woman's kisses--or to please yersel at all? how do ye expect ever to be happy, or strong, or a man at a', as long as ye go on looking to enjoy yersel--yersel? i ha' tried it. mony was the year i looked for nought but my ain pleasure, and got it too, when it was a' "sandy mackaye, bonny sandy mackaye, there he sits singing the lang simmer's day; lassies gae to him, and kiss him, and woo him-- na bird is sa merry as sandy mackaye. "an' muckle good cam' o't. ye may fancy i'm talking like a sour, disappointed auld carle. but i tell ye nay. i've got that's worth living for, though i am downhearted at times, and fancy a's wrong, and there's na hope for us on earth, we be a' sic liars--a' liars, i think: 'a universal liars--rock substrawtum,' as mr. carlyle says. i'm a great liar often mysel, especially when i'm praying. do ye think i'd live on here in this meeserable crankit auld bane-barrel o' a body, if it was not for the cause, and for the puir young fellows that come in to me whiles to get some book-learning about the gran' auld roman times, when folks didna care for themselves, but for the nation, and a man counted wife and bairns and money as dross and dung, in comparison wi' the great roman city, that was the mither o' them a', and wad last on, free and glorious, after they and their bairns were a' dead thegither? hoot, man! if i had na the cause to care for and to work for, whether i ever see it triumphant on earth or no--i'd just tak' the cauld-water-cure off waterloo-bridge, and mak' mysel a case for the humane society." "and what is the cause?" i asked. "wud i tell ye? we want no ready-made freens o' the cause. i dinna hauld wi' thae french indoctrinating pedants, that took to stick free opinions into a man as ye'd stick pins into a pincushion, to fa' out again the first shake. na--the cause must find a man, and tak' hauld o' him, willy-nilly, and grow up in him like an inspiration, till he can see nocht but in the light o't. puir bairn!" he went on, looking with a half-sad, half-comic face at me--"puir bairn--like a young bear, wi' a' your sorrows before ye! this time seven years ye'll ha' no need to come speering and questioning what the cause is, and the gran' cause, and the only cause worth working for on the earth o' god. and noo gang your gate, and mak' fine feathers for foul birds. i'm gaun whar ye'll be ganging too, before lang." as i went sadly out of the shop, he called me back. "stay a wee, bairn; there's the roman history for ye. there ye'll read what the cause is, and how they that seek their ain are no worthy thereof." i took the book, and found in the legends of brutus, and cocles, and scævola, and the retreat to the mons sacer, and the gladiator's war, what the cause was, and forgot awhile in those tales of antique heroism and patriotic self-sacrifice my own selfish longings and sorrows. * * * * * but, after all, the very advice which was meant to cure me of those selfish longings, only tended, by diverting me from my living outward idol, to turn my thoughts more than ever inward, and tempt them to feed on their own substance. i passed whole days on the workroom floor in brooding silence--my mind peopled with an incoherent rabble of phantasms patched up from every object of which i had ever read. i could not control my daydreams; they swept me away with them over sea and land, and into the bowels of the earth. my soul escaped on every side from my civilized dungeon of brick and mortar, into the great free world from which my body was debarred. now i was the corsair in the pride of freedom on the dark blue sea. now i wandered in fairy caverns among the bones of primæval monsters. i fought at the side of leonidas, and the maccabee who stabbed the sultan's elephant, and saw him crushed beneath its falling bulk. now i was a hunter in tropic forests--i heard the parrots scream, and saw the humming birds flit on from gorgeous flower to flower. gradually i took a voluntary pleasure in calling up these images, and working out their details into words with all the accuracy and care for which my small knowledge gave me materials. and as the self-indulgent habit grew on me, i began to live two lives--one mechanical and outward, one inward and imaginative. the thread passed through my fingers without my knowing it; i did my work as a machine might do it. the dingy stifling room, the wan faces of my companions, the scanty meals which i snatched, i saw dimly, as in a dream. the tropics, and greece, the imaginary battles which i fought, the phantoms into whose mouths i put my thoughts, were real and true to me. they met me when i woke--they floated along beside me as i walked to work--they acted their fantastic dramas before me through the sleepless hours of night. gradually certain faces among them became familiar--certain personages grew into coherence, as embodiments of those few types of character which had struck me the most, and played an analogous part in every fresh fantasia. sandy mackaye's face figured incongruously enough as leonidas, brutus, a pilgrim father; and gradually, in spite of myself, and the fear with which i looked on the recurrence of that dream, lillian's figure re-entered my fairy-land. i saved her from a hundred dangers; i followed her through dragon-guarded caverns and the corridors of magic castles; i walked by her side through the forests of the amazon.... and now i began to crave for some means of expressing these fancies to myself. while they were mere thoughts, parts of me, they were unsatisfactory, however delicious. i longed to put them outside me, that i might look at them and talk to them as permanent independent things. first i tried to sketch them on the whitewashed walls of my garret, on scraps of paper begged from mackaye, or picked up in the workroom. but from my ignorance of any rules of drawing, they were utterly devoid of beauty, and only excited my disgust. besides, i had thoughts as well as objects to express--thoughts strange, sad, wild, about my own feelings, my own destiny, and drawing could not speak them for me. then i turned instinctively to poetry: with its rules i was getting rapidly conversant. the mere desire of imitation urged me on, and when i tried, the grace of rhyme and metre covered a thousand defects. i tell my story, not as i saw it then, but as i see it now. a long and lonely voyage, with its monotonous days and sleepless nights--its sickness and heart-loneliness, has given me opportunities for analysing my past history which were impossible then, amid the ceaseless in-rush of new images, the ceaseless ferment of their re-combination, in which my life was passed from sixteen to twenty-five. the poet, i suppose, must be a seer as long as he is a worker, and a seer only. he has no time to philosophize--to "think about thinking," as goethe, i have somewhere read, says that he never could do. it is too often only in sickness and prostration and sheer despair, that the fierce veracity and swift digestion of his soul can cease, and give him time to know himself and god's dealings with him; and for that reason it is good for him, too, to have been afflicted. i do not write all this to boast of it; i am ready to bear sneers at my romance--my day-dreams--my unpractical habits of mind, for i know that i deserve them. but such was the appointed growth of my uneducated mind; no more unhealthy a growth, if i am to believe books, than that of many a carefully trained one. highborn geniuses, they tell me, have their idle visions as well as we working-men; and oxford has seen of late years as wild icarias conceived as ever were fathered by a red republic. for, indeed, we have the same flesh and blood, the same god to teach us, the same devil to mislead us, whether we choose to believe it or not. but there were excuses for me. we londoners are not accustomed from our youth to the poems of a great democratic genius, as the scotchmen are to their glorious burns. we have no chance of such an early acquaintance with poetic art as that which enabled john bethune, one of the great unrepresented--the starving scotch day-labourer, breaking stones upon the parish roads, to write at the age of seventeen such words as these:-- hail, hallow'd evening! sacred hour to me! thy clouds of grey, thy vocal melody, thy dreamy silence oft to me have brought a sweet exchange from toil to peaceful thought. ye purple heavens! how often has my eye, wearied with its long gaze on drudgery, look'd up and found refreshment in the hues that gild thy vest with colouring profuse! o, evening grey! how oft have i admired thy airy tapestry, whose radiance fired the glowing minstrels of the olden time, until their very souls flow'd forth in rhyme. and i have listened, till my spirit grew familiar with their deathless strains, and drew from the same source some portion of the glow which fill'd their spirits, when from earth below they scann'd thy golden imagery. and i have consecrated _thee_, bright evening sky my fount of inspiration; and i fling my spirit on thy clouds--an offering to the great deity of dying day. who hath transfused o'er thee his purple ray. * * * * * after all, our dreams do little harm to the rich. those who consider chartism as synonymous with devil-worship, should bless and encourage them, for the very reason for which we working men ought to dread them; for, quickened into prurient activity by the low, novel-mongering press, they help to enervate and besot all but the noblest minds among us. here and there a thomas cooper, sitting in stafford gaol, after a youth spent in cobbling shoes, vents his treasures of classic and historic learning in a "purgatory of suicides"; or a prince becomes the poet of the poor, no less for having fed his boyish fancy with "the arabian nights" and "the pilgrim's progress." but, with the most of us, sedentary and monotonous occupations, as has long been known, create of themselves a morbidly-meditative and fantastic turn of mind. and what else, in heaven's name, ye fine gentlemen--what else can a working man do with his imagination, but dream? what else will you let him do with it, oh ye education-pedants, who fancy that you can teach the masses as you would drill soldiers, every soul alike, though you will not bestir yourselves to do even that? are there no differences of rank--god's rank, not man's--among us? you have discovered, since your schoolboy days, the fallacy of the old nomenclature which civilly classed us altogether as "the snobs," "the blackguards"; which even--so strong is habit--tempted burke himself to talk of us as "the swinish multitude." you are finding yourselves wrong there. a few more years' experience not in mis-educating the poor, but in watching the poor really educate themselves, may teach you that we are not all by nature dolts and idiots; that there are differences of brain among us, just as great as there is between you; and that there are those among us whose education ought not to end, and will not end, with the putting off of the parish cap and breeches; whom it is cruelty, as well as folly, to toss back into the hell of mere manual drudgery, as soon as you have--if, indeed, you have been even so bountiful as that--excited in them a new thirst of the intellect and imagination. if you provide that craving with no wholesome food, you at least have no right to blame it if it shall gorge itself with poison. dare for once to do a strange thing, and let yourself be laughed at; go to a workman's meeting--a chartist meeting, if you will; and look honestly at the faces and brows of those so-called incendiaries, whom your venal caricaturists have taught you to believe a mixture of cur-dog and baboon--we, for our part, shall not be ashamed to show foreheads against your laughing house of commons--and then say, what employment can those men find in the soulless routine of mechanical labour for the mass of brain which they almost universally possess? they must either dream or agitate; perhaps they are now learning how to do both to some purpose. but i have found, by sad experience, that there is little use in declamation. i had much better simply tell my story, and leave my readers to judge of the facts, if, indeed, they will be so far courteous as to believe them. chapter viii. light in a dark place. so i made my first attempt at poetry--need i say that my subject was the beautiful lillian? and need i say, too, that i was as utterly disgusted at my attempt to express her in words, as i had been at my trial with the pencil? it chanced also, that after hammering out half a dozen verses, i met with mr. tennyson's poems; and the unequalled sketches of women that i found there, while they had, with the rest of the book, a new and abiding influence on my mind, were quite enough to show me my own fatal incompetency in that line. i threw my verses away, never to resume them. perhaps i proved thereby the depth of my affection. our mightiest feelings, are always those which remain most unspoken. the most intense lovers and the greatest poets have generally, i think, written very little personal love-poetry, while they have shown in fictitious characters a knowledge of the passion too painfully intimate to be spoken of in the first person. but to escape from my own thoughts, i could not help writing something; and to escape from my own private sorrows, writing on some matter with which i had no personal concern. and so, after much casting about for subjects, childe harold and the old missionary records contrived to celebrate a spiritual wedding in my brain, of which anomalous marriage came a proportionately anomalous offspring. my hero was not to be a pirate, but a pious sea-rover, who, with a crew of saints, or at least uncommonly fine fellows, who could be very manly and jolly, and yet all be good christians, of a somewhat vague and latitudinarian cast of doctrine (for my own was becoming rapidly so), set forth under the red-cross flag to colonize and convert one of my old paradises, a south sea island. i forget most of the lines--they were probably great trash, but i hugged them to my bosom as a young mother does her first child. 'twas sunset in the lone pacific world, the rich gleams fading in the western sky; within the still lagoon the sails were furled, the red-cross flag alone was flaunting high. before them was the low and palm-fringed shore, behind, the outer ocean's baffled roar. after which valiant plunge _in medias res_, came a great lump of deception, after the manner of youths--of the island, and the whitehouses, and the banana groves, and above all, the single volcano towering over the whole, which shaking a sinful isle with thundering shocks, reproved the worshippers of stones and stocks. then how a line of foam appears on the lagoon, which is supposed at first to be a shoal of fish, but turns out to be a troop of naked island beauties, swimming out to the ship. the decent missionaries were certainly guiltless of putting that into my head, whether they ever saw it or not--a great many things happening in the south seas of which they find it convenient to say nothing. i think i picked it up from wallis, or cook, or some other plain spoken voyager. the crew gaze in pardonable admiration, but the hero, in a long speech, reproves them for their lightmindedness, reminds them of their sacred mission, and informs them that, the soldiers of the cross should turn their eyes from carnal lusts and heathen vanities; beyond which indisputable assertion i never got; for this being about the fiftieth stanza, i stopped to take breath a little; and reading and re-reading, patching and touching continually, grew so accustomed to my bantling's face, that, like a mother, i could not tell whether it was handsome or hideous, sense or nonsense. i have since found out that the true plan, for myself at least, is to write off as much as possible at a time, and then lay it by and forget it for weeks--if i can, for months. after that, on returning to it, the mind regards it as something altogether strange and new, and can, or rather ought to, judge of it as it would of the work of another pen. but really, between conceit and disgust, fancying myself one day a great new poet, and the next a mere twaddler, i got so puzzled and anxious, that i determined to pluck up courage, go to mackaye, and ask him to solve the problem for me. "hech, sirs, poetry! i've been expecting it. i suppose it's the appointed gate o' a workman's intellectual life--that same lust o' versification. aweel, aweel,--let's hear." blushing and trembling, i read my verses aloud in as resonant and magniloquent a voice as i could command. i thought mackaye's upper lip would never stop lengthening, or his lower lip protruding. he chuckled intensely at the unfortunate rhyme between "shocks" and "stocks." indeed, it kept him in chuckling matter for a whole month afterwards; but when i had got to the shoal of naked girls, he could bear no more, and burst out-- "what the deevil! is there no harlotry and idolatry here in england, that ye maun gang speering after it in the cannibal islands? are ye gaun to be like they puir aristocrat bodies, that wad suner hear an italian dog howl, than an english nightingale sing, and winna harken to mr. john thomas till he calls himself giovanni thomasino; or do ye tak yourself for a singing-bird, to go all your days tweedle-dumdeeing out into the lift, just for the lust o' hearing your ain clan clatter? will ye be a man or a lintic? coral islands? pacific? what do ye ken about pacifics? are ye a cockney or a cannibal islander? dinna stand there, ye gowk, as fusionless as a docken, but tell me that! whaur do ye live?" "what do you mean, mr. mackaye?" asked i, with a doleful and disappointed visage. "mean--why, if god had meant ye to write aboot pacifics, he'd ha' put ye there--and because he means ye to write aboot london town, he's put ye there--and gien ye an unco sharp taste o' the ways o't; and i'll gie ye anither. come along wi' me." and he seized me by the arm, and hardly giving me time to put on my hat, marched me out into the streets, and away through clare market to st. giles's. it was a foul, chilly, foggy saturday night. from the butchers' and greengrocers' shops the gas lights flared and flickered, wild and ghastly, over haggard groups of slip-shod dirty women, bargaining for scraps of stale meat and frost-bitten vegetables, wrangling about short weight and bad quality. fish-stalls and fruit-stalls lined the edge of the greasy pavement, sending up odours as foul as the language of sellers and buyers. blood and sewer-water crawled from under doors and out of spouts, and reeked down the gutters among offal, animal and vegetable, in every stage of putrefaction. foul vapours rose from cowsheds and slaughter houses, and the doorways of undrained alleys, where the inhabitants carried the filth out on their shoes from the back-yard into the court, and from the court up into the main street; while above, hanging like cliffs over the streets--those narrow, brawling torrents of filth, and poverty, and sin,--the houses with their teeming load of life were piled up into the dingy, choking night. a ghastly, deafening sickening sight it was. go, scented belgravian! and see what london is! and then go to the library which god has given thee--one often fears in vain--and see what science says this london might be! "ay," he muttered to himself, as he strode along, "sing awa; get yoursel wi' child wi' pretty fancies and gran' words, like the rest o' the poets, and gang to hell for it." "to hell, mr. mackaye?" "ay, to a verra real hell, alton locke, laddie--a warse ane than ony fiends' kitchen, or subterranean smithfield that ye'll hear o' in the pulpits--the hell on earth o' being a flunkey, and a humbug, and a useless peacock, wasting god's gifts on your ain lusts and pleasures--and kenning it--and not being able to get oot o' it, for the chains o' vanity and self-indulgence. i've warned ye. now look there--" he stopped suddenly before the entrance of a miserable alley-- "look! there's not a soul down that yard but's either beggar, drunkard, thief, or warse. write anent that! say how you saw the mouth o' hell, and the twa pillars thereof at the entry--the pawnbroker's shop o' one side, and the gin palace at the other--twa monstrous deevils, eating up men, and women, and bairns, body and soul. look at the jaws o' the monsters, how they open and open, and swallow in anither victim and anither. write anent that." "what jaws, mr. mackaye?" "they faulding-doors o' the gin shop, goose. are na they a mair damnable man-devouring idol than ony red-hot statue o' moloch, or wicker gogmagog, wherein thae auld britons burnt their prisoners? look at thae bare-footed bare-backed hizzies, with their arms roun' the men's necks, and their mouths full o' vitriol and beastly words! look at that irishwoman pouring the gin down the babbie's throat! look at that rough o' a boy gaun out o' the pawn shop, where he's been pledging the handkerchief he stole the morning, into the gin shop, to buy beer poisoned wi' grains o' paradise, and cocculus indicus, and saut, and a' damnable, maddening, thirst-breeding, lust-breeding drugs! look at that girl that went in wi' a shawl on her back and cam' out wi'out ane! drunkards frae the breast!--harlots frae the cradle! damned before they're born! john calvin had an inkling o' the truth there, i'm a'most driven to think, wi' his reprobation deevil's doctrines!" "well--but--mr. mackaye, i know nothing about these poor creatures." "then ye ought. what do ye ken anent the pacific? which is maist to your business?--thae bare-backed hizzies that play the harlot o' the other side o' the warld, or these--these thousands o' bare-backed hizzies that play the harlot o' your ain side--made out o' your ain flesh and blude? you a poet! true poetry, like true charity, my laddie, begins at hame. if ye'll be a poet at a', ye maun be a cockney poet; and while the cockneys be what they be, ye maun write, like jeremiah of old, o' lamentation and mourning and woe, for the sins o' your people. gin you want to learn the spirit o' a people's poet, down wi' your bible and read thae auld hebrew prophets; gin ye wad learn the style, read your burns frae morning till night; and gin ye'd learn the matter, just gang after your nose, and keep your eyes open, and ye'll no miss it." "but all this is so--so unpoetical." "hech! is there no the heeven above them there, and the hell beneath them? and god frowning, and the deevil grinning? no poetry there! is no the verra idea of the classic tragedy defined to be, man conquered by circumstance? canna ye see it there? and the verra idea of the modern tragedy, man conquering circumstance?--and i'll show you that, too--in mony a garret where no eye but the gude god's enters, to see the patience, and the fortitude, and the self-sacrifice, and the luve stronger than death, that's shining in thae dark places o' the earth. come wi' me, and see." we went on through a back street or two, and then into a huge, miserable house, which, a hundred years ago, perhaps, had witnessed the luxury, and rung to the laughter of some one great fashionable family, alone there in their glory. now every room of it held its family, or its group of families--a phalanstery of all the fiends;--its grand staircase, with the carved balustrades rotting and crumbling away piecemeal, converted into a common sewer for all its inmates. up stair after stair we went, while wails of children, and curses of men, steamed out upon the hot stifling rush of air from every doorway, till, at the topmost story, we knocked at a garret door. we entered. bare it was of furniture, comfortless, and freezing cold; but, with the exception of the plaster dropping from the roof, and the broken windows, patched with rags and paper, there was a scrupulous neatness about the whole, which contrasted strangely with the filth and slovenliness outside. there was no bed in the room--no table. on a broken chair by the chimney sat a miserable old woman, fancying that she was warming her hands over embers which had long been cold, shaking her head, and muttering to herself, with palsied lips, about the guardians and the workhouse; while upon a few rags on the floor lay a girl, ugly, small-pox marked, hollow eyed, emaciated, her only bed clothes the skirt of a large handsome new riding-habit, at which two other girls, wan and tawdry, were stitching busily, as they sat right and left of her on the floor. the old woman took no notice of us as we entered; but one of the girls looked up, and, with a pleased gesture of recognition, put her finger up to her lips, and whispered, "ellen's asleep." "i'm not asleep, dears," answered a faint, unearthly voice; "i was only praying. is that mr. mackaye?" "ay, my lassies; but ha' ye gotten na fire the nicht?" "no," said one of them, bitterly, "we've earned no fire to-night, by fair trade or foul either." the sick girl tried to raise herself up and speak, but was stopped by a frightful fit of coughing and expectoration, as painful, apparently, to the sufferer as it was, i confess, disgusting even to me. i saw mackaye slip something into the hand of one of the girls, and whisper, "a half-hundred of coals;" to which she replied, with an eager look of gratitude that i never can forget, and hurried out. then the sufferer, as if taking advantage of her absence, began to speak quickly and eagerly. "oh, mr. mackaye--dear, kind mr. mackaye--do speak to her; and do speak to poor lizzy here! i'm not afraid to say it before her, because she's more gentle like, and hasn't learnt to say bad words yet--but do speak to them, and tell them not to go the bad way, like all the rest. tell them it'll never prosper. i know it is want that drives them to it, as it drives all of us--but tell them it's best to starve and die honest girls, than to go about with the shame and the curse of god on their hearts, for the sake of keeping this poor, miserable, vile body together a few short years more in this world o' sorrow. do tell them, mr. mackaye." "i'm thinking," said he, with the tears running down his old withered face, "ye'll mak a better preacher at that text than i shall, ellen." "oh, no, no; who am i, to speak to them?--it's no merit o' mine, mr. mackaye, that the lord's kept me pure through it all. i should have been just as bad as any of them, if the lord had not kept me out of temptation in his great mercy, by making me the poor, ill-favoured creature i am. from that time i was burnt when i was a child, and had the small-pox afterwards, oh! how sinful i was, and repined and rebelled against the lord! and now i see it was all his blessed mercy to keep me out of evil, pure and unspotted for my dear jesus, when he comes to take me to himself. i saw him last night, mr. mackaye, as plain as i see you now, ail in a flame of beautiful white fire, smiling at me so sweetly; and he showed me the wounds in his hands and his feet, and he said, 'ellen, my own child, those that suffer with me here, they shall be glorified with me hereafter, for i'm coming very soon to take you home.'" sandy shook his head at all this with a strange expression of face, as if he sympathized and yet disagreed, respected and yet smiled at the shape which her religious ideas had assumed; and i remarked in the meantime that the poor girl's neck and arm were all scarred and distorted, apparently from the effects of a burn. "ah," said sandy, at length, "i tauld ye ye were the better preacher of the two; ye've mair comfort to gie sandy than he has to gie the like o' ye. but how is the wound in your back the day?" oh, it was wonderfully better! the doctor had come and given her such blessed ease with a great thick leather he had put under it, and then she did not feel the boards through so much. "but oh, mr. mackaye, i'm so afraid it will make me live longer to keep me away from my dear saviour. and there's one thing, too, that's breaking my heart, and makes me long to die this very minute, even if i didn't go to heaven at all, mr. mackaye." (and she burst out crying, and between her sobs it came out, as well as i could gather, that her notion was, that her illness was the cause of keeping the girls in "_the bad ivay_," as she called it.) "for lizzy here, i did hope that she had repented of it after all my talking to her; but since i've been so bad, and the girls have had to keep me most o' the time, she's gone out of nights just as bad as ever." lizzy had hid her face in her hands the greater part of this speech. now she looked up passionately, almost fiercely-- "repent--i have repented--i repent of it every hour--i hate myself, and hate all the world because of it; but i must--i must; i cannot see her starve, and i cannot starve myself. when she first fell sick she kept on as long as she could, doing what she could, and then between us we only earned three shillings a week, and there was ever so much to take off for fire, and twopence for thread, and fivepence for candles; and then we were always getting fined, because they never gave us out the work till too late on purpose, and then they lowered prices again; and now ellen can't work at all, and there's four of us with the old lady, to keep off two's work that couldn't keep themselves alone." "doesn't the parish allow the old lady anything?" i ventured to ask. "they used to allow half-a-crown for a bit; and the doctor ordered ellen things from the parish, but it isn't half of 'em she ever got; and when the meat came, it was half times not fit to eat, and when it was her stomach turned against it. if she was a lady she'd be cockered up with all sorts of soups and jellies, and nice things, just the minute she fancied 'em, and lie on a water bed instead of the bare floor--and so she ought; but where's the parish'll do that? and the hospital wouldn't take her in because she was incurable; and, besides, the old'un wouldn't let her go--nor into the union neither. when she's in a good-humour like, she'll sit by her by the hour, holding her hand and kissing of it, and nursing of it, for all the world like a doll. but she won't hear of the workhouse; so now, these last three weeks, they takes off all her pay, because they says she must go into the house, and not kill her daughter by keeping her out--as if they warn't a killing her themselves." "no workhouse--no workhouse!" said the old woman, turning round suddenly, in a clear, lofty voice. "no workhouse, sir, for an officer's daughter!" and she relapsed into her stupor. at that moment the other girl entered with the coals--but without staying to light the fire, ran up to ellen with some trumpery dainty she had bought, and tried to persuade her to eat it. "we have been telling mr. mackaye everything," said poor lizzy. "a pleasant story, isn't it? oh! if that fine lady, as we're making that riding-habit for, would just spare only half the money that goes to dressing her up to ride in the park, to send us out to the colonies, wouldn't i be an honest girl there?--maybe an honest man's wife! oh, my god, wouldn't i slave my fingers to the bone to work for him! wouldn't i mend my life then! i couldn't help it--it would be like getting into heaven out of hell. but now--we must--we must, i tell you. i shall go mad soon, i think, or take to drink. when i passed the gin-shop down there just now, i had to run like mad for fear i should go in; and if i once took to that--now then, to work again. make up the fire, mrs. * * * *, please do." and she sat down, and began stitching frantically at the riding-habit, from which the other girl had hardly lifted her hands or eyes for a moment during our visit. we made a motion, as if to go. "god bless you," said ellen; "come again soon, dear mr. mackaye." "good-bye," said the elder girl; "and good-night to you. night and day's all the same here--we must have this home by seven o'clock to-morrow morning. my lady's going to ride early, they say, whoever she may be, and we must just sit up all night. it's often we haven't had our clothes off for a week together, from four in the morning till two the next morning sometimes--stitch, stitch, stitch. somebody's wrote a song about that--i'll learn to sing it--it'll sound fitting-like up here." "better sing hymns," said ellen. "hymns for * * * * * *?" answered the other, and then burst out into that peculiar, wild, ringing, fiendish laugh--has my reader never heard it? i pulled out the two or three shillings which i possessed, and tried to make the girls take them, for the sake of poor ellen. "no; you're a working man, and we won't feed on you--you'll want it some day--all the trade's going the same way as we, as fast as ever it can!" sandy and i went down the stairs. "poetic element? yon lassie, rejoicing in her disfigurement and not her beauty--like the nuns of peterborough in auld time--is there na poetry there? that puir lassie, dying on the bare boards, and seeing her saviour in her dreams, is there na poetry there, callant? that auld body owre the fire, wi' her 'an officer's dochter,' is there na poetry there? that ither, prostituting hersel to buy food for her freen--is there na poetry there?--tragedy-- "with hues as when some mighty painter dips his pen in dyes of earthquake and eclipse. "ay, shelley's gran'; always gran'; but fact is grander--god and satan are grander. all around ye, in every gin-shop and costermonger's cellar, are god and satan at death grips; every garret is a haill paradise lost or paradise regained; and will ye think it beneath ye to be the 'people's poet?'" chapter ix. poetry and poets. in the history of individuals, as well as in that of nations, there is often a period of sudden blossoming--a short luxuriant summer, not without its tornadoes and thunder-glooms, in which all the buried seeds of past observation leap forth together into life, and form, and beauty. and such with me were the two years that followed. i thought--i talked poetry to myself all day long. i wrote nightly on my return from work. i am astonished, on looking back, at the variety and quantity of my productions during that short time. my subjects were intentionally and professedly cockney ones. i had taken mackaye at his word. i had made up my mind, that if i had any poetic powers i must do my duty therewith in that station of life to which it had pleased god to call me, and look at everything simply and faithfully as a london artizan. to this, i suppose, is to be attributed the little geniality and originality for which the public have kindly praised my verses--a geniality which sprung, not from the atmosphere whence i drew, but from the honesty and single-mindedness with which, i hope, i laboured. not from the atmosphere, indeed,--that was ungenial enough; crime and poverty, all-devouring competition, and hopeless struggles against mammon and moloch, amid the roar of wheels, the ceaseless stream of pale, hard faces, intent on gain, or brooding over woe; amid endless prison walls of brick, beneath a lurid, crushing sky of smoke and mist. it was a dark, noisy, thunderous element that london life; a troubled sea that cannot rest, casting up mire and dirt; resonant of the clanking of chains, the grinding of remorseless machinery, the wail of lost spirits from the pit. and it did its work upon me; it gave a gloomy colouring, a glare as of some dantean "inferno," to all my utterances. it did not excite me or make me fierce--i was too much inured to it--but it crushed and saddened me; it deepened in me that peculiar melancholy of intellectual youth, which mr. carlyle has christened for ever by one of his immortal nicknames--"werterism"; i battened on my own melancholy. i believed, i loved to believe, that every face i passed bore the traces of discontent as deep as was my own--and was i so far wrong? was i so far wrong either in the gloomy tone of my own poetry? should not a london poet's work just now be to cry, like the jew of old, about the walls of jerusalem, "woe, woe to this city!" is this a time to listen to the voices of singing men and singing women? or to cry, "oh! that my head were a fountain of tears, that i might weep for the sins of my people"? is it not noteworthy, also, that it is in this vein that the london poets have always been greatest? which of poor hood's lyrics have an equal chance of immortality with "the song of the shirt" and "the bridge of sighs," rising, as they do, right out of the depths of that inferno, sublime from their very simplicity? which of charles mackay's lyrics can compare for a moment with the eschylean grandeur, the terrible rhythmic lilt of his "cholera chant"-- dense on the stream the vapours lay, thick as wool on the cold highway; spungy and dim each lonely lamp shone o'er the streets so dull and damp; the moonbeams could not pierce the cloud that swathed the city like a shroud; there stood three shapes on the bridge alone, three figures by the coping-stone; gaunt and tall and undefined, spectres built of mist and wind. * * * * * i see his footmarks east and west-- i hear his tread in the silence fall-- he shall not sleep, he shall not rest-- he comes to aid us one and all. were men as wise as men might be, they would not work for you, for me, for him that cometh over the sea; but they will not hear the warning voice: the cholera comes,--rejoice! rejoice! he shall be lord of the swarming town! and mow them down, and mow them down! * * * * * not that i neglected, on the other hand, every means of extending the wanderings of my spirit into sunnier and more verdant pathways. if i had to tell the gay ones above of the gloom around me, i had also to go forth into the sunshine, to bring home if it were but a wild-flower garland to those that sit in darkness and the shadow of death. that was all that i could offer them. the reader shall judge, when he has read this book throughout, whether i did not at last find for them something better than even all the beauties of nature. but it was on canvas, and not among realities, that i had to choose my garlands; and therefore the picture galleries became more than ever my favourite--haunt, i was going to say; but, alas! it was not six times a year that i got access to them. still, when once every may i found myself, by dint of a hard saved shilling, actually within the walls of that to me enchanted palace, the royal academy exhibition--oh, ye rich! who gaze round you at will upon your prints and pictures, if hunger is, as they say, a better sauce than any ude invents, and fasting itself may become the handmaid of luxury, you should spend, as i did perforce, weeks and months shut out from every glimpse of nature, if you would taste her beauties, even on canvas, with perfect relish and childish self-abandonment. how i loved and blessed those painters! how i thanked creswick for every transparent shade-chequered pool; fielding, for every rain-clad down; cooper, for every knot of quiet cattle beneath the cool grey willows; stanfield, for every snowy peak, and sheet of foam-fringed sapphire--each and every one of them a leaf out of the magic book which else was ever closed to me. again, i say, how i loved and blest those painters! on the other hand, i was not neglecting to read as well as to write poetry; and, to speak first of the highest, i know no book, always excepting milton, which at once so quickened and exalted my poetical view of man and his history, as that great prose poem, the single epic of modern days, thomas carlyle's "french revolution." of the general effect which his works had on me, i shall say nothing: it was the same as they have had, thank god, on thousands of my class and of every other. but that book above all first recalled me to the overwhelming and yet ennobling knowledge that there was such a thing as duty; first taught me to see in history not the mere farce-tragedy of man's crimes and follies, but the dealings of a righteous ruler of the universe, whose ways are in the great deep, and whom the sins and errors, as well as the virtues and discoveries of man, must obey and justify. then, in a happy day, i fell on alfred tennyson's poetry, and found there, astonished and delighted, the embodiment of thoughts about the earth around me which i had concealed, because i fancied them peculiar to myself. why is it that the latest poet has generally the greatest influence over the minds of the young? surely not for the mere charm of novelty? the reason is that he, living amid the same hopes, the same temptations, the same sphere of observation as they, gives utterance and outward form to the very questions which, vague and wordless, have been exercising their hearts. and what endeared tennyson especially to me, the working man, was, as i afterwards discovered, the altogether democratic tendency of his poems. true, all great poets are by their office democrats; seers of man only as man; singers of the joys, the sorrows, the aspirations common to all humanity; but in alfred tennyson there is an element especially democratic, truly levelling; not his political opinions, about which i know nothing, and care less, but his handling of the trivial every-day sights and sounds of nature. brought up, as i understand, in a part of england which possesses not much of the picturesque, and nothing of that which the vulgar call sublime, he has learnt to see that in all nature, in the hedgerow and the sandbank, as well as in the alp peak and the ocean waste, is a world of true sublimity,--a minute infinite,--an ever fertile garden of poetic images, the roots of which are in the unfathomable and the eternal, as truly as any phenomenon which astonishes and awes the eye. the descriptions of the desolate pools and creeks where the dying swan floated, the hint of the silvery marsh mosses by mariana's moat, came to me like revelations. i always knew there was something beautiful, wonderful, sublime, in those flowery dykes of battersea fields; in the long gravelly sweeps of that lone tidal shore; and here was a man who had put them into words for me! this is what i call democratic art--the revelation of the poetry which lies in common things. and surely all the age is tending in that direction: in landseer and his dogs--in fielding and his downs, with a host of noble fellow-artists--and in all authors who have really seized the nation's mind, from crabbe and burns and wordsworth to hood and dickens, the great tide sets ever onward, outward, towards that which is common to the many, not that which is exclusive to the few--towards the likeness of him who causes his rain to fall on the just and the unjust, and his sun to shine on the evil and the good; who knoweth the cattle upon a thousand hills, and all the beasts of the field are in his sight. well--i must return to my story. and here some one may ask me, "but did you not find this true spiritual democracy, this universal knowledge and sympathy, in shakspeare above all other poets?" it may be my shame to have to confess it; but though i find it now, i did not then. i do not think, however, my case is singular: from what i can ascertain, there is, even with regularly educated minds, a period of life at which that great writer is not appreciated, just on account of his very greatness; on account of the deep and large experience which the true understanding of his plays requires--experience of man, of history, of art, and above all of those sorrows whereby, as hezekiah says, and as i have learnt almost too well--"whereby men live, and in all which, is the life of the spirit." at seventeen, indeed, i had devoured shakspeare, though merely for the food to my fancy which his plots and incidents supplied, for the gorgeous colouring of his scenery: but at the period of which i am now writing, i had exhausted that source of mere pleasure; i was craving for more explicit and dogmatic teaching than any which he seemed to supply; and for three years, strange as it may appear, i hardly ever looked into his pages. under what circumstances i afterwards recurred to his exhaustless treasures, my readers shall in due time be told. so i worked away manfully with such tools and stock as i possessed, and of course produced, at first, like all young writers, some sufficiently servile imitations of my favourite poets. "ugh!" said sandy, "wha wants mongrels atween burns and tennyson? a gude stock baith: but gin ye'd cross the breed ye maun unite the spirits, and no the manners, o' the men. why maun ilk a one the noo steal his neebor's barnacles, before he glints out o' windows? mak a style for yoursel, laddie; ye're na mair scots hind than ye are lincolnshire laird: sae gang yer ain gate and leave them to gang theirs; and just mak a gran', brode, simple, saxon style for yoursel." "but how can i, till i know what sort of a style it ought to be?" "oh! but yon's amazing like tom sheridan's answer to his father. 'tom,' says the auld man, 'i'm thinking ye maun tak a wife.' 'verra weel, father,' says the puir skellum; 'and wha's wife shall i tak?' wha's style shall i tak? say all the callants the noo. mak a style as ye would mak a wife, by marrying her a' to yoursel; and ye'll nae mair ken what's your style till it's made, than ye'll ken what your wife's like till she's been mony a year by your ingle." "my dear mackaye," i said, "you have the most unmerciful way of raising difficulties, and then leaving poor fellows to lay the ghost for themselves." "hech, then, i'm a'thegither a negative teacher, as they ca' it in the new lallans. i'll gang out o' my gate to tell a man his kye are laired, but i'm no obligated thereby to pu' them out for him. after a', nae man is rid o' a difficulty till he's conquered it single-handed for himsel: besides, i'm na poet, mair's the gude hap for you." "why, then?" "och, och! they're puir, feckless, crabbit, unpractical bodies, they poets; but if it's your doom, ye maun dree it; and i'm sair afeard ye ha' gotten the disease o' genius, mair's the pity, and maun write, i suppose, willy-nilly. some folks' booels are that made o' catgut, that they canna stir without chirruping and screeking." however, _æstro percitus_, i wrote on; and in about two years and a half had got together "songs of the highways" enough to fill a small octavo volume, the circumstances of whose birth shall be given hereafter. whether i ever attained to anything like an original style, readers must judge for themselves--the readers of the same volume i mean, for i have inserted none of those poems in this my autobiography; first, because it seems too like puffing my own works; and next, because i do not want to injure the as yet not over great sale of the same. but, if any one's curiosity is so far excited that he wishes to see what i have accomplished, the best advice which i can give him is, to go forth, and buy all the working-men's poetry which has appeared during the last twenty years, without favour or exception; among which he must needs, of course, find mine, and also, i am happy to say, a great deal which is much better and more instructive than mine. chapter x. how folks turn chartists. those who read my story only for amusement, i advise to skip this chapter. those, on the other hand, who really wish to ascertain what working men actually do suffer--to see whether their political discontent has not its roots, not merely in fanciful ambition, but in misery and slavery most real and agonizing--those in whose eyes the accounts of a system, or rather barbaric absence of all system, which involves starvation, nakedness, prostitution, and long imprisonment in dungeons worse than the cells of the inquisition, will be invested with something at least of tragic interest, may, i hope, think it worth their while to learn how the clothes which they wear are made, and listen to a few occasional statistics, which, though they may seem to the wealthy mere lists of dull figures, are to the workmen symbols of terrible physical realities--of hunger, degradation, and despair. [footnote: facts still worse than those which mr. locke's story contains have been made public by the _morning chronicle_ in a series of noble letters on "labour and the poor"; which we entreat all christian people to "read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest." "that will be better for them," as mahomet, in similar cases, used to say.] well: one day our employer died. he had been one of the old sort of fashionable west-end tailors in the fast decreasing honourable trade; keeping a modest shop, hardly to be distinguished from a dwelling-house, except by his name on the window blinds. he paid good prices for work, though not as good, of course, as he had given twenty years before, and prided himself upon having all his work done at home. his workrooms, as i have said, were no elysiums; but still, as good, alas! as those of three tailors out of four. he was proud, luxurious, foppish; but he was honest and kindly enough, and did many a generous thing by men who had been long in his employ. at all events, his journeymen could live on what he paid them. but his son, succeeding to the business, determined, like rehoboam of old, to go ahead with the times. fired with the great spirit of the nineteenth century--at least with that one which is vulgarly considered its especial glory--he resolved to make haste to be rich. his father had made money very slowly of late; while dozens, who had begun business long after him, had now retired to luxurious ease and suburban villas. why should he remain in the minority? why should he not get rich as fast as he could? why should he stick to the old, slow-going, honourable trade? out of some four hundred and fifty west-end tailors, there were not one hundred left who were old-fashioned and stupid enough to go on keeping down their own profits by having all their work done at home and at first-hand. ridiculous scruples! the government knew none such. were not the army clothes, the post-office clothes, the policemen's clothes, furnished by contractors and sweaters, who hired the work at low prices, and let it out again to journeymen at still lower ones? why should he pay his men two shillings where the government paid them one? were there not cheap houses even at the west-end, which had saved several thousands a year merely by reducing their workmen's wages? and if the workmen chose to take lower wages, he was not bound actually to make them a present of more than they asked for? they would go to the cheapest market for anything they wanted, and so must he. besides, wages had really been quite exorbitant. half his men threw each of them as much money away in gin and beer yearly, as would pay two workmen at cheap house. why was he to be robbing his family of comforts to pay for their extravagance? and charging his customers, too, unnecessarily high prices--it was really robbing the public! such, i suppose, were some of the arguments which led to an official announcement, one saturday night, that our young employer intended to enlarge his establishment, for the purpose of commencing business in the "show-trade"; and that, emulous of messrs. aaron, levi, and the rest of that class, magnificent alterations were to take place in the premises, to make room for which our workrooms were to be demolished, and that for that reason--for of course it was only for that reason--all work would in future be given out, to be made up at the men's own homes. our employer's arguments, if they were such as i suppose, were reasonable enough according to the present code of commercial morality. but, strange to say, the auditory, insensible to the delight with which the public would view the splendid architectural improvements--with taste too grovelling to appreciate the glories of plate-glass shop-fronts and brass scroll work--too selfish to rejoice, for its own sake, in the beauty of arabesques and chandeliers, which, though they never might behold, the astonished public would--with souls too niggardly to leap for joy at the thought that gents would henceforth buy the registered guanaco vest, and the patent elastic omni-seasonum paletot half-a-crown cheaper than ever--or that needy noblemen would pay three-pound-ten instead of five pounds for their footmen's liveries--received the news, clod-hearted as they were, in sullen silence, and actually, when they got into the street, broke out into murmurs, perhaps into execrations. "silence!" said crossthwaite; "walls have ears. come down to the nearest house of call, and talk it out like men, instead of grumbling in the street like fish-fags." so down we went. crossthwaite, taking my arm, strode on in moody silence--once muttering to himself, bitterly-- "oh, yes; all right and natural! what can the little sharks do but follow the big ones?" we took a room, and crossthwaite coolly saw us all in; and locking the door, stood with his back against it. "now then, mind, 'one and all,' as the cornishmen say, and no peaching. if any man is scoundrel enough to carry tales, i'll--" "do what?" asked jemmy downes, who had settled himself on the table, with a pipe and a pot of porter. "you arn't the king of the cannibal islands, as i know of, to cut a cove's head off?" "no; but if a poor man's prayer can bring god's curse down upon a traitor's head--it may stay on his rascally shoulders till it rots." "if ifs and ans were pots and pans. look at shechem isaacs, that sold penknives in the street six months ago, now a-riding in his own carriage, all along of turning sweater. if god's curse is like that--i'll be happy to take any man's share of it." some new idea seemed twinkling in the fellow's cunning bloated face as he spoke. i, and others also, shuddered at his words; but we all forgot them a moment afterwards, as crossthwaite began to speak. "we were all bound to expect this. every working tailor must come to this at last, on the present system; and we are only lucky in having been spared so long. you all know where this will end--in the same misery as fifteen thousand out of twenty thousand of our class are enduring now. we shall become the slaves, often the bodily prisoners, of jews, middlemen, and sweaters, who draw their livelihood out of our starvation. we shall have to face, as the rest have, ever decreasing prices of labour, ever increasing profits made out of that labour by the contractors who will employ us--arbitrary fines, inflicted at the caprice of hirelings--the competition of women, and children, and starving irish--our hours of work will increase one-third, our actual pay decrease to less than one-half; and in all this we shall have no hope, no chance of improvement in wages, but ever more penury, slavery, misery, as we are pressed on by those who are sucked by fifties--almost by hundreds--yearly, out of the honourable trade in which we were brought up, into the infernal system of contract work, which is devouring our trade and many others, body and soul. our wives will be forced to sit up night and day to help us--our children must labour from the cradle without chance of going to school, hardly of breathing the fresh air of heaven,--our boys, as they grow up, must turn beggars or paupers--our daughters, as thousands do, must eke out their miserable earnings by prostitution. and after all, a whole family will not gain what one of us had been doing, as yet, single-handed. you know there will be no hope for us. there is no use appealing to government or parliament. i don't want to talk politics here. i shall keep them for another place. but you can recollect as well as i can, when a deputation of us went up to a member of parliament--one that was reputed a philosopher, and a political economist, and a liberal--and set before him the ever-increasing penury and misery of our trade, and of those connected with it; you recollect his answer--that, however glad he would be to help us, it was impossible--he could not alter the laws of nature--that wages were regulated by the amount of competition among the men themselves, and that it was no business of government, or any one else, to interfere in contracts between the employer and employed, that those things regulated themselves by the laws of political economy, which it was madness and suicide to oppose. he may have been a wise man. i only know that he was a rich one. every one speaks well of the bridge which carries him over. every one fancies the laws which fill his pockets to be god's laws. but i say this, if neither government nor members of parliament can help us, we must help ourselves. help yourselves, and heaven will help you. combination among ourselves is the only chance. one thing we can do--sit still." "and starve!" said some one. "yes, and starve! better starve than sin. i say, it is a sin to give in to this system. it is a sin to add our weight to the crowd of artizans who are now choking and strangling each other to death, as the prisoners did in the black hole of calcutta. let those who will turn beasts of prey, and feed upon their fellows; but let us at least keep ourselves pure. it may be the law of political civilization, the law of nature, that the rich should eat up the poor, and the poor eat up each other. then i here rise up and curse that law, that civilization, that nature. either i will destroy them, or they shall destroy me. as a slave, as an increased burden on my fellow-sufferers, i will not live. so help me god! i will take no work home to my house; and i call upon every one here to combine, and to sign a protest to that effect." "what's the use of that, my good mr. crossthwaite?" interrupted some one, querulously. "don't you know what came of the strike a few years ago, when this piece-work and sweating first came in? the masters made fine promises, and never kept 'em; and the men who stood out had their places filled up with poor devils who were glad enough to take the work at any price--just as ours will be. there's no use kicking against the pricks. all the rest have come to it, and so must we. we must live somehow, and half a loaf is better than no bread; and even that half loaf will go into other men's mouths, if we don't snap at it at once. besides, we can't force others to strike. we may strike and starve ourselves, but what's the use of a dozen striking out of , ?" "will you sign the protest, gentlemen, or not?" asked crossthwaite, in a determined voice. some half-dozen said they would if the others would. "and the others won't. well, after all, one man must take the responsibility, and i am that man. i will sign the protest by myself. i will sweep a crossing--i will turn cress-gatherer, rag-picker; i will starve piecemeal, and see my wife starve with me; but do the wrong thing i will not! the cause wants martyrs. if i must be one, i must." all this while my mind had been undergoing a strange perturbation. the notion of escaping that infernal workroom, and the company i met there--of taking my work home, and thereby, as i hoped, gaining more time for study--at least, having my books on the spot ready at every odd moment, was most enticing. i had hailed the proposed change as a blessing to me, till i heard crossthwaite's arguments--not that i had not known the facts before; but it had never struck me till then that it was a real sin against my class to make myself a party in the system by which they were allowing themselves (under temptation enough, god knows) to be enslaved. but now i looked with horror on the gulf of penury before me, into the vortex of which not only i, but my whole trade, seemed irresistibly sucked. i thought, with shame and remorse, of the few shillings which i had earned at various times by taking piecework home, to buy my candles for study. i whispered my doubts to crossthwaite, as he sat, pale and determined, watching the excited and querulous discussions among the other workmen. "what? so you expect to have time to read? study after sixteen hours a day stitching? study, when you cannot earn money enough to keep you from wasting and shrinking away day by day? study, with your heart full of shame and indignation, fresh from daily insult and injustice? study, with the black cloud of despair and penury in front of you? little time, or heart, or strength, will you have to study, when you are making the same coats you make now, at half the price." i put my name down beneath crossthwaite's, on the paper which he handed me, and went out with him. "ay," he muttered to himself, "be slaves--what you are worthy to be, that you will be! you dare not combine--you dare not starve--you dare not die--and therefore you dare not be free! oh! for six hundred men like barbaroux's marseillois--'who knew how to die!'" "surely, crossthwaite, if matters were properly represented to the government, they would not, for their own existence' sake, to put conscience out of the question, allow such a system to continue growing." "government--government? you a tailor, and not know that government are the very authors of this system? not to know that they first set the example, by getting the army and navy clothes made by contractors, and taking the lowest tenders? not to know that the police clothes, the postmen's clothes, the convicts' clothes, are all contracted for on the same infernal plan, by sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters, and sweaters' sweaters' sweaters, till government work is just the very last, lowest resource to which a poor starved-out wretch betakes himself to keep body and soul together? why, the government prices, in almost every department, are half, and less than half, the very lowest living price. i tell you, the careless iniquity of government about these things will come out some day. it will be known, the whole abomination, and future generations will class it with the tyrannies of the roman emperors and the norman barons. why, it's a fact, that the colonels of the regiments--noblemen, most of them--make their own vile profit out of us tailors--out of the pauperism of the men, the slavery of the children, the prostitution of the women. they get so much a uniform allowed them by government to clothe the men with; and then--then, they let out the jobs to the contractors at less than half what government give them, and pocket the difference. and then you talk of appealing to government." "upon my word," i said, bitterly, "we tailors seem to owe the army a double grudge. they not only keep under other artizans, but they help to starve us first, and then shoot us, if we complain too loudly." "oh, ho! your blood's getting up, is it? then you're in the humour to be told what you have been hankering to know so long--where mackaye and i go at night. we'll strike while the iron's hot, and go down to the chartist meeting at * * * * *. "pardon me, my dear fellow," i said. "i cannot bear the thought of being mixed up in conspiracy--perhaps, in revolt and bloodshed. not that i am afraid. heaven knows i am not. but i am too much harassed, miserable, already. i see too much wretchedness around me, to lend my aid in increasing the sum of suffering, by a single atom, among rich and poor, even by righteous vengeance." "conspiracy? bloodshed? what has that to do with the charter? it suits the venal mammonite press well enough to jumble them together, and cry 'murder, rape, and robbery,' whenever the six points are mentioned; but they know, and any man of common sense ought to know, that the charter is just as much an open political question as the reform bill, and ten times as much as magna charter was, when it got passed. what have the six points, right or wrong, to do with the question whether they can be obtained by moral force, and the pressure of opinion alone, or require what we call ulterior measures to get them carried? come along!" so with him i went that night. * * * * * "well, alton! where was the treason and murder? your nose must have been a sharp one, to smell out any there. did you hear anything that astonished your weak mind so very exceedingly, after all?" "the only thing that did astonish me was to hear men of my own class--and lower still, perhaps some of them--speak with such fluency and eloquence. such a fund of information--such excellent english--where did they get it all?" "from the god who knows nothing about ranks. they're the unknown great--the unaccredited heroes, as master thomas carlyle would say--whom the flunkeys aloft have not acknowledged yet--though they'll be forced to, some day, with a vengeance. are you convinced, once for all?" "i really do not understand political questions, crossthwaite." "does it want so very much wisdom to understand the rights and the wrongs of all that? are the people represented? are you represented? do you feel like a man that's got any one to fight your battle in parliament, my young friend, eh?" "i'm sure i don't know--" "why, what in the name of common sense--what interest or feeling of yours or mine, or any man's you ever spoke to, except the shopkeeper, do alderman a---- or lord c---- d---- represent? they represent property--and we have none. they represent rank--we have none. vested interests--we have none. large capitals--those are just what crush us. irresponsibility of employers, slavery of the employed, competition among masters, competition among workmen, that is the system they represent--they preach it, they glory in it.--why, it is the very ogre that is eating us all up. they are chosen by the few, they represent the few, and they make laws for the many--and yet you don't know whether or not the people are represented!" we were passing by the door of the victoria theatre; it was just half-price time--and the beggary and rascality of london were pouring in to their low amusement, from the neighbouring gin palaces and thieves' cellars. a herd of ragged boys, vomiting forth slang, filth, and blasphemy, pushed past us, compelling us to take good care of our pockets. "look there! look at the amusements, the training, the civilization, which the government permits to the children of the people! these licensed pits of darkness, traps of temptation, profligacy, and ruin, triumphantly yawning night after night--and then tell me that the people who see their children thus kidnapped into hell are represented by a government who licenses such things!" "would a change in the franchise cure that?" "household suffrage mightn't--but give us the charter, and we'll see about it! give us the charter, and we'll send workmen, into parliament that shall soon find out whether something better can't be put in the way of the ten thousand boys and girls in london who live by theft and prostitution, than the tender mercies of the victoria--a pretty name! they say the queen's a good woman--and i don't doubt it. i wonder often if she knows what her precious namesake here is like." "but really, i cannot see how a mere change in representation can cure such things as that." "why, didn't they tell us, before the reform bill, that extension of the suffrage was to cure everything? and how can you have too much of a good thing? we've only taken them at their word, we chartists. haven't all politicians been preaching for years that england's national greatness was all owing to her political institutions--to magna charta, and the bill of rights, and representative parliaments, and all that? it was but the other day i got hold of some tory paper, that talked about the english constitution, and the balance of queen, lords, and commons, as the 'talismanic palladium' of the country. 'gad, we'll see if a move onward in the same line won't better the matter. if the balance of classes is such a blessed thing, the sooner we get the balance equal, the better; for it's rather lopsided just now, no one can deny. so, representative institutions are the talismanic palladium of the nation, are they? the palladium of the classes that have them, i dare say; and that's the very best reason why the classes that haven't got 'em should look out for the same palladium for themselves. what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, isn't it? we'll try--we'll see whether the talisman they talk of has lost its power all of a sudden since ' --whether we can't rub the magic ring a little for ourselves and call up genii to help us out of the mire, as the shopkeepers and the gentlemen have done." * * * * * from that night i was a chartist, heart and soul--and so were a million and a half more of the best artisans in england--at least, i had no reason to be ashamed of my company. yes; i too, like crossthwaite, took the upper classes at their word; bowed down to the idol of political institutions, and pinned my hopes of salvation on "the possession of one ten-thousandth part of a talker in the national palaver." true, i desired the charter, at first (as i do, indeed, at this moment), as a means to glorious ends--not only because it would give a chance of elevation, a free sphere of action, to lowly worth and talent; but because it was the path to reforms--social, legal, sanatory, educational--to which the veriest tory--certainly not the great and good lord ashley--would not object. but soon, with me, and i am afraid with many, many more, the means became, by the frailty of poor human nature, an end, an idol in itself. i had so made up my mind that it was the only method of getting what i wanted, that i neglected, alas! but too often, to try the methods which lay already by me. "if we had but the charter"--was the excuse for a thousand lazinesses, procrastinations. "if we had but the charter"--i should be good, and free, and happy. fool that i was! it was within, rather than without, that i needed reform. and so i began to look on man (and too many of us, i am afraid, are doing so) as the creature and puppet of circumstances--of the particular outward system, social or political, in which he happens to find himself. an abominable heresy, no doubt; but, somehow, it appears to me just the same as benthamites, and economists, and high-churchmen, too, for that matter, have been preaching for the last twenty years with great applause from their respective parties. one set informs the world that it is to be regenerated by cheap bread, free trade, and that peculiar form of the "freedom of industry" which, in plain language, signifies "the despotism of capital"; and which, whatever it means, is merely some outward system, circumstance, or "dodge" _about_ man, and not _in_ him. another party's nostrum is more churches, more schools, more clergymen--excellent things in their way--better even than cheap bread, or free trade, provided only that they are excellent--that the churches, schools, clergymen, are good ones. but the party of whom i am speaking seem to us workmen to consider the quality quite a secondary consideration, compared with the quantity. they expect the world to be regenerated, not by becoming more a church--none would gladlier help them in bringing that about than the chartists themselves, paradoxical as it may seem--but by being dosed somewhat more with a certain "church system," circumstance, or "dodge." for my part, i seem to have learnt that the only thing to regenerate the world is not more of any system, good or bad, but simply more of the spirit of god. about the supposed omnipotence of the charter, i have found out my mistake. i believe no more in "morison's-pill-remedies," as thomas carlyle calls them. talismans are worthless. the age of spirit-compelling spells, whether of parchment or carbuncle, is past--if, indeed, it ever existed. the charter will no more make men good, than political economy, or the observance of the church calendar--a fact which we working men, i really believe, have, under the pressure of wholesome defeat and god-sent affliction, found out sooner than our more "enlightened" fellow-idolaters. but at that time, as i have confessed already, we took our betters at their word, and believed in morison's pills. only, as we looked at the world from among a class of facts somewhat different from theirs, we differed from them proportionably as to our notions of the proper ingredients in the said pill. * * * * * but what became of our protest? it was received--and disregarded. as for turning us off, we had, _de facto_, like coriolanus, banished the romans, turned our master off. all the other hands, some forty in number, submitted and took the yoke upon them, and went down into the house of bondage, knowing whither they went. every man of them is now a beggar, compared with what he was then. many are dead in the prime of life of consumption, bad food and lodging, and the peculiar diseases of our trade. some have not been heard of lately--we fancy them imprisoned in some sweaters' dens--but thereby hangs a tale, whereof more hereafter. but it was singular, that every one of the six who had merely professed their conditional readiness to sign the protest, were contumeliously discharged the next day, without any reason being assigned. it was evident that there had been a traitor at the meeting; and every one suspected jemmy downes, especially as he fell into the new system with suspiciously strange alacrity. but it was as impossible to prove the offence against him, as to punish him for it. of that wretched man, too, and his subsequent career, i shall have somewhat to say hereafter. verily, there is a god who judgeth the earth! but now behold me and my now intimate and beloved friend, crossthwaite, with nothing to do--a gentlemanlike occupation; but, unfortunately, in our class, involving starvation. what was to be done? we applied for work at several "honourable shops"; but at all we received the same answer. their trade was decreasing--the public ran daily more and more to the cheap show-shops--and they themselves were forced, in order to compete with these latter, to put more and more of their work out at contract prices. _facilis descensus averni!_ having once been hustled out of the serried crowd of competing workmen, it was impossible to force our way in again. so, a week or ten days past, our little stocks of money were exhausted. i was down-hearted at once; but crossthwaite bore up gaily enough. "katie and i can pick a crust together without snarling over it. and, thank god, i have no children, and never intend to have, if i can keep true to myself, till the good times come." "oh! crossthwaite, are not children a blessing?" "would they be a blessing to me now? no, my lad.--let those bring slaves into the world who will! i will never beget children to swell the numbers of those who are trampling each other down in the struggle for daily bread, to minister in ever deepening poverty and misery to the rich man's luxury--perhaps his lust." "then you believe in the malthusian doctrines?" "i believe them to be an infernal lie, alton locke; though good and wise people like miss martineau may sometimes be deluded into preaching them. i believe there's room on english soil for twice the number there is now; and when we get the charter we'll prove it; we'll show that god meant living human heads and hands to be blessings and not curses, tools and not burdens. but in such times as these, let those who have wives be as though they had none--as st. paul said, when he told his people under the roman emperor to be above begetting slaves and martyrs. a man of the people should keep himself as free from encumbrances as he can just now. he win find it all the more easy to dare and suffer for the people, when their turn comes--" and he set his teeth, firmly, almost savagely. "i think i can earn a few shillings, now and then, by writing for a paper i know of. if that won't do, i must take up agitating for a trade, and live by spouting, as many a tory member as well as radical ones do. a man may do worse, for he may do nothing. at all events, my only chance now is to help on the charter; for the sooner it comes the better for me. and if i die--why, the little woman won't be long in coming after me, i know that well; and there's a tough business got well over for both of us!" "hech," said sandy, "to every man death comes but once a life-- "as my countryman, mr. macaulay, says, in thae gran' roman ballants o' his. but for ye, alton, laddie, ye're owre young to start off in the people's church meelitant, sae just bide wi' me, and the barrel o' meal in the corner there winna waste, nae mair than it did wi' the widow o' zareptha; a tale which coincides sae weel wi' the everlasting righteousness, that i'm at times no inclined to consider it a'thegither mythical." but i, with thankfulness which vented itself through my eyes, finding my lips alone too narrow for it, refused to eat the bread of idleness. "aweel, then, ye'll just mind the shop, and dust the books whiles; i'm getting auld and stiff, and ha' need o' help i' the business." "no," i said; "you say so out of kindness; but if you can afford no greater comforts than these, you cannot afford to keep me in addition to yourself." "hech, then! how do ye ken that the auld scot eats a' he makes? i was na born the spending side o' tweed, my man. but gin ye daur, why dinna ye pack up your duds, and yer poems wi' them, and gang till your cousin i' the university? he'll surely put you in the way o' publishing them. he's bound to it by blude; and there's na shame in asking him to help you towards reaping the fruits o' yer ain labours. a few punds on a bond for repayment when the addition was sauld, noo,--i'd do that for mysel; but i'm thinking ye'd better try to get a list o' subscribers. dinna mind your independence; it's but spoiling the egyptians, ye ken, and the bit ballants will be their money's worth, i'll warrant, and tell them a wheen facts they're no that weel acquentit wi'. hech? johnnie, my chartist?" "why not go to my uncle?" "puir sugar-and-spice-selling bailie body! is there aught in his ledger about poetry, and the incommensurable value o' the products o' genius? gang till the young scholar; he's a canny one, too, and he'll ken it to be worth his while to fash himsel a wee anent it." so i packed up my little bundle, and lay awake all that night in a fever of expectation about the as yet unknown world of green fields and woods through which my road to cambridge lay. chapter xi. "the yard where the gentlemen live." i may be forgiven, surely, if i run somewhat into detail about this my first visit to the country. i had, as i have said before, literally never been further afield than fulham or battersea rise. one sunday evening, indeed, i had got as far as wandsworth common; but it was march, and, to my extreme disappointment, the heath was not in flower. but, usually, my sundays had been spent entirely in study; which to me was rest, so worn out were both my body and my mind with the incessant drudgery of my trade, and the slender fare to which i restricted myself. since i had lodged with mackaye certainly my food had been better. i had not required to stint my appetite for money wherewith to buy candles, ink, and pens. my wages, too, had increased with my years, and altogether i found myself gaining in strength, though i had no notion how much i possessed till i set forth on this walk to cambridge. it was a glorious morning at the end of may; and when. i escaped from the pall of smoke which hung over the city, i found the sky a sheet of cloudless blue. how i watched for the ending of the rows of houses, which lined the road for miles--the great roots of london, running far out into the country, up which poured past me an endless stream of food and merchandise and human beings--the sap of the huge metropolitan life-tree! how each turn of the road opened a fresh line of terraces or villas, till hope deferred made the heart sick, and the country seemed--like the place where the rainbow touches the ground, or the el dorado of raleigh's guiana settler--always a little farther off! how between gaps in the houses, right and left, i caught tantalizing glimpses of green fields, shut from me by dull lines of high-spiked palings! how i peeped through gates and over fences at trim lawns and gardens, and longed to stay, and admire, and speculate on the name of the strange plants and gaudy flowers; and then hurried on, always expecting to find something still finer ahead--something really worth stopping to look at--till the houses thickened again into a street, and i found myself, to my disappointment, in the midst of a town! and then more villas and palings; and then a village;--when would they stop, those endless houses? at last they did stop. gradually the people whom i passed began to look more and more rural, and more toil-worn and ill-fed. the houses ended, cattle-yards and farm-buildings appeared; and right and left, far away, spread the low rolling sheet of green meadows and cornfields. oh, the joy! the lawns with their high elms and firs, the green hedgerows, the delicate hue and scent of the fresh clover-fields, the steep clay banks where i stopped to pick nosegays of wild flowers, and became again a child,--and then recollected my mother, and a walk with her on the river bank towards the red house--and hurried on again, but could not be unhappy, while my eyes ranged free, for the first time in my life, over the chequered squares of cultivation, over glittering brooks, and hills quivering in the green haze, while above hung the skylarks, pouring out their souls in melody. and then, as the sun grew hot, and the larks dropped one by one into the growing corn, the new delight of the blessed silence! i listened to the stillness; for noise had been my native element; i had become in london quite unconscious of the ceaseless roar of the human sea, casting up mire and dirt. and now, for the first time in my life, the crushing, confusing hubbub had flowed away, and left my brain calm and free. how i felt at that moment a capability of clear, bright meditation, which was as new to me, as i believe it would have been to most londoners in my position. i cannot help fancying that our unnatural atmosphere of excitement, physical as well as moral, is to blame for very much of the working man's restlessness and fierceness. as it was, i felt that every step forward, every breath of fresh air, gave me new life. i had gone fifteen miles before i recollected that, for the first time for many months, i had not coughed since i rose. so on i went, down the broad, bright road, which seemed to beckon me forward into the unknown expanses of human life. the world was all before me, where to choose, and i saw it both with my eyes and my imagination, in the temper of a boy broke loose from school. my heart kept holiday. i loved and blessed the birds which flitted past me, and the cows which lay dreaming on the sward. i recollect stopping with delight at a picturesque descent into the road, to watch a nursery-garden, full of roses of every shade, from brilliant yellow to darkest purple; and as i wondered at the innumerable variety of beauties which man's art had developed from a few poor and wild species, it seemed to me the most delightful life on earth, to follow in such a place the primæval trade of gardener adam; to study the secrets of the flower-world, the laws of soil and climate; to create new species, and gloat over the living fruit of one's own science and perseverance. and then i recollected the tailor's shop, and the charter, and the starvation, and the oppression which i had left behind, and ashamed of my own selfishness, went hurrying on again. at last i came to a wood--the first real wood that i had ever seen; not a mere party of stately park trees growing out of smooth turf, but a real wild copse; tangled branches and grey stems fallen across each other; deep, ragged underwood of shrubs, and great ferns like princes' feathers, and gay beds of flowers, blue and pink and yellow, with butterflies flitting about them, and trailers that climbed and dangled from bough to bough--a poor, commonplace bit of copse, i dare say, in the world's eyes, but to me a fairy wilderness of beautiful forms, mysterious gleams and shadows, teeming with manifold life. as i stood looking wistfully over the gate, alternately at the inviting vista of the green-embroidered path, and then at the grim notice over my head, "all trespassers prosecuted," a young man came up the ride, dressed in velveteen jacket and leather gaiters, sufficiently bedrabbled with mud. a fishing-rod and basket bespoke him some sort of destroyer, and i saw in a moment that he was "a gentleman." after all, there is such a thing as looking like a gentleman. there are men whose class no dirt or rags could hide, any more than they could ulysses. i have seen such men in plenty among workmen, too; but, on the whole, the gentlemen--by whom i do not mean just now the rich--have the superiority in that point. but not, please god, for ever. give us the same air, water, exercise, education, good society, and you will see whether this "haggardness," this "coarseness," &c., &c., for the list is too long to specify, be an accident, or a property, of the man of the people. "may i go into your wood?" asked i at a venture, curiosity conquering pride. "well! what do you want there, my good fellow?" "to see what a wood is like--i never was in one in my life." "humph! well--you may go in for that, and welcome. never was in a wood in his life--poor devil!" "thank you!" quoth i. and i slowly clambered over the gate. he put his hand carelessly on the top rail, vaulted over it like a deer, and then turned to stare at me. "hullo! i say--i forgot--don't go far in, or ramble up and down, or you'll disturb the pheasants." i thanked him again for what license he had given me--went in, and lay down by the path-side. here, i suppose, by the rules of modern art, a picturesque description of the said wood should follow; but i am the most incompetent person in the world to write it. and, indeed, the whole scene was so novel to me, that i had no time to analyse; i could only enjoy. i recollect lying on my face and fingering over the delicately cut leaves of the weeds, and wondering whether the people who lived in the country thought them as wonderful and beautiful as i did;--and then i recollected the thousands whom i had left behind, who, like me, had never seen the green face of god's earth; and the answer of the poor gamin in st. giles's, who, when he was asked what the country was, answered, "_the yard where the gentlemen live when they go out of town_"--significant that, and pathetic;--then i wondered whether the time would ever come when society would be far enough advanced to open to even such as he a glimpse, if it were only once a year, of the fresh, clean face of god's earth;--and then i became aware of a soft mysterious hum, above and around me, and turned on my back to look whence it proceeded, and saw the leaves gold-green and transparent in the sunlight, quivering against the deep heights of the empyrean blue; and hanging in the sunbeams that pierced the foliage, a thousand insects, like specks of fire, that poised themselves motionless on thrilling wings, and darted away, and returned to hang motionless again;--and i wondered what they eat, and whether they thought about anything, and whether they enjoyed the sunlight;--and then that brought back to me the times when i used to lie dreaming in my crib on summer mornings, and watched the flies dancing reels between me and the ceilings;--and that again brought the thought of susan and my mother; and i prayed for them--not sadly--i could not be sad there;--and prayed that we might all meet again some day and live happily together; perhaps in the country, where i could write poems in peace; and then, by degrees, my sentences and thoughts grew incoherent, and in happy, stupid animal comfort, i faded away into a heavy sleep, which lasted an hour or more, till i was awakened by the efforts of certain enterprising great black and red ants, who were trying to found a small algeria in my left ear. i rose and left the wood, and a gate or two on, stopped again to look at the same sportsman fishing in a clear silver brook. i could not help admiring with a sort of childish wonder the graceful and practised aim with which he directed his tiny bait, and called up mysterious dimples on the surface, which in a moment increased to splashings and stragglings of a great fish, compelled, as if by some invisible spell, to follow the point of the bending rod till he lay panting on the bank. i confess, in spite of all my class prejudices against "game-preserving aristocrats," i almost envied the man; at least i seemed to understand a little of the universally attractive charms which those same outwardly contemptible field sports possess; the fresh air, fresh fields and copses, fresh running brooks, the exercise, the simple freedom, the excitement just sufficient to keep alive expectation and banish thought.--after all, his trout produced much the same mood in him as my turnpike-road did in me. and perhaps the man did not go fishing or shooting every day. the laws prevented him from shooting, at least, all the year round; so sometimes there might be something in which he made himself of use. an honest, jolly face too he had--not without thought and strength in it. "well, it is a strange world," said i to myself, "where those who can, need not; and those who cannot, must!" then he came close to the gate, and i left it just in time to see a little group arrive at it--a woman of his own rank, young, pretty, and simply dressed, with a little boy, decked out as a highlander, on a shaggy shetland pony, which his mother, as i guessed her to be, was leading. and then they all met, and the little fellow held up a basket of provisions to his father, who kissed him across the gate, and hung his creel of fish behind the saddle, and patted the mother's shoulder, as she looked up lovingly and laughingly in his face. altogether, a joyous, genial bit of--nature? yes, nature. shall i grudge simple happiness to the few, because it is as yet, alas! impossible for the many. and yet the whole scene contrasted so painfully with me--with my past, my future, my dreams, my wrongs, that i could not look at it; and with a swelling heart i moved on--all the faster because i saw they were looking at me and talking of me, and the fair wife threw after me a wistful, pitying glance, which i was afraid might develop itself into some offer of food or money--a thing which i scorned and dreaded, because it involved the trouble of a refusal. then, as i walked on once more, my heart smote me. if they had wished to be kind, why had i grudged them the opportunity of a good deed? at all events, i might have asked their advice. in a natural and harmonious state, when society really means brotherhood, a man could go up to any stranger, to give and receive, if not succour, yet still experience and wisdom: and was i not bound to tell them what i knew? was sure that they did not know? was i not bound to preach the cause of my class wherever i went? here were kindly people who, for aught i knew, would do right the moment they were told where it was wanted; if there was an accursed artificial gulf between their class and mine, had i any right to complain of it, as long as i helped to keep it up by my false pride and surly reserve? no! i would speak my mind henceforth--i would testify of what i saw and knew of the wrongs, if not of the rights of the artisan, before whomsoever i might come. oh! valiant conclusion of half an hour's self-tormenting scruples! how i kept it, remains to be shown. i really fear that i am getting somewhat trivial and prolix; but there was hardly an incident in my two days' tramp which did not give me some small fresh insight into the _terra incognita_ of the country; and there may be those among my readers, to whom it is not uninteresting to look, for once, at even the smallest objects with a cockney workman's eyes. well, i trudged on--and the shadows lengthened, and i grew footsore and tired; but every step was new, and won me forward with fresh excitement for my curiosity. at one village i met a crowd of little, noisy, happy boys and girls pouring out of a smart new gothic school-house. i could not resist the temptation of snatching a glance through the open door. i saw on the walls maps, music, charts, and pictures. how i envied those little urchins! a solemn, sturdy elder, in a white cravat, evidently the parson of the parish, was patting children's heads, taking down names, and laying down the law to a shrewd, prim young schoolmaster. presently, as i went up the village, the clergyman strode past me, brandishing a thick stick and humming a chant, and joined a motherly-looking wife, who, basket on arm, was popping in and out of the cottages, looking alternately serious and funny, cross and kindly--i suppose, according to the sayings and doings of the folks within. "come," i thought, "this looks like work at least." and as i went out of the village, i accosted a labourer, who was trudging my way, fork on shoulder, and asked him if that was the parson and his wife? i was surprised at the difficulty with which i got into conversation with the man; at his stupidity, feigned or real, i could not tell which; at the dogged, suspicious reserve with which he eyed me, and asked me whether i was "one of they parts"? and whether i was a londoner, and what i wanted on the tramp, and so on, before he seemed to think it safe to answer a single question. he seemed, like almost every labourer i ever met, to have something on his mind; to live in a state of perpetual fear and concealment. when, however, he found i was both a cockney and a passer-by, he began to grow more communicative, and told me, "ees--that were the parson, sure enough." "and what sort of a man was he?" "oh! he was a main kind man to the poor; leastwise, in the matter of visiting 'em, and praying with 'em, and getting 'em to put into clubs, and such like; and his lady too. not that there was any fault to find with the man about money--but 'twasn't to be expected of him." "why, was he not rich?" "oh, rich enough to the likes of us. but his own tithes here arn't more than a thirty pounds we hears tell; and if he hadn't summat of his own, he couldn't do not nothing by the poor; as it be, he pays for that ere school all to his own pocket, next part. all the rest o' the tithes goes to some great lord or other--they say he draws a matter of a thousand a year out of the parish, and not a foot ever he sot into it; and that's the way with a main lot o' parishes, up and down." this was quite a new fact to me. "and what sort of folks were the parsons all round." "oh, some of all sorts, good and bad. about six and half a dozen. there's two or three nice young gentlemen come'd round here now, but they're all what's-'em-a-call it?--some sort o' papishes;--leastwise, they has prayers in the church every day, and doesn't preach the gospel, no how, i hears by my wife, and she knows all about it, along of going to meeting. then there's one over thereaway, as had to leave his living--he knows why. he got safe over seas. if he had been a poor man, he'd been in * * * * * gaol, safe enough, and soon enough. then there's two or three as goes a-hunting--not as i sees no harm in that; if a man's got plenty of money, he ought to enjoy himself, in course: but still he can't be here and there too, to once. then there's two or three as is bad in their healths, or thinks themselves so--or else has livings summer' else; and they lives summer' or others, and has curates. main busy chaps is they curates, always, and wonderful hands to preach; but then, just as they gets a little knowing like at it, and folks gets to like 'em, and run to hear 'em, off they pops to summat better; and in course they're right to do so; and so we country-folks get nought but the young colts, afore they're broke, you see." "and what sort of a preacher was his parson?" "oh, he preached very good gospel, not that he went very often himself, acause he couldn't make out the meaning of it; he preached too high, like. but his wife said it was uncommon good gospel; and surely when he come to visit a body, and talked plain english, like, not sermon-ways, he was a very pleasant man to heer, and his lady uncommon kind to nurse folk. they sot up with me and my wife, they two did, two whole nights, when we was in the fever, afore the officer could get us a nurse." "well," said i, "there are some good parsons left." "oh, yes; there's some very good ones--each one after his own way; and there'd be more on 'em, if they did but know how bad we labourers was off. why bless ye, i mind when they was very different. a new parson is a mighty change for the better, mostwise, we finds. why, when i was a boy, we never had no schooling. and now mine goes and learns singing and jobrafy, and ciphering, and sich like. not that i sees no good in it. we was a sight better off in the old times, when there weren't no schooling. schooling harn't made wages rise, nor preaching neither." "but surely," i said, "all this religious knowledge ought to give you comfort, even if you are badly off." "oh! religion's all very well for them as has time for it; and a very good thing--we ought all to mind our latter end. but i don't see how a man can hear sermons with an empty belly; and there's so much to fret a man, now, and he's so cruel tired coming home o' nights, he can't nowise go to pray a lot, as gentlefolks does." "but are you so ill off?" "oh! he'd had a good harvesting enough; but then he owed all that for he's rent; and he's club money wasn't paid up, nor he's shop. and then, with he's wages"--(i forget the sum--under ten shillings)--"how could a man keep his mouth full, when he had five children! and then, folks is so unmarciful--i'll just tell you what they says to me, now, last time i was over at the board--" and thereon he rambled off into a long jumble of medical-officers, and relieving-officers, and farmer this, and squire that, which indicated a mind as ill-educated as discontented. he cursed or rather grumbled at--for he had not spirit, it seemed, to curse anything--the new poor law; because it "ate up the poor, flesh and bone";--bemoaned the "old law," when "the vestry was forced to give a man whatsomdever he axed for, and if they didn't, he'd go to the magistrates and make 'em, and so sure as a man got a fresh child, he went and got another loaf allowed him next vestry, like a christian;"--and so turned through a gate, and set to work forking up some weeds on a fallow, leaving me many new thoughts to digest. that night, i got to some town or other, and there found a night's lodging, good enough for a walking traveller. chapter xii. cambridge. when i started again next morning, i found myself so stiff and footsore, that i could hardly put one leg before the other, much less walk upright. i was really quite in despair, before the end of the first mile; for i had no money to pay for a lift on the coach, and i knew, besides, that they would not be passing that way for several hours to come. so, with aching back and knees, i made shift to limp along, bent almost double, and ended by sitting down for a couple of hours, and looking about me, in a country which would have seemed dreary enough, i suppose, to any one but a freshly-liberated captive, such as i was. at last i got up and limped on, stiffer than ever from my rest, when a gig drove past me towards cambridge, drawn by a stout cob, and driven by a tall, fat, jolly-looking farmer, who stared at me as he passed, went on, looked back, slackened his pace, looked back again, and at last came to a dead stop, and hailed me in a broad nasal dialect-- "whor be ganging, then, boh?" "to cambridge." "thew'st na git there that gate. be'est thee honest man?" "i hope so," said i, somewhat indignantly. "what's trade?" "a tailor," i said. "tailor!--guide us! tailor a-tramp? barn't accoostomed to tramp, then?" "i never was out of london before," said i, meekly--for i was too worn-out to be cross--lengthy and impertinent as this cross-examination seemed. "oi'll gie thee lift; dee yow joomp in. gae on, powney! tailor, then! oh! ah! tailor, saith he." i obeyed most thankfully, and sat crouched together, looking up out of the corner of my eyes at the huge tower of broad-cloth by my side, and comparing the two red shoulders of mutton which held the reins, with my own wasted, white, woman-like fingers. i found the old gentleman most inquisitive. he drew out of me all my story--questioned me about the way "lunnon folks" lived, and whether they got ony shooting or "pattening"--whereby i found he meant skating--and broke in, every now and then, with ejaculations of childish wonder, and clumsy sympathy, on my accounts of london labour and london misery. "oh, father, father!--i wonders they bears it. us'n in the fens wouldn't stand that likes. they'd roit, and roit, and roit, and tak' oot the dook-gunes to un--they would, as they did five-and-twenty year agone. never to goo ayond the housen!--never to go ayond the housen! kill me in a three months, that would--bor', then!" "are you a farmer?" i asked, at last, thinking that my turn for questioning was come. "i bean't varmer; i be yooman born. never paid rent in moy life, nor never wool. i farms my own land, and my vathers avore me, this ever so mony hoondred year. i've got the swoord of 'em to home, and the helmet that they fut with into the wars, then when they chopped off the king's head--what was the name of um?" "charles the first?" "ees--that's the booy. we was parliament side--true britons all we was, down into the fens, and oliver cromwell, as dug botsham lode, to the head of us. yow coom down to metholl, and i'll shaw ye a country. i'll shaw 'ee some'at like bullocks to call, and some'at like a field o' beans--i wool,--none o' this here darned ups and downs o' hills" (though the country through which we drove was flat enough, i should have thought, to please any one), "to shake a body's victuals out of his inwards--all so flat as a barn's floor, for vorty mile on end--there's the country to live in!--and vour sons--or was vour on 'em--every one on 'em fifteen stone in his shoes, to patten again' any man from whit'sea mere to denver sluice, for twenty pounds o' gold; and there's the money to lay down, and let the man as dare cover it, down with his money, and on wi' his pattens, thirteen-inch runners, down the wind, again' either a one o' the bairns!" and he jingled in his pockets a heavy bag of gold, and winked, and chuckled, and then suddenly checking himself, repeated in a sad, dubious tone, two or three times, "vour on 'em there was--vour on 'em there was;" and relieved his feelings by springing the pony into a canter till he came to a public-house, where he pulled up, called for a pot of hot ale, and insisted on treating me. i assured him that i never drank fermented liquors. "aw? eh? how can yow do that then? die o' cowd i' the fen, that gate, yow would. love ye then! they as dinnot tak' spirits down thor, tak' their pennord o' elevation, then--women-folk especial." "what's elevation?" "oh! ho! ho!--yow goo into druggist's shop o' market-day, into cambridge, and you'll see the little boxes, doozens and doozens, a' ready on the counter; and never a ven-man's wife goo by, but what calls in for her pennord o' elevation, to last her out the week. oh! ho! ho! well, it keeps women-folk quiet, it do; and it's mortal good agin ago pains." "but what is it?" "opium, bor' alive, opium!" "but doesn't it ruin their health? i should think it the very worst sort of drunkenness." "ow, well, yow moi soy that-mak'th 'em cruel thin then, it do; but what can bodies do i' th'ago? bot it's a bad thing, it is. harken yow to me. didst ever know one called porter, to yowr trade?" i thought a little, and recollected a man of that name, who had worked with us a year or two before--a great friend of a certain scatter-brained irish lad, brother of crossthwaite's wife. "well, i did once, but i have lost sight of him twelve months, or more." the old man faced sharp round on me, swinging the little gig almost over, and then twisted himself back again, and put on a true farmer-like look of dogged, stolid reserve. we rolled on a few minutes in silence. "dee yow consider, now, that a mon mought be lost, like, into lunnon?" "how lost?" "why, yow told o' they sweaters--dee yow think a mon might get in wi' one o' they, and they that mought be looking for un not to vind un?" "i do, indeed. there was a friend of that man porter got turned away from our shop, because he wouldn't pay some tyrannical fine for being saucy, as they called it, to the shopman; and he went to a sweater's--and then to another; and his friends have been tracking him up and down this six months, and can hear no news of him." "aw! guide us! and what'n, think yow, be gone wi' un?" "i am afraid he has got into one of those dens, and has pawned his clothes, as dozens of them do, for food, and so can't get out." "pawned his clothes for victuals! to think o' that, noo! but if he had work, can't he get victuals?" "oh!" i said, "there's many a man who, after working seventeen or eighteen hours a day, sundays and all, without even time to take off his clothes, finds himself brought in in debt to his tyrant at the week's end. and if he gets no work, the villain won't let him leave the house; he has to stay there starving, on the chance of an hour's job. i tell you, i've known half a dozen men imprisoned in that way, in a little dungeon of a garret, where they had hardly room to stand upright, and only just space to sit and work between their beds, without breathing the fresh air, or seeing god's sun, for months together, with no victuals but a few slices of bread-and-butter, and a little slop of tea, twice a day, till they were starved to the very bone." "oh, my god! my god!" said the old man, in a voice which had a deeper tone of feeling than mere sympathy with others' sorrow was likely to have produced. there was evidently something behind all these inquiries of his. i longed to ask him if his name, too, was not porter. "aw yow knawn billy porter? what was a like? tell me, now--what was a like, in the lord's name! what was a like unto?" "very tall and bony," i answered. "ah! sax feet, and more? and a yard across?--but a was starved, a was a' thin, though, maybe, when yow sawn un?--and beautiful fine hair, hadn't a, like a lass's?" "the man i knew had red hair," quoth i. "ow, ay, an' that it wor, red as a rising sun, and the curls of un like gowlden guineas! and thou knew'st billy porter! to think o' that, noo."-- another long silence. "could you find un, dee yow think, noo, into lunnon? suppose, now, there was a mon 'ud gie--may be five pund--ten pund--twenty pund, by * * *--twenty pund down, for to ha' him brocht home safe and soun'--could yow do't, bor'? i zay, could yow do't?" "i could do it as well without the money as with, if i could do it at all. but have you no guess as to where he is?" he shook his head sadly. "we--that's to zay, they as wants un--hav'n't heerd tell of un vor this three year--three year coom whitsuntide as ever was--" and he wiped his eyes with his cuff. "if you will tell me all about him, and where he was last heard of, i will do all i can to find him." "will ye, noo? will ye? the lord bless ye for zaying that." and he grasped my hand in his great iron fist, and fairly burst out crying. "was he a relation of yours?" i asked, gently. "my bairn--my bairn--my eldest bairn. dinnot yow ax me no moor--dinnot then, bor'. gie on, yow powney, and yow goo leuk vor un." another long silence. "i've a been to lunnon, looking vor un." another silence. "i went up and down, up and down, day and night, day and night, to all pot-houses as i could zee; vor, says i, he was a'ways a main chap to drink, he was. oh, deery me! and i never cot zight on un--and noo i be most spent, i be."-- and he pulled up at another public-house, and tried this time a glass of brandy. he stopped, i really think, at every inn between that place and cambridge, and at each tried some fresh compound; but his head seemed, from habit, utterly fire-proof. at last, we neared cambridge, and began to pass groups of gay horsemen, and then those strange caps and gowns--ugly and unmeaning remnant of obsolete fashion. the old man insisted on driving me up to the gate of * * * college, and there dropped me, after i had given him my address, entreating me to "vind the bairn, and coom to zee him down to metholl. but dinnot goo ax for farmer porter--they's all porters there away. yow ax for wooden-house bob--that's me; and if i barn't to home, ax for mucky billy--that's my brawther--we're all gotten our names down to ven; and if he barn't to home, yow ax for frog-hall--that's where my sister do live; and they'll all veed ye, and lodge ye, and welcome come. we be all like one, doon in the ven; and do ye, do ye, vind my bairn!" and he trundled on, down the narrow street. i was soon directed, by various smart-looking servants, to my cousin's rooms; and after a few mistakes, and wandering up and down noble courts and cloisters, swarming with gay young men, whose jaunty air and dress seemed strangely out of keeping with the stem antique solemnity of the gothic buildings around, i espied my cousin's name over a door; and, uncertain how he might receive me, i gave a gentle, half-apologetic knock, which, was answered by a loud "come in!" and i entered on a scene, even more incongruous than anything i had seen outside. "if we can only keep away from jesus as far as the corner, i don't care." "if we don't run into that first trinity before the willows, i shall care with a vengeance." "if we don't it's a pity," said my cousin. "wadham ran up by the side of that first trinity yesterday, and he said that they were as well gruelled as so many posters, before they got to the stile." this unintelligible, and to my inexperienced ears, irreverent conversation, proceeded from half a dozen powerful young men, in low-crowned sailors' hats and flannel trousers, some in striped jerseys, some in shooting-jackets, some smoking cigars, some beating up eggs in sherry; while my cousin, dressed like "a fancy waterman," sat on the back of a sofa, puffing away at a huge meerschaum. "alton! why, what wind on earth has blown you here?" by the tone, the words seemed rather an inquiry as to what wind would be kind enough to blow me back again. but he recovered his self-possession in a moment. "delighted to see you! where's your portmanteau? oh--left it at the bull! ah! i see. very well, we'll send the gyp for it in a minute, and order some luncheon. we're just going down to the boat-race. sorry i can't stop, but we shall all be fined--not a moment to lose. i'll send you in luncheon as i go through the butteries; then, perhaps, you'd like to come down and see the race. ask the gyp to tell you the way. now, then, follow your noble captain, gentlemen--to glory and a supper." and he bustled out with his crew. while i was staring about the room, at the jumble of greek books, boxing-gloves, and luscious prints of pretty women, a shrewd-faced, smart man entered, much better dressed than myself. "what would you like, sir? ox-tail soup, sir, or gravy-soup, sir? stilton cheese, sir, or cheshire, sir? old stilton, sir, just now." fearing lest many words might betray my rank--and, strange to say, though i should not have been afraid of confessing myself an artisan before the "gentlemen" who had just left the room, i was ashamed to have my low estate discovered, and talked over with his compeers, by the flunkey who waited on them--i answered, "anything--i really don't care," in as aristocratic and off-hand a tone as i could assume. "porter or ale, sir?" "water," without a "thank you," i am ashamed to say for i was not at that time quite sure whether it was well-bred to be civil to servants. the man vanished, and reappeared with a savoury luncheon, silver forks, snowy napkins, smart plates--i felt really quite a gentleman. he gave me full directions as to my "way to the boats, sir;" and i started out much refreshed; passed through back streets, dingy, dirty, and profligate-looking enough; out upon wide meadows, fringed with enormous elms; across a ferry; through a pleasant village, with its old grey church and spire; by the side of a sluggish river, alive with wherries. i had walked down some mile or so, and just as i heard a cannon, as i thought, fire at some distance, and wondered at its meaning, i came to a sudden bend of the river, with a church-tower hanging over the stream on the opposite bank, a knot of tall poplars, weeping willows, rich lawns, sloping down to the water's side, gay with bonnets and shawls; while, along the edge of the stream, light, gaudily-painted boats apparently waited for the race,--altogether the most brilliant and graceful group of scenery which i had beheld in my little travels. i stopped to gaze; and among the ladies on the lawn opposite, caught sight of a figure--my heart leapt into my mouth! was it she at last? it was too far to distinguish features; the dress was altogether different--but was it not she? i saw her move across the lawn, and take the arm of a tall, venerable-looking man; and his dress was the same as that of the dean, at the dulwich gallery--was it? was it not? to have found her, and a river between us! it was ludicrously miserable--miserably ludicrous. oh, that accursed river, which debarred me from certainty, from bliss! i would have plunged across--but there were three objections--first, that i could not swim; next, what could i do when i had crossed? and thirdly, it might not be she after all. and yet i was certain--instinctively certain--that it was she, the idol of my imagination for years. if i could not see her features under that little white bonnet, i could imagine them there; they flashed up in my memory as fresh as ever. did she remember my features, as i did hers? would she know me again? had she ever even thought of me, from that day to this? fool! but there i stood, fascinated, gazing across the river, heedless of the racing-boats, and the crowd, and the roar that was rushing up to me at the rate of ten miles an hour, and in a moment more, had caught me, and swept me away with it, whether i would or not, along the towing-path, by the side of the foremost boats. and yet, after a few moments, i ceased to wonder either at the cambridge passion for boat-racing, or at the excitement of the spectators. "_honi soit qui mal y pense_." it was a noble sport--a sight such as could only be seen in england--some hundred of young men, who might, if they had chosen, been lounging effeminately about the streets, subjecting themselves voluntarily to that intense exertion, for the mere pleasure of toil. the true english stuff came out there; i felt that, in spite of all my prejudices--the stuff which has held gibraltar and conquered at waterloo--which has created a birmingham and a manchester, and colonized every quarter of the globe--that grim, earnest, stubborn energy, which, since the days of the old romans, the english possess alone of all the nations of the earth. i was as proud of the gallant young fellows as if they had been my brothers--of their courage and endurance (for one could see that it was no child's-play, from the pale faces, and panting lips), their strength and activity, so fierce and yet so cultivated, smooth, harmonious, as oar kept time with oar, and every back rose and fell in concert--and felt my soul stirred up to a sort of sweet madness, not merely by the shouts and cheers of the mob around me, but by the loud fierce pulse of the rowlocks, the swift whispering rush of the long snake-like eight oars, the swirl and gurgle of the water in their wake, the grim, breathless silence of the straining rowers. my blood boiled over, and fierce tears swelled into my eyes; for i, too, was a man, and an englishman; and when i caught sight of my cousin, pulling stroke to the second boat in the long line, with set teeth and flashing eyes, the great muscles on his bare arms springing up into knots at every rapid stroke, i ran and shouted among the maddest and the foremost. but i soon tired, and, footsore as i was, began to find my strength fail me. i tried to drop behind, but found it impossible in the press. at last, quite out of breath, i stopped; and instantly received a heavy blow from behind, which threw me on my face; and a fierce voice shouted in my ear, "confound you, sir! don't you know better than to do that?" i looked up, and saw a man twice as big as myself sprawling over me, headlong down the bank, toward the river, whither i followed him, but alas! not on my feet, but rolling head over heels. on the very brink he stuck his heels into the turf, and stopped dead, amid a shout of, "well saved, lynedale!" i did not stop; but rolled into some two-feet water, amid the laughter and shouts of the men. i scrambled out, and limped on, shaking with wet and pain, till i was stopped by a crowd which filled the towing-path. an eight-oar lay under the bank, and the men on shore were cheering and praising those in the boat for having "bumped," which word i already understood to mean, winning a race. among them, close to me, was the tall man who had upset me; and a very handsome, high-bred looking man he was. i tried to slip by, but he recognized me instantly, and spoke. "i hope i didn't hurt you much, really, when i spoke so sharply, i did not see that you were not a gownsman!" the speech, as i suppose now, was meant courteously enough. it indicated that though he might allow himself liberties with men of his own class, he was too well bred to do so with me. but in my anger i saw nothing but the words, "not a gownsman." why should he see that i was not a gownsman? because i was shabbier?--(and my clothes, over and above the ducking they had had, were shabby); or more plebeian in appearance (whatsoever that may mean)? or wanted something else, which the rest had about them, and i had not? why should he know that i was not a gownsman? i did not wish, of course, to be a gentleman, and an aristocrat; but i was nettled, nevertheless, at not being mistaken for one; and answered, sharply enough-- "no matter whether i am hurt or not. it serves me right for getting among you cursed aristocrats." "box the cad's ears, lord lynedale," said a dirty fellow with a long pole--a cad himself, i should have thought. "let him go home and ask his mammy to hang him out to dry," said another. the lord (for so i understood he was) looked at me with an air of surprise and amusement, which may have been good-natured enough in him, but did not increase the good-nature in me. "tut, tut, my good fellow. i really am very sorry for having upset you. here's half-a-crown to cover damages." "better give it me than a muff like that," quoth he of the long pole; while i answered, surlily enough, that i wanted neither him nor his money, and burst through the crowd toward cambridge. i was so shabby and plebeian, then, that people actually dare offer me money! intolerable! the reader may say that i was in a very unwholesome and unreasonable frame of mind. so i was. and so would he have been in my place. chapter xiii. the lost idol found. on my return, i found my cousin already at home, in high spirits at having, as he informed me, "bumped the first trinity." i excused myself for my dripping state, simply by saying that i had slipped into the river. to tell him the whole of the story, while the fancied insult still rankled fresh in me, was really too disagreeable both to my memory and my pride. then came the question, "what had brought me to cambridge?" i told him all, and he seemed honestly to sympathize with my misfortunes. "never mind; we'll make it all right somehow. those poems of yours--you must let me have them and look over them; and i dare say i shall persuade the governor to do something with them. after all, it's no loss for you; you couldn't have got on tailoring--much too sharp a fellow for that;--you ought to be at college, if one could only get you there. these sizarships, now, were meant for--just such cases as yours--clever fellows who could not afford to educate themselves; if we could only help you to one of them, now-- "you forget that in that case," said i, with something like a sigh, "i should have to become a member of the church of england." "why, no; not exactly. though, of course, if you want to get all out of the university which you ought to get, you must do so at last." "and pretend to believe what i do not; for the sake of deserting my own class, and pandering to the very aristocrats, whom--" "hullo!" and he jumped with a hoarse laugh. "stop that till i see whether the door is sported. why, you silly fellow, what harm have the aristocrats, as you call them, ever done you? are they not doing you good at this moment? are you not, by virtue of their aristocratic institutions, nearer having your poems published, your genius recognized, etc. etc., than ever you were before?" "aristocrats? then you call yourself one?" "no, alton, my boy; not yet," said he quietly and knowingly. "not yet: but i have chosen the right road, and shall end at the road's end; and i advise you--for really, as my cousin, i wish you all success, even for the mere credit of the family, to choose the same road likewise." "what road?" "come up to cambridge, by hook or by crook, and then take orders." i laughed scornfully. "my good cousin, it is the only method yet discovered for turning a snob (as i am, or was) into a gentleman; except putting him into a heavy cavalry regiment. my brother, who has no brains, preferred the latter method. i, who flatter myself that i have some, have taken the former." the thought was new and astonishing to me, and i looked at him in silence while he ran on-- "if you are once a parson, all is safe. be you who you may before, from that moment you are a gentleman. no one will offer an insult. you are good enough for any man's society. you can dine at any nobleman's table. you can be friend, confidant, father confessor, if you like, to the highest women in the land; and if you have person, manners, and common sense, marry one of them into the bargain, alton, my boy." "and it is for that that you will sell your soul--to become a hanger-on of the upper classes, in sloth and luxury?" "sloth and luxury? stuff and nonsense! i tell you that after i have taken orders, i shall have years and years of hard work before me; continual drudgery of serving tables, managing charities, visiting, preaching, from morning till night, and after that often from night to morning again. enough to wear out any but a tough constitution, as i trust mine is. work, alton, and hard work, is the only way now-a-days to rise in the church, as in other professions. my father can buy me a living some day: but he can't buy me success, notoriety, social position, power--" and he stopped suddenly, as if he had been on the point of saying something more which should not have been said. "and this," i said, "is your idea of a vocation for the sacred ministry? it is for this, that you, brought up a dissenter, have gone over to the church of england?" "and how do you know"--and his whole tone of voice changed instantly into what was meant, i suppose, for a gentle seriousness and reverent suavity--"that i am not a sincere member of the church of england? how do you know that i may not have loftier plans and ideas, though i may not choose to parade them to everyone, and give that which is holy to the dogs?" "i am the dog, then?" i asked, half amused, for i was too curious about his state of mind to be angry. "not at all, my dear fellow. but those great men to whom we (or at least i) owe our conversion to the true church, always tell us (and you will feel yourself how right they are) not to parade religious feelings; to look upon them as sacred things, to be treated with that due reserve which springs from real reverence. you know, as well as i, whether that is the fashion of the body in which we were, alas! brought up. you know, as well as i, whether the religious conversation of that body has heightened your respect for sacred things." "i do, too well." and i thought of mr. wigginton and my mother's tea parties. "i dare say the vulgarity of that school has, ere now, shaken your faith in all that was holy?" i was very near confessing that it had: but a feeling came over me, i knew not why, that my cousin would have been glad to get me into his power, and would therefore have welcomed a confession of infidelity. so i held my tongue. "i can confess," he said, in the most confidential tone, "that it had for a time that effect on me. i have confessed it, ere now, and shall again and again, i trust. but i shudder to think of what i might have been believing or disbelieving now, if i had not in a happy hour fallen in with mr. newman's sermons, and learnt from them, and from his disciples, what the church of england really was; not protestant, no; but catholic in the deepest and highest sense." "so you are one of these new tractarians? you do not seem to have adopted yet the ascetic mode of life, which i hear they praise up so highly," "my dear alton, if you have read, as you have, your bible, you will recollect a text which tells you not to appear to men to fast. what i do or do not do in the way of self-denial, unless i were actually profligate, which i give you my sacred honour i am not, must be a matter between heaven and myself." there was no denying that truth; but the longer my cousin talked the less i trusted in him--i had almost said, the less i believed him. ever since the tone of his voice had changed so suddenly, i liked him less than when he was honestly blurting out his coarse and selfish ambition. i do not think he was a hypocrite. i think he believed what he said, as strongly as he could believe anything. he proved afterwards that he did so, as far as man can judge man, by severe and diligent parish work: but i cannot help doubting at times, if that man ever knew what believing meant. god forgive him! in that, he is no worse than hundreds more who have never felt the burning and shining flame of intense conviction, of some truth rooted in the inmost recesses of the soul, by which a man must live, for which he would not fear to die. and therefore i listened to him dully and carelessly; i did not care to bring objections, which arose thick and fast, to everything he said. he tried to assure me--and did so with a great deal of cleverness--that this tractarian movement was not really an aristocratic, but a democratic one; that the catholic church had been in all ages the church of the poor; that the clergy were commissioned by heaven to vindicate the rights of the people, and to stand between them and the tyranny of mammon. i did not care to answer him that the "catholic church" had always been a church of slaves, and not of free men; that the clergy had in every age been the enemies of light, of liberty; the oppressors of their flocks; and that to exalt a sacerdotal caste over other aristocracies, whether of birth or wealth, was merely to change our tyrants. when he told me that a clergyman of the established church, if he took up the cause of the working classes, might be the boldest and surest of all allies, just because, being established, and certain of his income, he cared not one sixpence what he said to any man alive, i did not care to answer him, as i might--and more shame upon the clergy that, having the safe vantage-ground which you describe, they dare not use it like men in a good cause, and speak their minds, if forsooth no one can stop them from so doing. in fact, i was distrustful, which i had a right to be, and envious also; but if i had a right to be that, i was certainly not wise, nor is any man, in exercising the said dangerous right as i did, and envying my cousin and every man in cambridge. but that evening, understanding that a boating supper, or some jubilation over my cousin's victory, was to take place in his rooms, i asked leave to absent myself--and i do not think my cousin felt much regret at giving me leave--and wandered up and down the king's parade, watching the tall gables of king's college chapel, and the classic front of the senate house, and the stately tower of st. mary's, as they stood, stern and silent, bathed in the still glory of the moonlight, and contrasting bitterly the lot of those who were educated under their shadow to the lot which had befallen me. [footnote: it must be remembered that these impressions of, and comments on the universities, are not my own. they are simply what clever working men thought about them from to ; a period at which i had the fullest opportunities for knowing the thoughts of working men.] "noble buildings!" i said to myself, "and noble institutions! given freely to the people, by those who loved the people, and the saviour who died for them. they gave us what they had, those mediæval founders: whatsoever narrowness of mind or superstition defiled their gift was not their fault, but the fault of their whole age. the best they knew they imparted freely, and god will reward them for it. to monopolize those institutions for the rich, as is done now, is to violate both the spirit and the letter of the foundations; to restrict their studies to the limits of middle-aged romanism, their conditions of admission to those fixed at the reformation, is but a shade less wrongful. the letter is kept--the spirit is thrown away. you refuse to admit any who are not members of the church of england, say, rather, any who will not sign the dogmas of the church of england, whether they believe a word of them or not. useless formalism! which lets through the reckless, the profligate, the ignorant, the hypocritical: and only excludes the honest and the conscientious, and the mass of the intellectual working men. and whose fault is it that they are not members of the church of england? whose fault is it, i ask? your predecessors neglected the lower orders, till they have ceased to reverence either you or your doctrines, you confess that, among yourselves, freely enough. you throw the blame of the present wide-spread dislike to the church of england on her sins during 'the godless eighteenth century.' be it so. why are those sins to be visited on us? why are we to be shut out from the universities, which were founded for us, because you have let us grow up, by millions, heathens and infidels, as you call us? take away your subterfuge! it is not merely because we are bad churchmen that you exclude us, else you would be crowding your colleges, now, with the talented poor of the agricultural districts, who, as you say, remain faithful to the church of their fathers. but are there six labourers' sons educating in the universities at this moment! no! the real reason for our exclusion, churchmen or not, is, because we are _poor_--because we cannot pay your exorbitant fees, often, as in the case of bachelors of arts, exacted for tuition which is never given, and residence which is not permitted--because we could not support the extravagance which you not only permit, but encourage--because by your own unblushing confession, it insures the university 'the support of the aristocracy.'" "but, on religious points, at least, you must abide by the statutes of the university." strange argument, truly, to be urged literally by english protestants in possession of roman catholic bequests! if that be true in the letter, as well as in the spirit, you should have given place long ago to the dominicans and the franciscans. in the spirit it is true, and the reformers acted on it when they rightly converted the universities to the uses of the new faith. they carried out the spirit of the founders' statutes by making the universities as good as they could be, and letting them share in the new light of the elizabethan age. but was the sum of knowledge, human and divine, perfected at the reformation? who gave the reformers, or you, who call yourselves their representatives, a right to say to the mind of man, and to the teaching of god's spirit, "hitherto, and no farther"? society and mankind, the children of the supreme, will not stop growing for your dogmas--much less for your vested interests; and the righteous law of mingled development and renovation, applied in the sixteenth century, must be reapplied in the nineteenth; while the spirits of the founders, now purged from the superstitions and ignorances of their age, shall smile from heaven, and say, "so would we have had it, if we had lived in the great nineteenth century, into which it has been your privilege to be born." but such thoughts soon passed away. the image which i had seen that afternoon upon the river banks had awakened imperiously the frantic longings of past years; and now it reascended its ancient throne, and tyrannously drove forth every other object, to keep me alone with its own tantalizing and torturing beauty. i did not think about her--no; i only stupidly and steadfastly stared at her with my whole soul and imagination, through that long sleepless night; and, in spite of the fatigue of my journey, and the stiffness proceeding from my fall and wetting, i lay tossing till the early sun poured into my bedroom window. then i arose, dressed myself, and went out to wander up and down the streets, gazing at one splendid building after another, till i found the gates of king's college open. i entered eagerly, through a porch which, to my untutored taste, seemed gorgeous enough to form the entrance to a fairy palace, and stood in the quadrangle, riveted to the spot by the magnificence of the huge chapel on the right. if i had admired it the night before, i felt inclined to worship it this morning, as i saw the lofty buttresses and spires, fretted with all their gorgeous carving, and "storied windows richly dight," sleeping in the glare of the newly-risen sun, and throwing their long shadows due westward down the sloping lawn, and across the river which dimpled and gleamed below, till it was lost among the towering masses of crisp elms and rose-garlanded chestnuts in the rich gardens beyond. was i delighted? yes--and yet no. there is a painful feeling in seeing anything magnificent which one cannot understand. and perhaps it was a morbid sensitiveness, but the feeling was strong upon me that i was an interloper there--out of harmony with the scene and the system which had created it; that i might be an object of unpleasant curiosity, perhaps of scorn (for i had not forgotten the nobleman at the boat-race), amid those monuments of learned luxury. perhaps, on the other hand, it was only from the instinct which makes us seek for solitude under the pressure of intense emotions, when we have neither language to express them to ourselves, nor loved one in whose silent eyes we may read kindred feelings--a sympathy which wants no words. whatever the cause was, when a party of men, in their caps and gowns, approached me down the dark avenue which led into the country, i was glad to shrink for concealment behind the weeping-willow at the foot of the bridge, and slink off unobserved to breakfast with my cousin. we had just finished breakfast, my cousin was lighting his meerschaum, when a tall figure passed the window, and the taller of the noblemen, whom i had seen at the boat-race, entered the room with a packet of papers in his hand. "here, locule mi! my pocket-book--or rather, to stretch a bad pun till it bursts, my pocket-dictionary--i require the aid of your benevolently-squandered talents for the correction of these proofs. i am, as usual, both idle and busy this morning; so draw pen, and set to work for me." "i am exceedingly sorry, my lord," answered george, in his most obsequious tone, "but i must work this morning with all my might. last night, recollect, was given to triumph, bacchus, and idleness." "then find some one who will do them for me, my ulysses polumechane, polutrope, panurge." "i shall be most happy (with a half-frown and a wince) to play panurge to your lordship's pantagruel, on board the new yacht." "oh, i am perfect in that character, i suppose? and is she after all, like pantagruel's ship, to be loaded with hemp? well, we must try two or three milder cargoes first. but come, find me some starving genius--some græculus esuriens--" "who will ascend to the heaven of your lordship's eloquence for the bidding?" "five shillings a sheet--there will be about two of them, i think, in the pamphlet." "may i take the liberty of recommending my cousin here?" "your cousin?" and he turned to me, who had been examining with a sad and envious eye the contents of the bookshelves. our eyes met, and first a faint blush, and then a smile of recognition, passed over his magnificent countenance. "i think i had--i am ashamed that i cannot say the pleasure, of meeting him at the boat race yesterday." my cousin looked inquiringly and vexed at us both. the nobleman smiled. "oh, the fault was mine, not his." "i cannot think," i answered, "that you have any reasons to remember with shame your own kindness and courtesy. as for me," i went on bitterly, "i suppose a poor journeyman tailor, who ventures to look on at the sports of gentlemen, only deserves to be run over." "sir," he said, looking at me with a severe and searching glance, "your bitterness is pardonable--but not your sneer. you do not yourself think what you say, and you ought to know that i think it still less than yourself. if you intend your irony to be useful, you should keep it till you can use it courageously against the true offenders." i looked up at him fiercely enough, but the placid smile which had returned to his face disarmed me. "your class," he went on, "blind yourselves and our class as much by wholesale denunciations of us, as we, alas! who should know better, do by wholesale denunciations of you. as you grow older, you will learn that there are exceptions to every rule." "and yet the exception proves the rule." "most painfully true, sir. but that argument is two-edged. for instance, am i to consider it the exception or the rule, when i am told that you, a journeyman tailor, are able to correct these proofs for me?" "nearer the rule, i think, than you yet fancy." "you speak out boldly and well; but how can you judge what i may please to fancy? at all events, i will make trial of you. there are the proofs. bring them to me by four o'clock this afternoon, and if they are well done, i will pay you more than i should do to the average hack-writer, for you will deserve more." i took the proofs; he turned to go, and by a side-look at george beckoned him out of the room. i heard a whispering in the passage; and i do not deny that my heart beat high with new hopes, as i caught unwillingly the words-- "such a forehead!--such an eye!--such a contour of feature as that!--locule mi--that boy ought not to be mending trousers." my cousin returned, half laughing, half angry. "alton, you fool, why did you let out that you were a snip?" "i am not ashamed of my trade." "i am, then. however, you've done with it now; and if you can't come the gentleman, you may as well come the rising genius. the self-educated dodge pays well just now; and after all, you've hooked his lordship--thank me for that. but you'll never hold him, you impudent dog, if you pull so hard on him"--he went on, putting his hands into his coat-tail pockets, and sticking himself in front of the fire, like the delphic pythoness upon the sacred tripod, in hopes, i suppose, of some oracular afflatus--"you will never hold him, i say, if you pull so hard on him. you ought to 'my lord' him for months yet, at least. you know, my good fellow, you must take every possible care to pick up what good breeding you can, if i take the trouble to put you in the way of good society, and tell you where my private birds'-nests are, like the green schoolboy some poet or other talks of." "he is no lord of mine," i answered, "in any sense of the word, and therefore i shall not call him so." "upon my honour! here is a young gentleman who intends to rise in the world, and then commences by trying to walk through the first post he meets! noodle! can't you do like me, and get out of the carts' way when they come by? if you intend to go ahead, you must just dodge in and out like a dog at a fair. 'she stoops to conquer' is my motto, and a precious good one too." "i have no wish to conquer lord lynedale, and so i shall not stoop to him." "i have, then; and to very good purpose, too. i am his whetstone, for polishing up that classical wit of his on, till he carries it into parliament to astonish the country squires. he fancies himself a second goethe, i hav'n't forgot his hitting at me, before a large supper party, with a certain epigram of that old turkeycock's about the whale having his unmentionable parasite--and the great man likewise. whale, indeed! i bide my time, alton, my boy--i bide my time; and then let your grand aristocrat look out! if he does not find the supposed whale-unmentionable a good stout holding harpoon, with a tough line to it, and a long one, it's a pity, alton my boy!" and he burst into a coarse laugh, tossed himself down on the sofa, and re-lighted his meerschaum. "he seemed to me," i answered, "to have a peculiar courtesy and liberality of mind towards those below him in rank." "oh! he had, had he? now, i'll just put you up to a dodge. he intends to come the mirabeau--fancies his mantle has fallen on him--prays before the fellow's bust, i believe, if one knew the truth, for a double portion of his spirit; and therefore it is a part of his game to ingratiate himself with all pot-boy-dom, while at heart he is as proud, exclusive an aristocrat, as ever wore nobleman's hat. at all events, you may get something out of him, if you play your cards well--or, rather, help me to play mine; for i consider him as my property, and you only as my aide-de-camp." "i shall play no one's cards," i answered, sulkily. "i am doing work fairly, and shall be fairly paid for it, and keep my own independence." "independence--hey-day! have you forgotten that, after all, you are my--guest, to call it by the mildest term?" "do you upbraid me with that?" i said, starting up. "do you expect me to live on your charity, on condition of doing your dirty work? you do not know me, sir. i leave your roof this instant!" "you do not!" answered he, laughing loudly, as he sprang over the sofa, and set his back against the door. "come, come, you will-o'-the-wisp, as full of flights, and fancies, and vagaries, as a sick old maid! can't you see which side your bread is buttered? sit down, i say! don't you know that i'm as good-natured a fellow as ever lived, although i do parade a little gil bias morality now and then, just for fun's sake? do you think i should be so open with it, if i meant anything very diabolic? there--sit down, and don't go into king cambyses' vein, or queen hecuba's tears either, which you seem inclined to do." "i know you have been very generous to me," i said, penitently; "but a kindness becomes none when you are upbraided with it." "so say the copybooks--i deny it. at all events, i'll say no more; and you shall sit down there, and write as still as a mouse till two, while i tackle this never-to-be-enough-by-unhappy-third-years'-men-execrated griffin's optics." * * * * * at four that afternoon, i knocked, proofs in hand, at the door of lord lynedale's rooms in the king's parade. the door was opened by a little elderly groom, grey-coated, grey-gaitered, grey-haired, grey-visaged. he had the look of a respectable old family retainer, and his exquisitely neat groom's dress gave him a sort of interest in my eyes. class costumes, relics though they are of feudalism, carry a charm with them. they are symbolic, definitive; they bestow a personality on the wearer, which satisfies the mind, by enabling it instantly to classify him, to connect him with a thousand stories and associations; and to my young mind, the wiry, shrewd, honest, grim old serving-man seemed the incarnation of all the wonders of newmarket, and the hunting-kennel, and the steeple-chase, of which i had read, with alternate admiration and contempt, in the newspapers. he ushered me in with a good breeding which surprised me;--without insolence to me, or servility to his master; both of which i had been taught to expect. lord lynedale bade me very courteously sit down while he examined the proofs. i looked round the low-wainscoted apartment, with its narrow mullioned windows, in extreme curiosity. what a real nobleman's abode could be like, was naturally worth examining, to one who had, all his life, heard of the aristocracy as of some mythic titans--whether fiends or gods, being yet a doubtful point--altogether enshrined on "cloudy olympus," invisible to mortal ken. the shelves were gay with morocco, russia leather, and gilding--not much used, as i thought, till my eye caught one of the gorgeously-bound volumes lying on the table in a loose cover of polished leather--a refinement of which poor i should never have dreamt. the walls were covered with prints, which soon turned my eyes from everything else, to range delighted over landseers, turners, roberts's eastern sketches, the ancient italian masters; and i recognized, with a sort of friendly affection, an old print of my favourite st. sebastian, in the dulwich gallery. it brought back to my mind a thousand dreams, and a thousand sorrows. would those dreams be ever realized? might this new acquaintance possibly open some pathway towards their fulfilment?--some vista towards the attainment of a station where they would, at least, be less chimerical? and at that thought, my heart beat loud with hope. the room was choked up with chairs and tables, of all sorts of strange shapes and problematical uses. the floor was strewed with skins of bear, deer, and seal. in a corner lay hunting-whips, and fishing-rods, foils, boxing-gloves, and gun-cases; while over the chimney-piece, an array of rich turkish pipes, all amber and enamel, contrasted curiously with quaint old swords and daggers--bronze classic casts, upon gothic oak brackets, and fantastic scraps of continental carving. on the centre table, too, reigned the same rich profusion, or if you will, confusion--mss., "notes in egypt," "goethe's walverwandschaften," murray's hand-books, and "plato's republic." what was there not there? and i chuckled inwardly, to see how _bell's life in london_ and the _ecclesiologist_ had, between them, got down "mcculloch on taxation," and were sitting, arm-in-arm, triumphantly astride of him. everything in the room, even to the fragrant flowers in a german glass, spoke of a travelled and cultivated luxury--manifold tastes and powers of self-enjoyment and self-improvement, which, heaven forgive me if i envied, as i looked upon them. if i, now, had had one-twentieth part of those books, prints, that experience of life, not to mention that physical strength and beauty, which stood towering there before the fire--so simple; so utterly unconscious of the innate nobleness and grace which shone out from every motion of those stately limbs and features--all the delicacy which blood can give, combined, as one does sometimes see, with the broad strength of the proletarian--so different from poor me!--and so different, too, as i recollected with perhaps a savage pleasure, from the miserable, stunted specimens of over-bred imbecility whom i had often passed in london! a strange question that of birth! and one in which the philosopher, in spite of himself, must come to democratic conclusions. for, after all, the physical and intellectual superiority of the high-born is only preserved, as it was in the old norman times, by the continual practical abnegation of the very caste-lie on which they pride themselves--by continual renovation of their race, by intermarriage with the ranks below them. the blood of odin flowed in the veins of norman william; true--and so did the tanner's of falaise! at last he looked up and spoke courteously-- "i'm afraid i have kept you long; but now, here is for your corrections, which are capital. i have really to thank you for a lesson in writing english." and he put a sovereign into my hand. "i am very sorry," said i, "but i have no change." "never mind that. your work is well worth the money." "but," i said, "you agreed with me for five shillings a sheet, and--i do not wish to be rude, but i cannot accept your kindness. we working men make a rule of abiding by our wages, and taking nothing which looks like--" "well, well--and a very good rule it is. i suppose, then, i must find out some way for you to earn more. good afternoon." and he motioned me out of the room, followed me down stairs, and turned off towards the college gardens. i wandered up and down, feeding my greedy eyes, till i found myself again upon the bridge where i had stood that morning, gazing with admiration and astonishment at a scene which i have often expected to see painted or described, and which, nevertheless, in spite of its unique magnificence, seems strangely overlooked by those who cater for the public taste, with pen and pencil. the vista of bridges, one after another spanning the stream; the long line of great monastic palaces, all unlike, and yet all in harmony, sloping down to the stream, with their trim lawns and ivied walls, their towers and buttresses; and opposite them, the range of rich gardens and noble timber-trees, dimly seen through which, at the end of the gorgeous river avenue, towered the lofty buildings of st. john's. the whole scene, under the glow of a rich may afternoon, seemed to me a fragment out of the "arabian nights" or spencer's "fairy queen." i leaned upon the parapet, and gazed, and gazed, so absorbed in wonder and enjoyment, that i was quite unconscious, for some time, that lord lynedale was standing by my side, engaged in the same employment. he was not alone. hanging on his arm was a lady, whose face, it seemed to me, i ought to know. it certainly was one not to be easily forgotten. she was beautiful, but with the face and figure rather of a juno than a venus--dark, imperious, restless--the lips almost too firmly set, the brow almost too massive and projecting--a queen, rather to be feared than loved--but a queen still, as truly royal as the man into whose face she was looking up with eager admiration and delight, as he pointed out to her eloquently the several beauties of the landscape. her dress was as plain as that of any quaker; but the grace of its arrangement, of every line and fold, was enough, without the help of the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist, to proclaim her a fine lady; by which term, i wish to express the result of that perfect education in taste and manner, down to every gesture, which heaven forbid that i, professing to be a poet, should undervalue. it is beautiful; and therefore i welcome it, in the name of the author of all beauty. i value it so highly, that i would fain see it extend, not merely from belgravia to the tradesman's villa, but thence, as i believe it one day will, to the labourer's hovel, and the needlewoman's garret. half in bashfulness, half in the pride which shrinks from anything like intrusion, i was moving away; but the nobleman, recognising me with a smile and a nod, made some observation on the beauty of the scene before us. before i could answer, however, i saw that his companion's eyes were fixed intently on my face. "is this," she said to lord lynedale, "the young person of whom you were speaking to me just now? i fancy that i recollect him, though, i dare say, he has forgotten me." if i had forgotten the face, that voice, so peculiarly rich, deep, and marked in its pronunciation of every syllable, recalled her instantly to my mind. it was the dark lady of the dulwich gallery! "i met you, i think," i said, "at the picture gallery at dulwich, and you were kind enough, and--and some persons who were with you, to talk to me about a picture there." "yes; guido's st. sebastian. you seemed fond of reading then. i am glad to see you at college." i explained that i was not at college. that led to fresh gentle questions on her part, till i had given her all the leading points of my history. there was nothing in it of which i ought to have been ashamed. she seemed to become more and more interested in my story, and her companion also. "and have you tried to write? i recollect my uncle advising you to try a poem on st. sebastian. it was spoken, perhaps, in jest; but it will not, i hope, have been labour lost, if you have taken it in earnest." "yes--i have written on that and on other subjects, during the last few years." "then, you must let us see them, if you have them with you. i think my uncle, arthur, might like to look over them; and if they were fit for publication, he might be able to do something towards it." "at all events," said lord lynedale, "a self-educated author is always interesting. bring any of your poems, that you have with you, to the eagle this afternoon, and leave them there for dean winnstay; and to-morrow morning, if you have nothing better to do, call there between ten and eleven o'clock." he wrote me down the dean's address, and nodding a civil good morning, turned away with his queenly companion, while i stood gazing after him, wondering whether all noblemen and high-born ladies were like them in person and in spirit--a question which, in spite of many noble exceptions, some of them well known and appreciated by the working men, i am afraid must be answered in the negative. i took my mss. to the eagle, and wandered out once more, instinctively, among those same magnificent trees at the back of the colleges, to enjoy the pleasing torment of expectation. "my uncle!" was he the same old man whom i had seen at the gallery; and if so, was lillian with him? delicious hope! and yet, what if she was with him--what to me? but yet i sat silent, dreaming, all the evening, and hurried early to bed--not to sleep, but to lie and dream on and on, and rise almost before light, eat no breakfast, and pace up and down, waiting impatiently for the hour at which i was to find out whether my dream, was true. and it was true! the first object i saw, when i entered the room, was lillian, looking more beautiful than ever. the child of sixteen had blossomed into the woman of twenty. the ivory and vermilion of the complexion had toned down together into still richer hues. the dark hazel eyes shone with a more liquid lustre. the figure had become more rounded, without losing a line of that fairy lightness, with which her light morning-dress, with its delicate french semi-tones of colour, gay and yet not gaudy, seemed to harmonize. the little plump jewelled hands--the transparent chestnut hair, banded round the beautiful oval masque--the tiny feet, which, as suckling has it, underneath her petticoat like little mice peeped in and out-- i could have fallen down, fool that i was! and worshipped--what? i could not tell then, for i cannot tell even now. the dean smiled recognition, bade me sit down, and disposed my papers, meditatively, on his knee. i obeyed him, trembling, choking--my eyes devouring my idol--forgetting why i had come--seeing nothing but her--listening for nothing but the opening of these lips. i believe the dean was some sentences deep in his oration, before i became conscious thereof. "--and i think i may tell you, at once, that i have been very much surprised and gratified with them. they evince, on the whole, a far greater acquaintance with the english classic-models, and with the laws of rhyme and melody, than could have been expected from a young man of your class--_macte virtute puer_. have you read any latin?" "a little." and i went on staring at lillian, who looked up, furtively, from her work, every now and then, to steal a glance at me, and set my poor heart thumping still more fiercely against my side. "very good; you will have the less trouble, then, in the preparation for college. you will find out for yourself, of course, the immense disadvantages of self-education. the fact is, my dear lord" (turning to lord lynedale), "it is only useful as an indication of a capability of being educated by others. one never opens a book written by working men, without shuddering at a hundred faults of style. however, there are some very tolerable attempts among these--especially the imitations of milton's 'comus.'" poor i had by no means intended them as imitations; but such, no doubt, they were. "i am sorry to see that shelley has had so much influence on your writing. he is a guide as irregular in taste, as unorthodox in doctrine; though there are some pretty things in him now and then. and you have caught his melody tolerably here, now--" "oh, that is such a sweet thing!" said lillian. "do you know, i read it over and over last night, and took it up-stairs with me. how very fond of beautiful things you must be, mr. locke, to be able to describe so passionately the longing after them." that voice once more! it intoxicated me, so that i hardly knew what i stammered out--something about working men having very few opportunities of indulging the taste for--i forget what. i believe i was on the point of running off into some absurd compliment, but i caught the dark lady's warning eye on me. "ah, yes! i forgot. i dare say it must be a very stupid life. so little opportunity, as he says. what a pity he is a tailor, papa! such an unimaginative employment! how delightful it would be to send him to college and make him a clergyman!" fool that i was! i fancied--what did i not fancy?--never seeing how that very "_he_" bespoke the indifference--the gulf between us. i was not a man--an equal; but a thing--a subject, who was to be talked over, and examined, and made into something like themselves, of their supreme and undeserved benevolence. "gently, gently, fair lady! we must not be as headlong as some people would kindly wish to be. if this young man really has a proper desire to rise into a higher station, and i find him a fit object to be assisted in that praiseworthy ambition, why, i think he ought to go to some training college; st. mark's, i should say, on the whole, might, by its strong church principles, give the best antidote to any little remaining taint of _sansculottism_. you understand me, my lord? and, then, if he distinguished himself there, it would be time to think of getting him a sizarship." "poor pegasus in harness!" half smiled, half sighed, the dark lady. "just the sort of youth," whispered lord lynedale, loud enough for me to hear, "to take out with us to the mediterranean as secretary--s'il y avait là de la morale, of course--" yes--and of course, too, the tailor's boy was not expected to understand french. but the most absurd thing was, how everybody, except perhaps the dark lady, seemed to take for granted that i felt myself exceedingly honoured, and must consider it, as a matter of course, the greatest possible stretch of kindness thus to talk me over, and settle everything for me, as if i was not a living soul, but a plant in a pot. perhaps they were not unsupported by experience. i suppose too many of us would have thought it so; there are flunkeys in all ranks, and to spare. perhaps the true absurdity was the way in which i sat, demented, inarticulate, staring at lillian, and only caring for any word which seemed to augur a chance of seeing her again; instead of saying, as i felt, that i had no wish whatever to rise above my station; no intention whatever of being sent to training schools or colleges, or anywhere else at the expense of other people. and therefore it was that i submitted blindly, when the dean, who looked as kind, and was really, i believe, as kind as ever was human being, turned to me with a solemn authoritative voice-- "well, my young friend, i must say that i am, on the whole, very much pleased with your performance. it corroborates, my dear lord, the assertion, for which i have been so often ridiculed, that there are many real men, capable of higher things, scattered up and down among the masses. attend to me, sir!" (a hint which i suspect i very much wanted). "now, recollect; if it should be hereafter in our power to assist your prospects in life, you must give up, once and for all, the bitter tone against the higher classes, which i am sorry to see in your mss. as you know more of the world, you will find that the poor are not by any means as ill used as they are taught, in these days, to believe. the rich have their sorrows too--no one knows it better than i"--(and he played pensively with his gold pencil-case)--"and good and evil are pretty equally distributed among all ranks, by a just and merciful god. i advise you most earnestly, as you value your future success in life, to give up reading those unprincipled authors, whose aim is to excite the evil passions of the multitude; and to shut your ears betimes to the extravagant calumnies of demagogues, who make tools of enthusiastic and imaginative minds for their own selfish aggrandisement. avoid politics; the workman has no more to do with them than the clergyman. we are told, on divine authority, to fear god and the king, and meddle not with those who are given to change. rather put before yourself the example of such a man as the excellent dr. brown, one of the richest and most respected men of the university, with whom i hope to have the pleasure of dining this evening--and yet that man actually, for several years of his life, worked at a carpenter's bench!" i too had something to say about all that. i too knew something about demagogues and working men: but the sight of lillian made me a coward; and i only sat silent as the thought flashed across me, half ludicrous, half painful, by its contrast, of another who once worked at a carpenter's bench, and fulfilled his mission--not by an old age of wealth, respectability, and port wine; but on the cross of calvary. after all, the worthy old gentleman gave me no time to answer. "next--i think of showing these mss. to my publisher, to get his opinion as to whether they are worth printing just now. not that i wish you to build much on the chance. it is not necessary that you should be a poet. i should prefer mathematics for you, as a methodic discipline of the intellect. most active minds write poetry, at a certain age--i wrote a good deal, i recollect, myself. but that is no reason for publishing. this haste to rush into print is one of the bad signs of the times--a symptom of the unhealthy activity which was first called out by the french revolution. in the elizabethan age, every decently-educated gentleman was able, as a matter of course, to indite a sonnet to his mistress's eye-brow, or an epigram on his enemy; and yet he never dreamt of printing them. one of the few rational things i have met with, eleanor, in the works of your very objectionable pet mr. carlyle--though indeed his style is too intolerable to have allowed me to read much--is the remark that 'speech is silver'--'silvern' he calls it, pedantically--'while silence is golden.'" at this point of the sermon, lillian fled from the room, to my extreme disgust. but still the old man prosed-- "i think, therefore, that you had better stay with your cousin for the next week. i hear from lord lynedale that he is a very studious, moral, rising young man; and i only hope that you will follow his good example. at the end of the week i shall return home, and then i shall be glad to see more of you at my house at d * * * *, about * * * * miles from this place. good morning." i went, in rapture at the last announcement--and yet my conscience smote me. i had not stood up for the working men. i had heard them calumniated, and held my tongue--but i was to see lillian. i had let the dean fancy i was willing to become a pensioner on his bounty--that i was a member of the church of england, and willing to go to a church training school--but i was to see lillian. i had lowered myself in my own eyes--but i had seen lillian. perhaps i exaggerated my own offences: however that may be, love soon, silenced conscience, and i almost danced into my cousin's rooms on my return. * * * * * that week passed rapidly and happily. i was half amused with the change in my cousin's demeanour. i had evidently risen immensely in his eyes; and i could not help applying, in my heart, to him, mr. carlyle's dictum about the valet species--how they never honour the unaccredited hero, having no eye to find him out till properly accredited, and countersigned, and accoutred with full uniform and diploma by that great god, public opinion. i saw through the motive of his new-fledged respect for me--and yet encouraged it; for it flattered my vanity. the world must forgive me. it was something for the poor tailor to find himself somewhat appreciated at last, even outwardly. and besides, this sad respect took a form which was very tempting to me now--though the week before it was just the one which i should have repelled with scorn. george became very anxious to lend me money, to order me clothes at his own tailor's, and set me up in various little toilette refinements, that i might make a respectable appearance at the dean's. i knew that he consulted rather the honour of the family, than my good; but i did not know that his aim was also to get me into his power; and i refused more and more weakly at each fresh offer, and at last consented, in an evil hour, to sell my own independence, for the sake of indulging my love-dream, and appearing to be what i was not. i saw little of the university men; less than i might have done; less, perhaps, than i ought to have done. my cousin did not try to keep me from them; they, whenever i met them, did not shrink from me, and were civil enough: but i shrank from them. my cousin attributed my reserve to modesty, and praised me for it in his coarse fashion: but he was mistaken. pride, rather, and something very like envy, kept me silent. always afraid (at that period of my career) of young men of my own age, i was doubly afraid of these men; not because they were cleverer than i, for they were not, but because i fancied i had no fair chance with them; they had opportunities which i had not, read and talked of books of which i knew nothing; and when they did touch on matters which i fancied i understood, it was from a point of view so different from mine, that i had to choose, as i thought, between standing up alone to be baited by the whole party, or shielding myself behind a proud and somewhat contemptuous silence. i looked on them as ignorant aristocrats; while they looked on me, i verily believe now, as a very good sort of fellow, who ought to talk well, but would not; and went their way carelessly. the truth is, i did envy those men. i did not envy them their learning; for the majority of men who came into my cousin's room had no learning to envy, being rather brilliant and agreeable men than severe students; but i envied them their opportunities of learning; and envied them just as much their opportunities of play--their boating, their cricket, their foot-ball, their riding, and their gay confident carriage, which proceeds from physical health and strength, and which i mistook for the swagger of insolence; while parker's piece, with its games, was a sight which made me grind my teeth, when i thought of the very different chance of physical exercise which falls to the lot of a london artisan. and still more did i envy them when i found that many of them combined, as my cousin did, this physical exercise with really hard mental work, and found the one help the other. it was bitter to me--whether it ought to have been so or not--to hear of prizemen, wranglers, fellows of colleges, as first rate oars, boxers, foot-ball players; and my eyes once fairly filled with tears, when, after the departure of a little fellow no bigger or heavier than myself, but with the eye and the gait of a game-cock, i was informed that he was "bow-oar in the university eight, and as sure to be senior classic next year as he has a head on his shoulders." and i thought of my nights of study in the lean-to garret, and of the tailor's workshop, and of sandy's den, and said to myself bitter words, which i shall not set down. let gentlemen readers imagine them for themselves; and judge rationally and charitably of an unhealthy working-man like me, if his tongue be betrayed, at moments, to envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. however, one happiness i had--books. i read in my cousin's room from morning till night. he gave me my meals hospitably enough: but disappeared every day about four to "hall"; after which he did not reappear till eight, the interval being taken up, he said, in "wines" and an hour of billiards. then he sat down to work, and read steadily and well till twelve, while i, nothing loth, did the same; and so passed, rapidly enough, my week at cambridge. chapter xiv. a cathedral town. at length, the wished-for day had arrived; and, with my cousin, i was whirling along, full of hope and desire, towards the cathedral town of d * * * *--through a flat fen country, which though i had often heard it described as ugly, struck my imagination much. the vast height and width of the sky-arch, as seen from those flats as from an ocean--the grey haze shrouding the horizon of our narrow land-view, and closing us in, till we seemed to be floating through infinite space, on a little platform of earth; the rich poplar-fringed farms, with their herds of dappled oxen--the luxuriant crops of oats and beans--the tender green of the tall-rape, a plant till then unknown to me--the long, straight, silver dykes, with their gaudy carpets of strange floating water-plants, and their black banks, studded with the remains of buried forests--the innumerable draining-mills, with their creaking sails and groaning wheels--the endless rows of pollard willows, through which the breeze moaned and rung, as through the strings of some vast Æolian harp; the little island knolls in that vast sea of fen, each with its long village street, and delicately taper spire; all this seemed to me to contain an element of new and peculiar beauty. "why!" exclaims the reading public, if perchance it ever sees this tale of mine, in its usual prurient longing after anything like personal gossip, or scandalous anecdote--"why, there is no cathedral town which begins with a d! through the fen, too! he must mean either ely, lincoln, or peterborough; that's certain." then, at one of those places, they find there is dean--not of the name of winnstay, true--"but his name begins with a w; and he has a pretty daughter--no, a niece; well, that's very near it;--it must be him. no; at another place--there is not a dean, true--but a canon, or an archdeacon-something of that kind; and he has a pretty daughter, really; and his name begins--not with w, but with y; well, that's the last letter of winnstay, if it is not the first: that must be the poor man! what a shame to have exposed his family secrets in that way!" and then a whole circle of myths grow up round the man's story. it is credibly ascertained that i am the man who broke into his house last year, after having made love to his housemaid, and stole his writing-desk and plate--else, why should a burglar steal family-letters, if he had not some interest in them?... and before the matter dies away, some worthy old gentleman, who has not spoken to a working man since he left his living, thirty years ago, and hates a radical as he does the pope, receives two or three anonymous letters, condoling with him on the cruel betrayal of his confidence--base ingratitude for undeserved condescension, &c., &c.; and, perhaps, with an enclosure of good advice for his lovely daughter. but wherever d * * * * is, we arrived there; and with a beating heart, i--and i now suspect my cousin also--walked up the sunny slopes, where the old convent had stood, now covered with walled gardens and noble timber-trees, and crowned by the richly fretted towers of the cathedral, which we had seen, for the last twenty miles, growing gradually larger and more distinct across the level flat. "ely?" "no; lincoln!" "oh! but really, it's just as much like peterborough!" never mind, my dear reader; the essence of the fact, as i think, lies not quite so much in the name of the place, as in what was done there--to which i, with all the little respect which i can muster, entreat your attention. it is not from false shame at my necessary ignorance, but from a fear lest i should bore my readers with what seems to them trivial, that i refrain from dilating on many a thing which struck me as curious in this my first visit to the house of an english gentleman. i must say, however, though i suppose that it will be numbered, at least, among trite remarks, if not among trivial ones, that the wealth around me certainly struck me, as it has others, as not very much in keeping with the office of one who professed to be a minister of the gospel of jesus of nazareth. but i salved over that feeling, being desirous to see everything in the brightest light, with the recollection that the dean had a private fortune of his own; though it did seem at moments, that if a man has solemnly sworn to devote himself, body and soul, to the cause of the spiritual welfare of the nation, that vow might be not unfairly construed to include his money as well as his talents, time, and health: unless, perhaps, money is considered by spiritual persons as so worthless a thing, that it is not fit to be given to god--a notion which might seem to explain how a really pious and universally respected archbishop, living within a quarter of a mile of one of the worst _infernos_ of destitution, disease, filth, and profligacy--can yet find it in his heart to save £ , out of church revenues, and leave it to his family; though it will not explain how irish bishops can reconcile it to their consciences to leave behind them, one and all, large fortunes--for i suppose from fifty to a hundred thousand pounds is something--saved from fees and tithes, taken from the pockets of a roman catholic population, whom they have been put there to convert to protestantism for the last three hundred years--with what success, all the world knows. of course, it is a most impertinent, and almost a blasphemous thing, for a working man to dare to mention such subjects. is it not "speaking evil of dignities"? strange, by-the-by, that merely to mention facts, without note or comment, should be always called "speaking evil"! does not that argue ill for the facts themselves? working men think so; but what matter what "the swinish multitude" think? when i speak of wealth, i do not mean that the dean's household would have been considered by his own class at all too luxurious. he would have been said, i suppose, to live in a "quiet, comfortable, gentlemanlike way"--"everything very plain and very good." it included a butler--a quiet, good-natured old man--who ushered us into our bedrooms; a footman, who opened the door--a sort of animal for which i have an extreme aversion--young, silly, conceited, over-fed, florid--who looked just the man to sell his soul for a livery, twice as much food as he needed, and the opportunity of unlimited flirtations with the maids; and a coachman, very like other coachmen, whom i saw taking a pair of handsome carriage-horses out to exercise, as we opened the gate. the old man, silently and as a matter of course, unpacked for me my little portmanteau (lent me by my cousin), and placed my things neatly in various drawers--went down, brought up a jug of hot water, put it on the washing-table--told me that dinner was at six--that the half-hour bell rang at half-past five--and that, if i wanted anything, the footman would answer the bell (bells seeming a prominent idea in his theory of the universe)--and so left me, wondering at the strange fact that free men, with free wills, do sell themselves, by the hundred thousand, to perform menial offices for other men, not for love, but for money; becoming, to define them strictly, bell-answering animals; and are honest, happy, contented, in such a life. a man-servant, a soldier, and a jesuit, are to me the three great wonders of humanity--three forms of moral suicide, for which i never had the slightest gleam of sympathy, or even comprehension. * * * * * at last we went down to dinner, after my personal adornments had been carefully superintended by my cousin, who gave me, over and above, various warnings and exhortations as to my behaviour; which, of course, took due effect, in making me as nervous, constrained, and affected, as possible. when i appeared in the drawing-room, i was kindly welcomed by the dean, the two ladies, and lord lynedale. but, as i stood fidgeting and blushing, sticking my arms and legs, and head into all sorts of quaint positions--trying one attitude, and thinking it looked awkward, and so exchanged it for another, more awkward still--my eye fell suddenly on a slip of paper, which had conveyed itself, i never knew how, upon the pages of the illustrated book of ballads, which i was turning over:-- "be natural, and you will be gentlemanlike. if you wish others to forget your rank, do not forget it yourself. if you wish others to remember you with pleasure, forget yourself; and be just what god has made you." i could not help fancying that the lesson, whether intentionally or not, was meant for me; and a passing impulse made me take up the slip, fold it together, and put it into my bosom. perhaps it was lillian's handwriting! i looked round at the ladies; but their faces were each buried behind a book. we went in to dinner; and, to my delight, i sat next to my goddess, while opposite me was my cousin. luckily, i had got some directions from him as to what to say and do, when my wonders, the servants, thrust eatables and drinkables over nay shoulders. lillian and my cousin chatted away about church-architecture, and the restorations which were going on at the cathedral; while i, for the first half of dinner, feasted my eyes with the sight of a beauty, in which i seemed to discover every moment some new excellence. every time i looked up at her, my eyes dazzled, my face burnt, my heart sank, and soft thrills ran through every nerve. and yet, heaven knows, my emotions were as pure as those of an infant. it was beauty, longed for, and found at last, which i adored as a thing not to be possessed, but worshipped. the desire, even the thought, of calling her my own, never crossed my mind. i felt that i could gladly die, if by death i could purchase the permission to watch her. i understood, then, and for ever after, the pure devotion of the old knights and troubadours of chivalry. i seemed to myself to be their brother--one of the holy guild of poet-lovers. i was a new petrarch, basking in the light-rays of a new laura. i gazed, and gazed, and found new life in gazing, and was content. but my simple bliss was perfected, when she suddenly turned to me, and began asking me questions on the very points on which i was best able to answer. she talked about poetry, tennyson and wordsworth; asked me if i understood browning's sordello; and then comforted me, after my stammering confession that i did not, by telling me she was delighted to hear that; for she did not understand it either, and it was so pleasant to have a companion in ignorance. then she asked me, if i was much struck with the buildings in cambridge?--had they inspired me with any verses yet?--i was bound to write something about them--and so on; making the most commonplace remarks look brilliant, from the ease and liveliness with which they were spoken, and the tact with which they were made pleasant to the listener: while i wondered at myself, for enjoying from her lips the flippant, sparkling tattle, which had hitherto made young women to me objects of unspeakable dread, to be escaped by crossing the street, hiding behind doors, and rushing blindly into back-yards and coal-holes. the ladies left the room; and i, with lillian's face glowing bright in my imagination, as the crimson orb remains on the retina of the closed eye, after looking intently at the sun, sat listening to a pleasant discussion between the dean and the nobleman, about some country in the east, which they had both visited, and greedily devouring all the new facts which, they incidentally brought forth out of the treasures of their highly cultivated minds. i was agreeably surprised (don't laugh, reader) to find that i was allowed to drink water; and that the other men drank not more than a glass or two of wine, after the ladies had retired. i had, somehow, got both lords and deans associated in my mind with infinite swillings of port wine, and bacchanalian orgies, and sat down at first, in much fear and trembling, lest i should be compelled to join, under penalties of salt-and-water; but i had made up my mind, stoutly, to bear anything rather than get drunk; and so i had all the merit of a temperance-martyr, without any of its disagreeables. "well" said i to myself, smiling in spirit, "what would my chartist friends say if they saw me here? not even crossthwaite himself could find a flaw in the appreciation of merit for its own sake, the courtesy and condescension--ah! but he would complain of it, simply for being condescension." but, after all, what else could it be? were not these men more experienced, more learned, older than myself? they were my superiors; it was in vain for me to attempt to hide it from myself. but the wonder was, that they themselves were the ones to appear utterly unconscious of it. they treated me as an equal; they welcomed me--the young viscount and the learned dean--on the broad ground of a common humanity; as i believe hundreds more of their class would do, if we did not ourselves take a pride in estranging them from us--telling them that fraternization between our classes is impossible, and then cursing them for not fraternizing with us. but of that, more hereafter. at all events, now my bliss was perfect. no! i was wrong--a higher enjoyment than all awaited me, when, going into the drawing-room, i found lillian singing at the piano. i had no idea that music was capable of expressing and conveying emotions so intense and ennobling. my experience was confined to street music, and to the bawling at the chapel. and, as yet, mr. hullah had not risen into a power more enviable than that of kings, and given to every workman a free entrance into the magic world of harmony and melody, where he may prove his brotherhood with mozart and weber, beethoven and mendelssohn. great unconscious demagogue!--leader of the people, and labourer in the cause of divine equality!--thy reward is with the father of the people! the luscious softness of the italian airs overcame me with a delicious enervation. every note, every interval, each shade of expression spoke to me--i knew not what: and yet they spoke to my heart of hearts. a spirit out of the infinite heaven seemed calling to my spirit, which longed to answer--and was dumb--and could only vent itself in tears, which welled unconsciously forth, and eased my heart from the painful tension of excitement. * * * * * her voice is hovering o'er my soul--it lingers, o'ershadowing it with soft and thrilling wings; the blood and life within those snowy fingers teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. my brain is wild, my breath comes quick. the blood is listening in my frame; and thronging shadows, fast and thick, fall on my overflowing eyes. my heart is quivering like a flame; as morning-dew that in the sunbeam dies, i am dissolved in these consuming ecstacies. * * * * * the dark lady, miss staunton, as i ought to call her, saw my emotion, and, as i thought unkindly, checked the cause of it at once. "pray do not give us any more of those die-away italian airs, lillian. sing something manful, german or english, or anything you like, except those sentimental wailings." lillian stopped, took another book, and commenced, after a short prelude, one of my own songs. surprise and pleasure overpowered me more utterly than the soft southern melodies had done. i was on the point of springing up and leaving the room, when my raptures were checked by our host, who turned round, and stopped short in an oration on the geology of upper egypt. "what's that about brotherhood and freedom, lillian? we don't want anything of that kind here." "it's only a popular london song, papa," answered she, with an arch smile. "or likely to become so," added miss staunton, in her marked dogmatic tone. "i am very sorry for london, then." and he returned to the deserts. chapter xv. the man of science. after breakfast the next morning, lillian retired, saying laughingly, that she must go and see after her clothing club and her dear old women at the almshouse, which, of course, made me look on her as more an angel than ever. and while george was left with lord lynedale, i was summoned to a private conference with the dean, in his study. i found him in a room lined with cabinets of curiosities, and hung all over with strange horns, bones, and slabs of fossils. but i was not allowed much time to look about me; for he commenced at once on the subject of my studies, by asking me whether i was willing to prepare myself for the university, by entering on the study of mathematics? i felt so intense a repugnance to them, that at the risk of offending him--perhaps, for what i knew, fatally--i dared to demur. he smiled-- "i am convinced, young man, that even if you intended to follow poetry as a profession--and a very poor one you will find it--yet you will never attain to any excellence therein, without far stricter mental discipline than any to which you have been accustomed. that is why i abominate our modern poets. they talk about the glory of the poetic vocation, as if they intended to be kings and world-makers, and all the while they indulge themselves in the most loose and desultory habits of thought. sir, if they really believed their own grandiloquent assumptions, they would feel that the responsibility of their mental training was greater, not less, than any one's else. like the quakers, they fancy that they honour inspiration by supposing it to be only extraordinary and paroxysmic: the true poet, like the rational christian, believing that inspiration is continual and orderly, that it reveals harmonious laws, not merely excites sudden emotions. you understand me?" i did, tolerably; and subsequent conversations with him fixed the thoughts sufficiently in my mind, to make me pretty sure that i am giving a faithful verbal transcript of them. "you must study some science. have you read any logic?" i mentioned watts' "logic," and locke "on the use of the understanding"--two books well known to reading artizans. "ah," he said, "such books are very well, but they are merely popular. 'aristotle,' 'bitter on induction,' and kant's 'prolegomena' and 'logic'--when you had read them some seven or eight times over, you might consider yourself as knowing somewhat about the matter." "i have read a little about induction in whately." "ah, very good book, but popular. did you find that your method of thought received any benefit from it?" "the truth is--i do not know whether i can quite express myself clearly--but logic, like mathematics, seems to tell me too little about things. it does not enlarge my knowledge of man or nature; and those are what i thirst for. and you must remember--i hope i am not wrong in saying it--that the case of a man of your class, who has the power of travelling, of reading what he will, and seeing what he will, is very different from that of an artisan, whose chances of observation are so sadly limited. you must forgive us, if we are unwilling to spend our time over books which tell us nothing about the great universe outside the shop-windows." he smiled compassionately. "very true, my boy, there are two branches of study, then, before you, and by either of them a competent subsistence is possible, with good interest. philology is one. but before you could arrive at those depths in it which connect with ethnology, history, and geography, you would require a lifetime of study. there remains yet another. i see you stealing glances at those natural curiosities. in the study of them, you would find, as i believe, more and more daily, a mental discipline superior even to that which language or mathematics give. if i had been blest with a son--but that is neither here nor there--it was my intention to have educated him almost entirely as a naturalist. i think i should like to try the experiment on a young man like yourself." sandy mackaye's definition of legislation for the masses, "fiat experimentum in corpore vili," rose up in my thoughts, and, half unconsciously, passed my lips. the good old man only smiled. "that is not my reason, mr. locke. i should choose, by preference, a man of your class for experiments, not because the nature is coarser, or less precious in the scale of creation, but because i have a notion, for which, like many others, i have been very much laughed at, that you are less sophisticated, more simple and fresh from nature's laboratory, than the young persons of the upper classes, who begin from the nursery to be more or less trimmed up, and painted over by the artificial state of society--a very excellent state, mind, mr. locke. civilization is, next to christianity of course, the highest blessing; but not so good a state for trying anthropological experiments on." i assured him of my great desire to be the subject of such an experiment; and was encouraged by his smile to tell him something about my intense love for natural objects, the mysterious pleasure which i had taken, from my boyhood, in trying to classify them, and my visits to the british museum, for the purpose of getting at some general knowledge of the natural groups. "excellent," he said, "young man; the very best sign i have yet seen in you. and what have you read on these subjects?" i mentioned several books: bingley, bewick, "humboldt's travels," "the voyage of the beagle," various scattered articles in the penny and saturday magazines, &c., &c. "ah!" he said, "popular--you will find, if you will allow me to give you my experience--" i assured him that i was only too much honoured--and i truly felt so. i knew myself to be in the presence of my rightful superior--my master on that very point of education which i idolized. every sentence which he spoke gave me fresh light on some matter or other; and i felt a worship for him, totally irrespective of any vulgar and slavish respect for his rank or wealth. the working man has no want for real reverence. mr. carlyle's being a "gentlemen" has not injured his influence with the people. on the contrary, it is the artisan's intense longing to find his real _lords_ and guides, which makes him despise and execrate his sham ones. whereof let society take note. "then," continued he, "your plan is to take up some one section of the subject, and thoroughly exhaust that. universal laws manifest themselves only by particular instances. they say, man is the microcosm, mr. locke; but the man of science finds every worm and beetle a microcosm in its way. it exemplifies, directly or indirectly, every physical law in the universe, though it may not be two lines long. it is not only a part, but a mirror, of the great whole. it has a definite relation to the whole world, and the whole world has a relation to it. really, by-the-by, i cannot give you a better instance of what i mean, than in my little diatribe on the geryon trifurcifer, a small reptile which i found, some years ago, inhabiting the mud of the salt lakes of balkhan, which fills up a long-desired link between the chelonia and the perenni branchiate batrachians, and, as i think, though professor brown differs from me, connects both with the herbivorous cetacea,--professor brown is an exceedingly talented man, but a little too cautious in accepting any one's theories but his own. "there it is," he said, as he drew out of a drawer a little pamphlet of some thirty pages--"an old man's darling. i consider that book the outcome of thirteen years' labour." "it must be very deep," i replied, "to have been worth such long-continued study." "oh! science is her own reward. there is hardly a great physical law which i have not brought to bear on the subject of that one small animal; and above all--what is in itself worth a life's labour--i have, i believe, discovered two entirely new laws of my own, though one of them, by-the-by, has been broached by professor brown since, in his lectures. he might have mentioned my name in connection with the subject, for i certainly imparted my ideas to him, two years at least before the delivery of those lectures of his. professor brown is a very great man, certainly, and a very good man, but not quite so original as is generally supposed. still, a scientific man must expect his little disappointments and injustices. if you were behind the scenes in the scientific world, i can assure you, you would find as much party-spirit, and unfairness, and jealousy, and emulation there, as anywhere else. human nature, human nature, everywhere!" i said nothing, but thought the more; and took the book, promising to study it carefully. "there is cuvier's 'animal kingdom,' and a dictionary of scientific terms to help you; and mind, it must be got up thoroughly, for i purpose to set you an examination or two in it, a few days hence. then i shall find out whether you know what is worth all the information in the world." "what is that, sir?" "the art of getting information _artem discendi_, mr. locke, wherewith the world is badly provided just now, as it is overstocked with the _artem legendi_--the knack of running the eye over books, and fancying that it understands them, because it can talk about them. you cannot play that trick with my geryon trifurcifer, i assure you; he is as dry and tough as his name. but, believe me, he is worth mastering, not because he is mine, but simply because he is tough." i promised all diligence. "very good. and be sure, if you intend to be a poet for these days (and i really think you have some faculty for it), you must become a scientific man. science has made vast strides, and introduced entirely new modes of looking at nature, and poets must live up to the age. i never read a word of goethe's verse, but i am convinced that he must be the great poet of the day, just because he is the only one who has taken the trouble to go into the details of practical science. and, in the mean time, i will give you a lesson myself. i see you are longing to know the contents of these cabinets. you shall assist me by writing out the names of this lot of shells, just come from australia, which i am now going to arrange." i set to work at once, under his directions; and passed that morning, and the two or three following, delightfully. but i question whether the good dean would have been well satisfied, had he known, how all his scientific teaching confirmed my democratic opinions. the mere fact, that i could understand these things when they were set before me, as well as any one else, was to me a simple demonstration of the equality in worth, and therefore in privilege, of all classes. it may be answered, that i had no right to argue from myself to the mob; and that other working geniuses have no right to demand universal enfranchisement for their whole class, just because they, the exceptions, are fit for it. but surely it is hard to call such an error, if it be one, "the insolent assumption of democratic conceit," &c., &c. does it not look more like the humility of men who are unwilling to assert for themselves peculiar excellence, peculiar privileges; who, like the apostles of old, want no glory, save that which they can share with the outcast and the slave? let society among other matters, take note of that. chapter xvi. cultivated women. i was thus brought in contact, for the first time in my life, with two exquisite specimens of cultivated womanhood; and they naturally, as the reader may well suppose, almost entirely engrossed my thoughts and interest. lillian, for so i must call her, became daily more and more agreeable; and tried, as i fancied, to draw me out, and show me off to the best advantage; whether from the desire of pleasing herself, or pleasing me, i know not, and do not wish to know--but the consequences to my boyish vanity were such as are more easy to imagine, than pleasant to describe. miss staunton, on the other hand, became, i thought, more and more unpleasant; not that she ever, for a moment, outstepped the bounds of the most perfect courtesy; but her manner, which was soft to no one except to lord lynedale, was, when she spoke to me, especially dictatorial and abrupt. she seemed to make a point of carping at chance words of mine, and of setting me, down suddenly, by breaking in with some severe, pithy observation, on conversations to which she had been listening unobserved. she seemed, too, to view with dislike anything like cordiality between me and lillian--a dislike, which i was actually at moments vain enough (such a creature is man!) to attribute to--jealousy!!! till i began to suspect and hate her, as a proud, harsh, and exclusive aristocrat. and my suspicion and hatred received their confirmation, when, one morning, after an evening even more charming than usual, lillian came down, reserved, peevish, all but sulky, and showed that that bright heaven of sunny features had room in it for a cloud, and that an ugly one. but i, poor fool, only pitied her, made up my mind that some one had ill-used her; and looked on her as a martyr--perhaps to that harsh cousin of hers. that day was taken up with writing out answers to the dean's searching questions on his pamphlet, in which, i believe, i acquitted myself tolerably; and he seemed far more satisfied with my commentary than i was with his text. he seemed to ignore utterly anything like religion, or even the very notion of god, in his chains of argument. nature was spoken of as the wilier and producer of all the marvels which he describes; and every word in the book, to my astonishment, might have been written just as easily by an atheist as by a dignitary of the church of england. i could not help, that evening, hinting this defect, as delicately as i could, to my good host, and was somewhat surprised to find that he did not consider it a defect at all. "i am in no wise anxious to weaken the antithesis between natural and revealed religion. science may help the former, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the latter. she stands on her own ground, has her own laws, and is her own reward. christianity is a matter of faith and of the teaching of the church. it must not go out of its way for science, and science must not go out of her way for it; and where they seem to differ, it is our duty to believe that they are reconcilable by fuller knowledge, but not to clip truth in order to make it match with doctrine." "mr. carlyle," said miss staunton, in her abrupt way, "can see that the god of nature is the god of man." "nobody denies that, my dear." "except in every word and action; else why do they not write about nature as if it was the expression of a living, loving spirit, not merely a dead machine?" "it may be very easy, my dear, for a deist like mr. carlyle to see _his_ god in nature; but if he would accept the truths of christianity, he would find that there were deeper mysteries in them than trees and animals can explain." "pardon me, sir," i said, "but i think that a very large portion of thoughtful working men agree with you, though, in their case, that opinion has only increased their difficulties about christianity. they complain that they cannot identify the god of the bible with the god of the world around them; and one of their great complaints against christianity is, that it demands assent to mysteries which are independent of, and even contradictory to, the laws of nature." the old man was silent. "mr. carlyle is no deist," said miss staunton; "and i am sure, that unless the truths of christianity contrive soon to get themselves justified by the laws of science, the higher orders will believe in them as little as mr. locke informs us that the working classes do." "you prophesy confidently, my darling." "oh, eleanor is in one of her prophetic moods to-night," said lillian, slyly. "she has been foretelling me i know not what misery and misfortune, just because i choose to amuse myself in my own way." and she gave another sly pouting look at eleanor, and then called me to look over some engravings, chatting over them so charmingly!--and stealing, every now and then, a pretty, saucy look at her cousin, which seemed to say, "i shall do what i like, in spite of your predictions." this confirmed my suspicions that eleanor had been trying to separate us; and the suspicion received a further corroboration, indirect, and perhaps very unfair, from the lecture which i got from my cousin after i went up-stairs. he had been flattering me very much lately about "the impression" i was making on the family, and tormenting me by compliments on the clever way in which i "played my cards"; and when i denied indignantly any such intention, patting me on the back, and laughing me down in a knowing way, as much as to say that he was not to be taken in by my professions of simplicity. he seemed to judge every one by himself, and to have no notion of any middle characters between the mere green-horn and the deliberate schemer. but to-night, after commencing with the usual compliments, he went on: "now, first let me give you one hint, and be thankful for it. mind your game with that eleanor--miss staunton. she is a regular tyrant, i happen to know: a strong-minded woman, with a vengeance. she manages every one here; and unless you are in her good books, don't expect to keep your footing in this house, my boy. so just mind and pay her a little more attention and miss lillian a little less. after all, it is worth the trouble. she is uncommonly well read; and says confounded clever things, too, when she wakes up out of the sulks; and you may pick up a wrinkle or two from her, worth pocketing. you mind what she says to you. you know she is going to be married to lord lynedale." i nodded assent. "well, then, if you want to hook him, you must secure her first." "i want to hook no one, george; i have told you that a thousand times." "oh, no! certainly not--by no means! why should you?" said the artful dodger. and he swung, laughing, out of the room, leaving in my mind a strange suspicion, of which i was ashamed, though i could not shake it off, that he had remarked eleanor's wish to cool my admiration for lillian, and was willing, for some purpose of his own, to further that wish. the truth is, i had very little respect for him, or trust in him: and i was learning to look, habitually, for some selfish motive in all he said or did. perhaps, if i had acted more boldly upon what i did see, i should not have been here now. chapter xvii. sermons in stones. the next afternoon was the last but one of my stay at d * * *. we were to dine late, after sunset, and, before dinner, we went into the cathedral. the choir had just finished practising. certain exceedingly ill-looking men, whose faces bespoke principally sensuality and self-conceit, and whose function was that of praising god, on the sole qualification of good bass and tenor voices, were coming chattering through the choir gates; and behind them a group of small boys were suddenly transforming themselves from angels into sinners, by tearing off their white surplices, and pinching and poking each other noisily as they passed us, with as little reverence as voltaire himself could have desired. i had often been in the cathedral before--indeed, we attended the service daily, and i had been appalled, rather than astonished, by what i saw and heard: the unintelligible service--the irreverent gabble of the choristers and readers--the scanty congregation--the meagre portion of the vast building which seemed to be turned to any use: but never more than that evening, did i feel the desolateness, the doleful inutility, of that vast desert nave, with its aisles and transepts--built for some purpose or other now extinct. the whole place seemed to crush and sadden me; and i could not re-echo lillian's remark: "how those pillars, rising story above story, and those lines of pointed arches, all lead the eye heavenward! it is a beautiful notion, that about pointed architecture being symbolic of christianity." "i ought to be very much ashamed of my stupidity," i answered; "but i cannot feel that, though i believe i ought to do so. that vast groined roof, with its enormous weight of hanging stone, seems to crush one--to bar out the free sky above. those pointed windows, too--how gloriously the western sun is streaming through them! but their rich hues only dim and deface his light. i can feel what you say, when i look at the cathedral on the outside; there, indeed, every line sweeps the eye upward--carries it from one pinnacle to another, each with less and less standing-ground, till at the summit the building gradually vanishes in a point, and leaves the spirit to wing its way, unsupported and alone, into the ether. "perhaps," i added, half bitterly, "these cathedrals may be true symbols of the superstition which created them--on the outside, offering to enfranchise the soul and raise it up to heaven; but when the dupes had entered, giving them only a dark prison, and a crushing bondage, which neither we nor our fathers have been able to bear." "you may sneer at them, if you will, mr. locke," said eleanor, in her severe, abrupt way. "the working classes would have been badly off without them. they were, in their day, the only democratic institution in the world; and the only socialist one too. the only chance a poor man had of rising by his worth, was by coming to the monastery. and bitterly the working classes felt the want of them, when they fell. your own cobbett can tell you that." "ah," said lillian, "how different it must have been four hundred years ago!--how solemn and picturesque those old monks must have looked, gliding about the aisles!--and how magnificent the choir must have been, before all the glass and carving, and that beautiful shrine of st. * * * *, blazing with gold and jewels, were all plundered and defaced by those horrid puritans!" "say, reformer-squires," answered eleanor; "for it was they who did the thing; only it was found convenient, at the restoration, to lay on the people of the seventeenth century the iniquities which the country-gentlemen committed in the sixteenth." "surely," i added, emboldened by her words, "if the monasteries were what their admirers say, some method of restoring the good of the old system, without its evil, ought to be found; and would be found, if it were not--" i paused, recollecting whose guest i was. "if it were not, i suppose," said eleanor, "for those lazy, overfed, bigoted hypocrites, the clergy. that, i presume, is the description of them to which you have been most accustomed. now, let me ask you one question. do you mean to condemn, just now, the church as it was, or the church as it is, or the church as it ought to be? radicals have a habit of confusing those three questions, as they have of confusing other things when it suits them." "really," i said--for my blood was rising--"i do think that, with the confessed enormous wealth of the clergy, the cathedral establishments especially, they might do more for the people." "listen to me a little, mr. locke. the laity now-a-days take a pride in speaking evil of the clergy, never seeing that if they are bad, the laity have made them so. why, what do you impute to them? their worldliness, their being like the world, like the laity round them--like you, in short? improve yourselves, and by so doing, if there is this sad tendency in the clergy to imitate you, you will mend them; if you do not find that after all, it is they who will have to mend you. 'as with the people, so with the priest,' is the everlasting law. when, fifty years ago, all classes were drunkards, from the statesman to the peasant, the clergy were drunken also, but not half so bad as the laity. now the laity are eaten up with covetousness and ambition; and the clergy are covetous and ambitious, but not half so bad as the laity. the laity, and you working men especially, are the dupes of frothy, insincere, official rant, as mr. carlyle would call it, in parliament, on the hustings, at every debating society and chartist meeting; and, therefore, the clergyman's sermons are apt to be just what people like elsewhere, and what, therefore, they suppose people will like there." "if, then," i answered, "in spite of your opinions, you confess the clergy to be so bad, why are you so angry with men of our opinions, if we do plot sometimes a little against the church?" "i do not think you know what my opinions are, mr. locke. did you not hear me just now praising the monasteries, because they were socialist and democratic? but why is the badness of the clergy any reason for pulling down the church? that is another of the confused irrationalities into which you all allow yourselves to fall. what do you mean by crying shame on a man for being a bad clergyman, if a good clergyman is not a good thing? if the very idea of a clergyman, was abominable, as your church-destroyers ought to say, you ought to praise a man for being a bad one, and not acting out this same abominable idea of priesthood. your very outcry against the sins of the clergy, shows that, even in your minds, a dim notion lies somewhere that a clergyman's vocation is, in itself, a divine, a holy, a beneficent one." "i never looked at it in that light, certainly," said i, somewhat staggered. "very likely not. one word more, for i may not have another opportunity of speaking to you as i would on these matters. you working men complain of the clergy for being bigoted and obscurantist, and hating the cause of the people. does not nine-tenths of the blame of that lie at your door? i took up, the other day, at hazard, one of your favourite liberty-preaching newspapers; and i saw books advertised in it, whose names no modest woman should ever behold; doctrines and practices advocated in it from which all the honesty, the decency, the common human feeling which is left in the english mind, ought to revolt, and does revolt. you cannot deny it. your class has told the world that the cause of liberty, equality, and fraternity, the cause which the working masses claim as theirs, identifies itself with blasphemy and indecency, with the tyrannous persecutions of trades-unions, with robbery, assassinations, vitriol-bottles, and midnight incendiarism. and then you curse the clergy for taking you at your word! whatsoever they do, you attack them. if they believe you, and stand up for common, morality, and for the truths which they know are all-important to poor as well as rich, you call them bigots and persecutors; while if they neglect, in any way, the very christianity for believing which you insult them, you turn round and call them hypocrites. mark my words, mr. locke, till you gain the respect and confidence of the clergy, you will never rise. the day will come when you will find that the clergy are the only class who can help you. ah, you may shake your head. i warn you of it. they were the only bulwark of the poor against the mediæval tyranny of rank; you will find them the only bulwark against the modern tyranny of mammon." i was on the point of entreating her to explain herself further, but at that critical moment lillian interposed. "now, stay your prophetic glances into the future; here come lynedale and papa." and in a moment, eleanor's whole manner and countenance altered--the petulant, wild unrest, the harsh, dictatorial tone vanished; and she turned to meet her lover, with a look of tender, satisfied devotion, which transfigured her whole face. it was most strange, the power he had over her. his presence, even at a distance, seemed to fill her whole being with rich quiet life. she watched him with folded hands, like a mystic worshipper, waiting for the afflatus of the spirit; and, suspicious and angry as i felt towards her, i could not help being drawn to her by this revelation of depths of strong healthy feeling, of which her usual manner gave so little sign. this conversation thoroughly puzzled me; it showed me that there might be two sides to the question of the people's cause, as well as to that of others. it shook a little my faith in the infallibility of my own class, to hear such severe animadversions on them, from a person who professed herself as much a disciple of carlyle as any working man; and who evidently had no lack either of intellect to comprehend or boldness to speak out his doctrines; who could praise the old monasteries for being democratic and socialist, and spoke far more severely of the clergy than i could have done--because she did not deal merely in trite words of abuse, but showed a real analytic insight into the causes of their short-coming. * * * * * that same evening the conversation happened to turn on dress, of which miss staunton spoke scornfully and disparagingly, as mere useless vanity and frippery--an empty substitute for real beauty of person as well as the higher beauty of mind. and i, emboldened by the courtesy with which i was always called on to take my share in everything that was said or done, ventured to object, humbly enough, to her notions. "but is not beauty," i said, "in itself a good and blessed thing, softening, refining, rejoicing the eyes of all who behold?" (and my eyes, as i spoke, involuntary rested on lillian's face--who saw it, and blushed.) "surely nothing which helps beauty is to be despised. and, without the charm of dress, beauty, even that of expression, does not really do itself justice. how many lovely and lovable faces there are, for instance, among the working classes, which, if they had but the advantages which ladies possess, might create delight, respect, chivalrous worship in the beholder--but are now never appreciated, because they have not the same fair means of displaying themselves which even the savage girl of the south sea islands possesses!" lillian said it was so very true--she had really never thought of it before--and somehow i gained courage to go on. "besides, dress is a sort of sacrament, if i may use the word--a sure sign of the wearer's character; according as any one is orderly, or modest, or tasteful, or joyous, or brilliant"--and i glanced again at lillian--"those excellences, or the want of them, are sure to show themselves, in the colours they choose, and the cut of their garments. in the workroom, i and a friend of mine used often to amuse ourselves over the clothes we were making, by speculating from them on the sort of people the wearers were to be; and i fancy we were not often wrong." my cousin looked daggers at me, and for a moment i fancied i had committed a dreadful mistake in mentioning my tailor-life. so i had in his eyes, but not in those of the really well-bred persons round me. "oh, how very amusing it must have been! i think i shall turn milliner, eleanor, for the fun of divining every one's little failings from their caps and gowns!" "go on, mr. locke," said the dean, who had seemed buried in the "transactions of the royal society." "the fact is novel, and i am more obliged to any one who gives me that, than if he gave me a bank-note. the money gets spent and done with; but i cannot spend the fact: it remains for life as permanent capital, returning interest and compound interest _ad infinitum_. by-the-by, tell me about those same workshops. i have heard more about them than i like to believe true." and i did tell him all about them; and spoke, my blood rising as i went on, long and earnestly, perhaps eloquently. now and then i got abashed, and tried to stop; and then the dean informed me that i was speaking well and sensibly, while lillian entreated me to go on. she had never conceived such things possible--it was as interesting as a novel, &c., &c.; and miss staunton sat with compressed lips and frowning brow, apparently thinking of nothing but her book, till i felt quite angry at her apathy--for such it seemed to me to be. chapter xviii. my fall. and now the last day of our stay at d * * * had arrived, and i had as yet heard nothing of the prospects of my book; though, indeed, the company in which i had found myself had driven literary ambition, for the time being, out of my head, and bewitched me to float down the stream of daily circumstance, satisfied to snatch the enjoyment of each present moment. that morning, however, after i had fulfilled my daily task of arranging and naming objects of natural history, the dean settled himself back in his arm-chair, and bidding me sit down, evidently meditated a business conversation. he had heard from his publisher, and read his letter to me. "the poems were on the whole much liked. the most satisfactory method of publishing for all parties, would be by procuring so many subscribers, each agreeing to take so many copies. in consideration of the dean's known literary judgment and great influence, the publisher would, as a private favour, not object to take the risk of any further expenses." so far everything sounded charming. the method was not a very independent one, but it was the only one; and i should actually have the delight of having published a volume. but, alas! "he thought that the sale of the book might be greatly facilitated, if certain passages of a strong political tendency were omitted. he did not wish personally to object to them as statements of facts, or to the pictorial vigour with which they were expressed; but he thought that they were somewhat too strong for the present state of the public taste; and though he should be the last to allow any private considerations to influence his weak patronage of rising talent, yet, considering his present connexion, he should hardly wish to take on himself the responsibility of publishing such passages, unless with great modifications." "you see," said the good old man, "the opinion of respectable practical men, who know the world, exactly coincides with mine. i did not like to tell you that i could not help in the publication of your mss. in their present state; but i am sure, from the modesty and gentleness which i have remarked in you, your readiness to listen to reason, and your pleasing freedom from all violence or coarseness in expressing your opinions, that you will not object to so exceedingly reasonable a request, which, after all, is only for your good. ah! young man," he went on, in a more feeling tone than i had yet heard from him, "if you were once embroiled in that political world, of which you know so little, you would soon be crying like david, 'oh that i had wings like a dove, then would i flee away and be at rest!' do you fancy that you can alter a fallen world? what it is, it always has been, and will be to the end. every age has its political and social nostrums, my dear young man, and fancies them infallible; and the next generation arises to curse them as failures in practice, and superstitious in theory, and try some new nostrum of its own." i sighed. "ah! you may sigh. but we have each of us to be disenchanted of our dream. there was a time once when i talked republicanism as loudly as raw youth ever did--when i had an excuse for it, too; for when i was a boy, i saw the french revolution; and it was no wonder if young, enthusiastic brains were excited by all sorts of wild hopes--'perfectibility of the species,' 'rights of man,' 'universal liberty, equality, and brotherhood.'--my dear sir, there is nothing new under the sun; all that is stale and trite to a septuagenarian, who has seen where it all ends. i speak to you freely, because i am deeply interested in you. i feel that this is the important question of your life, and that you have talents, the possession of which is a heavy responsibility. eschew politics, once and for all, as i have done. i might have been, i may tell you, a bishop at this moment, if i had condescended to meddle again in those party questions of which my youthful experience sickened me. but i knew that i should only weaken my own influence, as that most noble and excellent man, dr. arnold, did, by interfering in politics. the poet, like the clergyman and the philosopher, has nothing to do with politics. let them choose the better part, and it shall not be taken from them. the world may rave," he continued, waxing eloquent as he approached his favourite subject--"the world may rave, but in the study there is quiet. the world may change, mr. locke, and will; but 'the earth abideth for ever.' solomon had seen somewhat of politics, and social improvement, and so on; and behold, then, as now, 'all was vanity and vexation of spirit. that which is crooked cannot be made straight, and that which is wanting cannot be numbered. what profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun? the thing which hath been, it is that which shall be, and there is no new thing under the sun. one generation passeth away, and another cometh; but the earth abideth for ever.' no wonder that the wisest of men took refuge from such experience, as i have tried to do, in talking of all herbs, from the cedar of lebanon to the hyssop that groweth on the wall! "ah! mr. locke," he went on, in a soft melancholy, half-abstracted tone--"ah! mr. locke, i have felt deeply, and you will feel some day, the truth of jarno's saying in 'wilhelm meister,' when he was wandering alone in the alps, with his geological hammer, 'these rocks, at least, tell me no lies, as men do.' ay, there is no lie in nature, no discord in the revelations of science, in the laws of the universe. infinite, pure, unfallen, earth-supporting titans, fresh as on the morning of creation, those great laws endure; your only true democrats, too--for nothing is too great or too small for them to take note of. no tiniest gnat, or speck of dust, but they feed it, guide it, and preserve it,--hail and snow, wind and vapour, fulfilling their maker's word; and like him, too, hiding themselves from the wise and prudent, and revealing themselves unto babes. yes, mr. locke; it is the childlike, simple, patient, reverent heart, which science at once demands and cultivates. to prejudice or haste, to self-conceit or ambition, she proudly shuts her treasuries--to open them to men of humble heart, whom this world thinks simple dreamers--her newtons, and owens, and faradays. why should you not become such a man as they? you have the talents--you have the love for nature, you seem to have the gentle and patient spirit, which, indeed, will grow up more and more in you, if you become a real student of science. or, if you must be a poet, why not sing of nature, and leave those to sing political squabbles, who have no eye for the beauty of her repose? how few great poets have been politicians!" i gently suggested milton. "ay! he became a great poet only when he had deserted politics, because they had deserted him. in blindness and poverty, in the utter failure of all his national theories, he wrote the works which have made him immortal. was shakespeare a politician? or any one of the great poets who have arisen during the last thirty years? have they not all seemed to consider it a sacred duty to keep themselves, as far as they could, out of party strife?" i quoted southey, shelley, and burns, as instances to the contrary; but his induction was completed already, to his own satisfaction. "poor dear southey was a great verse-maker, rather than a great poet; and i always consider that his party-prejudices and party-writing narrowed and harshened a mind which ought to have been flowing forth freely and lovingly towards all forms of life. and as for shelley and burns, their politics dictated to them at once the worst portions of their poetry and of their practice. shelley, what little i have read of him, only seems himself when he forgets radicalism for nature; and you would not set burns' life or death, either, as a model for imitation in any class. now, do you know, i must ask you to leave me a little. i am somewhat fatigued with this long discussion" (in which, certainly, i had borne no great share); "and i am sure, that after all i have said, you will see the propriety of acceding to the publisher's advice. go and think over it, and let me have your answer by post time." i did go and think over it--too long for my good. if i had acted on the first impulse, i should have refused, and been safe. these passages were the very pith and marrow of the poems. they were the very words which i had felt it my duty, my glory, to utter. i, who had been a working man, who had experienced all their sorrows and temptations--i, seemed called by every circumstance of my life to preach their cause, to expose their wrongs--i to squash my convictions, to stultify my book for the sake of popularity, money, patronage! and yet--all that involved seeing more of lillian. they were only too powerful inducements in themselves, alas! but i believe i could have resisted them tolerably, if they had not been backed by love. and so a struggle arose, which the rich reader may think a very fantastic one, though the poor man will understand it, and surely pardon it also--seeing that he himself is man. could i not, just once in a way, serve god and mammon at once?--or rather, not mammon, but venus: a worship which looked to me, and really was in my case, purer than all the mariolatry in popedom. after all, the fall might not be so great as it seemed--perhaps i was not infallible on these same points. (it is wonderful how humble and self-denying one becomes when one is afraid of doing one's duty.) perhaps the dean might be right. he had been a republican himself once, certainly. the facts, indeed, which i had stated, there could be no doubt of; but i might have viewed them through a prejudiced and angry medium. i might have been not quite logical in my deductions from them--i might.... in short, between "perhapses" and "mights" i fell--a very deep, real, damnable fall; and consented to emasculate my poems, and become a flunkey and a dastard. i mentioned my consent that evening to the party; the dean purred content thereat. eleanor, to my astonishment, just said, sternly and abruptly, "weak!" and then turned away, while lillian began: "oh! what a pity! and really they were some of the prettiest verses of all! but of course my father must know best; you are quite right to be guided by him, and do whatever is proper and prudent. after all, papa, i have got the naughtiest of them all, you know, safe. eleanor set it to music, and wrote it out in her book, and i thought it was so charming that i copied it." what lillian said about herself i drank in as greedily as usual; what she said about eleanor fell on a heedless ear, and vanished, not to reappear in my recollection till--but i must not anticipate. so it was all settled pleasantly; and i sat up that evening writing a bit of verse for lillian, about the old cathedral, and "heaven-aspiring towers," and "aisles of cloistered shade," and all that sort of thing; which i did not believe or care for; but i thought it would please her, and so it did; and i got golden smiles and compliments for my first, though not my last, insincere poem. i was going fast down hill, in my hurry to rise. however, as i said, it was all pleasant enough. i was to return to town, and there await the dean's orders; and, most luckily, i had received that morning from sandy mackaye a characteristic letter: "gowk, telemachus, hearken! item . ye're fou wi' the circean cup, aneath the shade o' shovel hats and steeple houses. "item . i, cuif-mentor that i am, wearing out a gude pair o' gude scots brogues that my sister's husband's third cousin sent me a towmond gane fra aberdeen, rinning ower the town to a' journals, respectable and ither, anent the sellin o' your 'autobiography of an engine-boiler in the vauxhall road,' the whilk i ha' disposit o' at the last, to o'flynn's _weekly warwhoop_; and gin ye ha' ony mair sic trash in your head, you may get your meal whiles out o' the same kist; unless, as i sair misdoubt, ye're praying already, like eli's bairns, 'to be put into ane o' the priest's offices, that ye may eat a piece o' bread.' "yell be coming the-morrow? i'm lane without ye; though i look for ye surely to come ben wi' a gowd shoulder-note, and a red nose." this letter, though it hit me hard, and made me, i confess, a little angry at the moment with my truest friend, still offered me a means of subsistence, and enabled me to decline safely the pecuniary aid which i dreaded the dean's offering me. and yet i felt dispirited and ill at ease. my conscience would not let me enjoy the success i felt i had attained. but next morning i saw lillian; and i forgot books, people's cause, conscience, and everything. * * * * * i went home by coach--a luxury on which my cousin insisted--as he did on lending me the fare; so that in all i owed him somewhat more than eleven pounds. but i was too happy to care for a fresh debt, and home i went, considering my fortune made. my heart fell, as i stepped into the dingy little old shop! was it the meanness of the place after the comfort and elegance of my late abode? was it disappointment at not finding mackaye at home? or was it that black-edged letter which lay waiting for me on the table? i was afraid to open it; i knew not why. i turned it over and over several times, trying to guess whose the handwriting on the cover might be; the postmark was two days old; and at last i broke the seal. "sir,--this is to inform you that your mother, mrs. locke, died this morning, a sensible sinner, not without assurance of her election: and that her funeral is fixed for wednesday, the th instant. "the humble servant of the lord's people, "j. wigginton." chapter xix. short and sad. i shall pass over the agonies of the next few days. there is self-exenteration enough and to spare in my story, without dilating on them. they are too sacred to publish, and too painful, alas! even to recall. i write my story, too, as a working man. of those emotions which are common to humanity, i shall say but little--except when it is necessary to prove that the working man has feelings like the rest of his kind, but those feelings may, in this case, be supplied by the reader's own imagination. let him represent them to himself as bitter, as remorseful as he will, he will not equal the reality. true, she had cast me off; but had i not rejoiced in that rejection which should have been my shame? true, i had fed on the hope of some day winning reconciliation, by winning fame; but before the fame had arrived, the reconciliation had become impossible. i had shrunk from going back to her, as i ought to have done, in filial humility, and, therefore, i was not allowed to go back to her in the pride of success. heaven knows, i had not forgotten her. night and day i had thought of her with prayers and blessings; but i had made a merit of my own love to her--my forgiveness of her, as i dared to call it. i had pampered my conceit with a notion that i was a martyr in the cause of genius and enlightenment. how hollow, windy, heartless, all that looked now. there! i will say no more. heaven preserve any who read these pages from such days and nights as i dragged on till that funeral, and for weeks after it was over, when i had sat once more in the little old chapel, with all the memories of my childhood crowding up, and tantalizing me with the vision of their simple peace--never, never, to return! i heard my mother's dying pangs, her prayers, her doubts, her agonies, for my reprobate soul, dissected for the public good by my old enemy, mr. wigginton, who dragged in among his fulsome eulogies of my mother's "signs of grace," rejoicings that there were "babes span-long in hell." i saw my sister susan, now a tall handsome woman, but become all rigid, sour, with coarse grim lips, and that crushed, self-conscious, reserved, almost dishonest look about the eyes, common to fanatics of every creed. i heard her cold farewell, as she put into my hands certain notes and diaries of my mother's, which she had bequeathed to me on her death-bed. i heard myself proclaimed inheritor of some small matters of furniture, which had belonged to her; told susan carelessly to keep them for herself; and went forth, fancying that the curse of cain was on my brow. i took home the diary; but several days elapsed before i had courage to open it. let the words i read there be as secret as the misery which dictated them. i had broken my mother's heart!--no! i had not!--the infernal superstition which taught her to fancy that heaven's love was narrower than her own--that god could hate his creature, not for its sins, but for the very nature which he had given it--that, that had killed her. and i remarked too, with a gleam of hope, that in several places where sunshine seemed ready to break through the black cloud of fanatic gloom--where she seemed inclined not merely to melt towards me (for there was, in every page, an under-current of love deeper than death, and stronger than the grave), but also to dare to trust god on my behalf--whole lines carefully erased page after page torn out, evidently long after the mss. were written. i believe, to this day, that either my poor sister or her father-confessor was the perpetrator of that act. the _fraus pia_ is not yet extinct; and it is as inconvenient now as it was in popish times, to tell the whole truth about saints, when they dare to say or do things which will not quite fit into the formulæ of their sect. but what was to become of susan? though my uncle continued to her the allowance which he had made to my mother, yet i was her natural protector--and she was my only tie upon earth. was i to lose her, too? might we not, after all, be happy together, in some little hole in chelsea, like elia and his bridget? that question was solved for me. she declined my offers; saying, that she could not live with any one whose religious opinions differed from her own, and that she had already engaged a room at the house of a christian friend; and was shortly to be united to that dear man of god, mr. wigginton, who was to be removed to the work of the lord in manchester. i knew the scoundrel, but it would have been impossible for me to undeceive her. perhaps he was only a scoundrel--perhaps he would not ill-treat her. and yet--my own little susan! my play-fellow! my only tie on earth!--to lose her--and not only her, but her respect, her love!--and my spirit, deep enough already, sank deeper still into sadness; and i felt myself alone on earth, and clung to mackaye as to a father--and a father indeed that old man was to me. chapter xx. pegasus in harness. but, in sorrow or in joy, i had to earn my bread; and so, too, had crossthwaite, poor fellow! how he contrived to feed himself and his little katie for the next few years is more than i can tell; at all events he worked hard enough. he scribbled, agitated, ran from london to manchester, and manchester to bradford, spouting, lecturing--sowing the east wind, i am afraid, and little more. whose fault was it? what could such a man do, with that fervid tongue, and heart, and brain of his, in such a station as his, such a time as this? society had helped to make him an agitator. society has had, more or less, to take the consequences of her own handiwork. for crossthwaite did not speak without hearers. he could make the fierce, shrewd, artisan nature flash out into fire--not always celestial, nor always, either, infernal. so he agitated and lived--how, i know not. that he did do so, is evident from the fact that he and katie are at this moment playing chess in the cabin, before my eyes, and making love, all the while, as if they had not been married a week.... ah, well! i, however, had to do more than get my bread; i had to pay off these fearful eleven pounds odd, which, now that all the excitement of my stay at d * * * had been so sadly quenched, lay like lead upon my memory. my list of subscribers filled slowly, and i had no power of increasing it by any canvassings of my own. my uncle, indeed, had promised to take two copies, and my cousin one; not wishing, of course, to be so uncommercial as to run any risk, before they had seen whether my poems would succeed. but, with those exceptions, the dean had it all his own way; and he could not be expected to forego his own literary labours for my sake; so, through all that glaring summer, and sad foggy autumn, and nipping winter, i had to get my bread as i best could--by my pen. mackaye grumbled at my writing so much, and so fast, and sneered about the _furor scribendi_. but it was hardly fair upon me. "my mouth craved it of me," as solomon says. i had really no other means of livelihood. even if i could have gotten employment as a tailor, in the honourable trade, i loathed the business utterly--perhaps, alas! to confess the truth, i was beginning to despise it. i could bear to think of myself as a poor genius, in connection with my new wealthy and high-bred patrons; for there was precedent for the thing. penniless bards and squires of low degree, low-born artists, ennobled by their pictures--there was something grand in the notion of mind triumphant over the inequalities of rank, and associating with the great and wealthy as their spiritual equal, on the mere footing of its own innate nobility; no matter to what den it might return, to convert it into a temple of the muses, by the glorious creations of its fancy, &c., &c. but to go back daily from the drawing-room and the publisher's to the goose and the shopboard, was too much for my weakness, even if it had been physically possible, as, thank heaven, it was not. so i became a hack-writer, and sorrowfully, but deliberately, "put my pegasus into heavy harness," as my betters had done before me. it was miserable work, there is no denying it--only not worse than tailoring. to try and serve god and mammon too; to make miserable compromises daily between the two great incompatibilities, what was true, and what would pay; to speak my mind, in fear and trembling, by hints, and halves, and quarters; to be daily hauling poor truth just up to the top of the well, and then, frightened at my own success, let her plump down again to the bottom; to sit there trying to teach others, while my mind was in a whirl of doubt; to feed others' intellects while my own were hungering; to grind on in the philistine's mill, or occasionally make sport for them, like some weary-hearted clown grinning in a pantomime in a "light article," as blind as samson, but not, alas! as strong, for indeed my delilah of the west-end had clipped my locks, and there seemed little chance of their growing again. that face and that drawing-room flitted before me from morning till eve, and enervated and distracted my already over-wearied brain. i had no time, besides, to concentrate my thoughts sufficiently for poetry; no time to wait for inspiration. from the moment i had swallowed my breakfast, i had to sit scribbling off my thoughts anyhow in prose; and soon my own scanty stock was exhausted, and i was forced to beg, borrow, and steal notions and facts wherever i could get them. oh! the misery of having to read not what i longed to know, but what i thought would pay! to skip page after page of interesting matter, just to pick out a single thought or sentence which could be stitched into my patchwork! and then the still greater misery of seeing the article which i had sent to press a tolerably healthy and lusty bantling, appear in print next week after suffering the inquisition tortures of the editorial censorship, all maimed, and squinting, and one-sided, with the colour rubbed off its poor cheeks, and generally a villanous hang-dog look of ferocity, so different from its birth-smile that i often did not know my own child again!--and then, when i dared to remonstrate, however feebly, to be told, by way of comfort, that the public taste must be consulted! it gave me a hopeful notion of the said taste, certainly; and often and often i groaned in spirit over the temper of my own class, which not only submitted to, but demanded such one-sided bigotry, prurience, and ferocity, from those who set up as its guides and teachers. mr. o'flynn, editor of the _weekly warwhoop_, whose white slave i now found myself, was, i am afraid, a pretty faithful specimen of that class, as it existed before the bitter lesson of the th of april brought the chartist working men and the chartist press to their senses. thereon sprang up a new race of papers, whose moral tone, whatever may be thought of their political or doctrinal opinions, was certainly not inferior to that of the whig and tory press. the _commonwealth_, the _standard of freedom_, the _plain speaker_, were reprobates, if to be a chartist is to be a reprobate: but none except the most one-sided bigots could deny them the praise of a stern morality and a lofty earnestness, a hatred of evil and a craving after good, which would often put to shame many a paper among the oracles of belgravia and exeter hall. but those were the days of lubricity and o'flynn. not that the man was an unredeemed scoundrel. he was no more profligate, either in his literary or his private morals, than many a man who earns his hundreds, sometimes his thousands, a year, by prophesying smooth things to mammon, crying in daily leaders "peace! peace!" when there is no peace, and daubing the rotten walls of careless luxury and self-satisfied covetousness with the untempered mortar of party statistics and garbled foreign news--till "the storm shall fall, and the breaking thereof cometh suddenly in an instant." let those of the respectable press who are without sin, cast the first stone at the unrespectable. many of the latter class, who have been branded as traitors and villains, were single-minded, earnest, valiant men; and, as for even o'flynn, and those worse than him, what was really the matter with them was, that they were too honest--they spoke out too much of their whole minds. bewildered, like lear, amid the social storm, they had determined, like him, to become "unsophisticated," "to owe the worm no silk, the cat no perfume"--seeing, indeed, that if they had, they could not have paid for them; so they tore off, of their own will, the peacock's feathers of gentility, the sheep's clothing of moderation, even the fig-leaves of decent reticence, and became just what they really were--just what hundreds more would become, who now sit in the high places of the earth, if it paid them as well to be unrespectable as it does to be respectable; if the selfishness and covetousness, bigotry and ferocity, which are in them, and more or less in every man, had happened to enlist them against existing evils, instead of for them. o'flynn would have been gladly as respectable as they; but, in the first place, he must have starved; and in the second place, he must have lied; for he believed in his own radicalism with his whole soul. there was a ribald sincerity, a frantic courage in the man. he always spoke the truth when it suited him, and very often when it did not. he did see, which is more than all do, that oppression is oppression, and humbug, humbug. he had faced the gallows before now without flinching. he had spouted rebellion in the birmingham bullring, and elsewhere, and taken the consequences like a man; while his colleagues left their dupes to the tender mercies of broadswords and bayonets, and decamped in the disguise of sailors, old women, and dissenting preachers. he had sat three months in lancaster castle, the bastille of england, one day perhaps to fall like that parisian one, for a libel which he never wrote, because he would not betray his cowardly contributor. he had twice pleaded his own cause, without help of attorney, and showed himself as practised in every law-quibble and practical cheat as if he had been a regularly ordained priest of the blue-bag; and each time, when hunted at last into a corner, had turned valiantly to bay, with wild witty irish eloquence, "worthy," as the press say of poor misguided mitchell, "of a better cause." altogether, a much-enduring ulysses, unscrupulous, tough-hided, ready to do and suffer anything fair or foul, for what he honestly believed--if a confused, virulent positiveness be worthy of the name "belief"--to be the true and righteous cause. those who class all mankind compendiously and comfortably under the two exhaustive species of saints and villains, may consider such a description garbled and impossible. i have seen few men, but never yet met i among those few either perfect saint or perfect villain. i draw men as i have found them--inconsistent, piece-meal, better than their own actions, worse than their own opinions, and poor o'flynn among the rest. not that there were no questionable spots in the sun of his fair fame. it was whispered that he had in old times done dirty work for dublin castle bureaucrats--nay, that he had even, in a very hard season, written court poetry for the _morning post_; but all these little peccadilloes he carefully veiled in that kindly mist which hung over his youthful years. he had been a medical student, and got plucked, his foes declared, in his examination. he had set up a savings-bank, which broke. he had come over from ireland, to agitate for "repale" and "rint," and, like a wise man as he was, had never gone back again. he had set up three or four papers in his time, and entered into partnership with every leading democrat in turn; but his papers failed, and he quarrelled with his partners, being addicted to profane swearing and personalities. and now, at last, after ulyssean wanderings, he had found rest in the office of the _weekly warwhoop_, if rest it could be called, that perennial hurricane of plotting, railing, sneering, and bombast, in which he lived, never writing a line, on principle, till he had worked himself up into a passion. i will dwell no more on so distasteful a subject. such leaders, let us hope, belong only to the past--to the youthful self-will and licentiousness of democracy; and as for reviling o'flynn, or any other of his class, no man has less right than myself, i fear, to cast stones at such as they. i fell as low as almost any, beneath the besetting sins of my class; and shall i take merit to myself, because god has shown me, a little earlier perhaps than to them, somewhat more of the true duties and destinies of the many? oh, that they could see the depths of my affection to them! oh, that they could see the shame and self-abasement with which, in rebuking their sins, i confess my own! if they are apt to be flippant and bitter, so was i. if they lust to destroy, without knowing what to build up instead, so did i. if they make an almighty idol of that electoral reform, which ought to be, and can be, only a preliminary means, and expect final deliverance from "their twenty-thousandth part of a talker in the national palaver," so did i. unhealthy and noisome as was the literary atmosphere in which i now found myself, it was one to my taste. the very contrast between the peaceful, intellectual luxury which i had just witnessed, and the misery of my class and myself, quickened my delight in it. in bitterness, in sheer envy, i threw my whole soul into it, and spoke evil, and rejoiced in evil. it was so easy to find fault! it pampered my own self-conceit, my own discontent, while it saved me the trouble of inventing remedies. yes; it was indeed easy to find fault. "the world was all before me, where to choose." in such a disorganized, anomalous, grumbling, party-embittered element as this english society, and its twin pauperism and luxury, i had but to look straight before me to see my prey. and thus i became daily more and more cynical, fierce, reckless. my mouth was filled with cursing--and too often justly. and all the while, like tens of thousands of my class, i had no man to teach me. sheep scattered on the hills, we were, that had no shepherd. what wonder if our bones lay bleaching among rocks and quagmires, and wolves devoured the heritage of god? mackaye had nothing positive, after all, to advise or propound. his wisdom was one of apophthegms and maxims, utterly impracticable, too often merely negative, as was his creed, which, though he refused to be classed with any sect, was really a somewhat undefined unitarianism--or rather islamism. he could say, with the old moslem, "god is great--who hath resisted his will?" and he believed what he said, and lived manful and pure, reverent and self-denying, by that belief, as the first moslem did. but that was not enough. "not enough? merely negative?" no--_that_ was positive enough, and mighty; but i repeat it, it was not enough. he felt it so himself; for he grew daily more and more cynical, more and more hopeless about the prospects of his class and of all humanity. why not? poor suffering wretches! what is it to them to know that "god is great," unless you can prove to them god is also merciful? did he indeed care for men at all?--was what i longed to know; was all this misery and misrule around us his will--his stern and necessary law--his lazy connivance? and were we to free ourselves from it by any frantic means that came to hand? or had he ever interfered himself? was there a chance, a hope, of his interfering now, in our own time, to take the matter into his own hand, and come out of his place to judge the earth in righteousness? that was what we wanted to know; and poor mackaye could give no comfort there. "god was great--the wicked would be turned into hell." ay--the few wilful, triumphant wicked; but the millions of suffering, starving wicked, the victims of society and circumstance--what hope for them? "god was great." and for the clergy, our professed and salaried teachers, all i can say is--and there are tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of workmen who can re-echo my words--with the exception of the dean and my cousin, and one who shall be mentioned hereafter, a clergyman never spoke to me in my life. why should he? was i not a chartist and an infidel? the truth is, the clergy are afraid of us. to read the _dispatch_, is to be excommunicated. young men's classes? honour to them, however few they are--however hampered by the restrictions of religious bigotry and political cowardice. but the working men, whether rightly or wrongly, do not trust them; they do not trust the clergy who set them on foot; they do not expect to be taught at them the things they long to know--to be taught the whole truth in them about history, politics, science, the bible. they suspect them to be mere tubs to the whale--mere substitutes for education, slowly and late adopted, in order to stop the mouths of the importunate. they may misjudge the clergy; but whose fault is it if they do? clergymen of england!--look at the history of your establishment for the last fifty years, and say, what wonder is it if the artisan mistrust you? every spiritual reform, since the time of john wesley, has had to establish itself in the teeth of insult, calumny, and persecution. every ecclesiastical reform comes not from within, but from without your body. mr. horsman, struggling against every kind of temporizing and trickery, has to do the work which bishops, by virtue of their seat in the house of lords, ought to have been doing years ago. everywhere we see the clergy, with a few persecuted exceptions (like dr. arnold), proclaiming themselves the advocates of toryism, the dogged opponents of our political liberty, living either by the accursed system of pew-rents, or else by one which depends on the high price of corn; chosen exclusively from the classes who crush us down; prohibiting all free discussion on religious points; commanding us to swallow down, with faith as passive and implicit as that of a papist, the very creeds from which their own bad example, and their scandalous neglect, have, in the last three generations, alienated us; never mixing with the thoughtful working men, except in the prison, the hospital, or in extreme old age; betraying, in every tract, in every sermon, an ignorance of the doubts, the feelings, the very language of the masses, which would be ludicrous, were it not accursed before god and man. and then will you show us a few tardy improvements here and there, and ask us, indignantly, why we distrust you? oh! gentlemen, if you cannot see for yourselves the causes of our distrust, it is past our power to show you. we must leave it to god. * * * * * but to return to my own story. i had, as i said before, to live by my pen; and in that painful, confused, maimed way, i contrived to scramble on the long winter through, writing regularly for the _weekly warwhoop_, and sometimes getting an occasional scrap into some other cheap periodical, often on the very verge of starvation, and glad of a handful of meal from sandy's widow's barrel. if i had had more than my share of feasting in the summer, i made the balance even, during those frosty months, by many a bitter fast. and here let me ask you, gentle reader, who are just now considering me ungentle, virulent, and noisy, did you ever, for one day in your whole life, literally, involuntarily, and in spite of all your endeavours, longings, and hungerings, _not get enough to eat_? if you ever have, it must have taught you several things. but all this while, it must not be supposed that i had forgotten my promise to good farmer porter, to look for his missing son. and, indeed, crossthwaite and i were already engaged in a similar search for a friend of his--the young tailor, who, as i told porter, had been lost for several months. he was the brother of crossthwaite's wife, a passionate, kind-hearted irishman, mike kelly by name, reckless and scatter-brained enough to get himself into every possible scrape, and weak enough of will never to get himself out of one. for these two, crossthwaite and i had searched from one sweater's den to another, and searched in vain. and though the present interest and exertion kept us both from brooding over our own difficulties, yet in the long run it tended only to embitter and infuriate our minds. the frightful scenes of hopeless misery which we witnessed--the ever widening pit of pauperism and slavery, gaping for fresh victims day by day, as they dropped out of the fast lessening "honourable trade," into the ever-increasing miseries of sweating, piece-work, and starvation prices; the horrible certainty that the same process which was devouring our trade was slowly, but surely, eating up every other also; the knowledge that there was no remedy, no salvation for us in man, that political economists had declared such to be the law and constitution of society, and that our rulers had believed that message, and were determined to act upon it;--if all these things did not go far towards maddening us, we must have been made of sterner stuff than any one who reads this book. at last, about the middle of january, just as we had given up the search as hopeless, and poor katie's eyes were getting red and swelled with daily weeping, a fresh spur was given to our exertions, by the sudden appearance of no less a person than the farmer himself. what ensued upon his coming must be kept for another chapter. chapter xxi. the sweater's den. i was greedily devouring lane's "arabian nights," which had made their first appearance in the shop that day. mackaye sat in his usual place, smoking a clean pipe, and assisting his meditations by certain mysterious chironomic signs; while opposite to him was farmer porter--a stone or two thinner than when i had seen him last, but one stone is not much missed out of seventeen. his forehead looked smaller, and his jaws larger than ever, and his red face was sad, and furrowed with care. evidently, too, he was ill at ease about other matters besides his son. he was looking out of the corners of his eyes, first at the skinless cast on the chimney-piece, then at the crucified books hanging over his head, as if he considered them not altogether safe companions, and rather expected something "uncanny" to lay hold of him from behind--a process which involved the most horrible contortions of visage, as he carefully abstained from stirring a muscle of his neck or body, but sat bolt upright, his elbows pinned to his sides, and his knees as close together as his stomach would permit, like a huge corpulent egyptian memnon--the most ludicrous contrast to the little old man opposite, twisted up together in his joseph's coat, like some wizard magician in the stories which i was reading. a curious pair of "poles" the two made; the mesothet whereof, by no means a _"punctum indifferens,"_ but a true connecting spiritual idea, stood on the table--in the whisky-bottle. farmer porter was evidently big with some great thought, and had all a true poet's bashfulness about publishing the fruit of his creative genius. he looked round again at the skinless man, the caricatures, the books; and, as his eye wandered from pile to pile, and shelf to shelf, his face brightened, and he seemed to gain courage. solemnly he put his hat on his knees, and began solemnly brushing it with his cuff. then he saw me watching him, and stopped. then he put his pipe solemnly on the hob, and cleared his throat for action, while i buried my face in the book. "them's a sight o' larned beuks, muster mackaye?" "humph!" "yow maun ha' got a deal o' scholarship among they, noo?" "humph!" "dee yow think, noo, yow could find out my boy out of un, by any ways o' conjuring like?" "by what?" "conjuring--to strike a perpendicular, noo, or say the lord's prayer backwards?" "wadna ye prefer a meeracle or twa?" asked sandy, after a long pull at the whisky-toddy. "or a few efreets?" added i. "whatsoever you likes, gentlemen. you're best judges, to be sure," answered farmer porter, in an awed and helpless voice. "aweel--i'm no that disinclined to believe in the occult sciences. i dinna haud a'thegither wi' salverte. there was mair in them than magia naturalis, i'm thinking. mesmerism and magic-lanterns, benj and opium, winna explain all facts, alton, laddie. dootless they were an unco' barbaric an' empiric method o' expressing the gran' truth o' man's mastery ower matter. but the interpenetration o' the spiritual an' physical worlds is a gran' truth too; an' aiblins the deity might ha' allowed witchcraft, just to teach that to puir barbarous folk--signs and wonders, laddie, to mak them believe in somewhat mair than the beasts that perish: an' so ghaists an warlocks might be a necessary element o' the divine education in dark and carnal times. but i've no read o' a case in which necromancy, nor geomancy, nor coskinomancy, nor ony other mancy, was applied to sic a purpose as this. unco gude they were, may be, for the discovery o' stolen spunes--but no that o' stolen tailors." farmer porter had listened to this harangue, with mouth and eyes gradually expanding between awe and the desire to comprehend; but at the last sentence his countenance fell. "so i'm thinking, mister porter, that the best witch in siccan a case is ane that ye may find at the police-office." "anan?" "thae detective police are gran' necromancers an' canny in their way: an' i just took the liberty, a week agone, to ha' a crack wi' ane o' 'em. an noo, gin ye're inclined, we'll leave the whusky awhile, an' gang up to that cave o' trophawnius, ca'd by the vulgar bow-street, an' speir for tidings o' the twa lost sheep." so to bow-street we went, and found our man, to whom the farmer bowed with obsequiousness most unlike his usual burly independence. he evidently half suspected him to have dealings with the world of spirits: but whether he had such or not, they had been utterly unsuccessful; and we walked back again, with the farmer between us, half-blubbering-- "i tell ye, there's nothing like ganging to a wise 'ooman. bless ye, i mind one up to guy hall, when i was a barn, that two irish reapers coom down, and murthered her for the money--and if you lost aught she'd vind it, so sure as the church--and a mighty hand to cure burns; and they two villains coom back, after harvest, seventy mile to do it--and when my vather's cows was shrew-struck, she made un be draed under a brimble as growed together at the both ends, she a praying like mad all the time; and they never got nothing but fourteen shilling and a crooked sixpence; for why, the devil carried off all the rest of her money; and i seen um both a-hanging in chains by wisbeach river, with my own eyes. so when they irish reapers comes into the vens, our chaps always says, 'yow goo to guy hall, there's yor brithren a-waitin' for yow,' and that do make um joost mad loike, it do. i tell ye there's nowt like a wise 'ooman, for vinding out the likes o' this." at this hopeful stage of the argument i left them to go to the magazine office. as i passed through covent garden, a pretty young woman stopped me under a gas-lamp. i was pushing on when i saw it was jemmy downes's irish wife, and saw, too, that she did not recognise me. a sudden instinct made me stop and hear what she had to say. "shure, thin, and ye're a tailor, my young man?" "yes," i said, nettled a little that my late loathed profession still betrayed itself in my gait. "from the counthry?" i nodded, though i dared not speak a white lie to that effect. i fancied that, somehow, through her i might hear of poor kelly and his friend porter. "ye'll be wanting work, thin?" "i have no work." "och, thin, it's i can show ye the flower o' work, i can. bedad, there's a shop i know of where ye'll earn--bedad, if ye're the ninth part of a man, let alone a handy young fellow like the looks of you--och, ye'll earn thirty shillings the week, to the very least--an' beautiful lodgings; och, thin, just come and see 'em--as chape as mother's milk! gome along, thin--och, it's the beauty ye are--just the nate figure for a tailor." the fancy still possessed me; and i went with her through one dingy back street after another. she seemed to be purposely taking an indirect road, to mislead me as to my whereabouts; but after a half-hour's walking, i knew, as well as she, that we were in one of the most miserable slop-working nests of the east-end. she stopped at a house door, and hurried me in, up to the first floor, and into a dirty, slatternly parlour, smelling infamously of gin; where the first object i beheld was jemmy downes, sitting before the fire, three-parts drunk, with a couple of dirty, squalling children on the hearthrug, whom he was kicking and cuffing alternately. "och, thin, ye villain, beating the poor darlints whinever i lave ye a minute." and pouring out a volley of irish curses, she caught up the urchins, one under each arm, and kissed and hugged them till they were nearly choked. "och, ye plague o' my life--as drunk as a baste; an' i brought home this darlint of a young gentleman to help ye in the business." downes got up, and steadying himself by the table, leered at me with lacklustre eyes, and attempted a little ceremonious politeness. how this was to end i did not see; but i was determined to carry it through, on the chance of success, infinitely small as that might be. "an' i've told him thirty shillings a week's the least he'll earn; and charge for board and lodgings only seven shillings." "thirty!--she lies; she's always a lying; don't you mind her. five-and-forty is the werry lowest figure. ask my respectable and most piousest partner, shemei solomons. why, blow me--it's locke!" "yes, it is locke; and surely you're my old friend jemmy downes? shake hands. what an unexpected pleasure to meet you again!" "werry unexpected pleasure. tip us your daddle! delighted--delighted, as i was a saying, to be of the least use to yer. take a caulker? summat heavy, then? no? 'tak' a drap o' kindness yet, for auld langsyne?" "you forget i was always a teetotaller." "ay," with a look of unfeigned pity. "an' you're a going to lend us a hand? oh, ah! perhaps you'd like to begin? here's a most beautiful uniform, now, for a markis in her majesty's guards; we don't mention names--tarn't businesslike. p'r'aps you'd like best to work here to-night, for company--'for auld langsyne, my boys;' and i'll introduce yer to the gents up-stairs to-morrow." "no," i said; "i'll go up at once, if you've no objection." "och, thin, but the sheets isn't aired--no--faix; and i'm thinking the gentleman as is a going isn't gone yet." but i insisted on going up at once; and, grumbling, she followed me. i stopped on the landing of the second floor, and asked which way; and seeing her in no hurry to answer, opened a door, inside which i heard the hum of many voices, saying in as sprightly a tone as i could muster, that i supposed that was the workroom. as i had expected, a fetid, choking den, with just room enough in it for the seven or eight sallow, starved beings, who, coatless, shoeless, and ragged, sat stitching, each on his truckle-bed. i glanced round; the man whom i sought was not there. my heart fell; why it had ever risen to such a pitch of hope i cannot tell; and half-cursing myself for a fool, in thus wildly thrusting my head into a squabble, i turned back and shut the door, saying-- "a very pleasant room, ma'am, but a leetle too crowded." before she could answer, the opposite door opened; and a face appeared--unwashed, unshaven, shrunken to a skeleton. i did not recognise it at first. "blessed vargen! but that wasn't your voice, locke?" "and who are you?" "tear and ages! and he don't know mike kelly!" my first impulse was to catch him up in my arms, and run down-stairs with him. i controlled myself, however, not knowing how far he might be in his tyrant's power. but his voluble irish heart burst out at once-- "oh! blessed saints, take me out o' this! take me out for the love of jesus! take me out o' this hell, or i'll go mad intirely! och! will nobody have pity on poor sowls in purgatory--here in prison like negur slaves? we're starved to the bone, we are, and kilt intirely with cowld." and as he clutched my arm, with his long, skinny, trembling fingers, i saw that his hands and feet were all chapped and bleeding. neither shoe nor stocking did he possess; his only garments were a ragged shirt and trousers; and--and, and in horrible mockery of his own misery, a grand new flowered satin vest, which to-morrow was to figure in some gorgeous shop-window! "och! mother of heaven!" he went on, wildly, "when will i get out to the fresh air? for five months i haven't seen the blessed light of sun, nor spoken to the praste, nor ate a bit o' mate, barring bread-and-butter. shure, it's all the blessed sabbaths and saints' days i've been a working like a haythen jew, an niver seen the insides o' the chapel to confess my sins, and me poor sowl's lost intirely--and they've pawned the relaver [footnote: a coat, we understand, which is kept by the coatless wretches in these sweaters' dungeons, to be used by each of them in turn when they want to go out.--editor.] this fifteen weeks, and not a boy of us iver sot foot in the street since." "vot's that row?" roared at this juncture downes's voice from below. "och, thin," shrieked the woman, "here's that thief o' the warld, micky kelly, slandhering o' us afore the blessed heaven, and he owing £ . s. / d. for his board an' lodging, let alone pawn-tickets, and goin' to rin away, the black-hearted ongrateful sarpent!" and she began yelling indiscriminately, "thieves!" "murder!" "blasphemy!" and such other ejaculations, which (the english ones at least) had not the slightest reference to the matter in hand. "i'll come to him!" said downes, with an oath, and rushed stumbling up the stairs, while the poor wretch sneaked in again, and slammed the door to. downes battered at it, but was met with a volley of curses from the men inside; while, profiting by the babel, i blew out the light, ran down-stairs, and got safe into the street. in two hours afterwards, mackaye, porter, crossthwaite, and i were at the door, accompanied by a policeman, and a search-warrant. porter had insisted on accompanying us. he had made up his mind that his son was at downes's; and all representations of the smallness of his chance were fruitless. he worked himself up into a state of complete frenzy, and flourished a huge stick in a way which shocked the policeman's orderly and legal notions. "that may do very well down in your country, sir; but you arn't a goin' to use that there weapon here, you know, not by no hact o' parliament as i knows on." "ow, it's joost a way i ha' wi' me." and the stick was quiet for fifty yards or so, and then recommenced smashing imaginary skulls. "you'll do somebody a mischief, sir, with that. you'd much better a lend it me." porter tucked it under his arm for fifty yards more; and so on, till we reached downes's house. the policeman knocked: and the door was opened, cautiously, by an old jew, of a most un-"caucasian" cast of features, however "high-nosed," as mr. disraeli has it. the policeman asked to see michael kelly. "michaelsh? i do't know such namesh--" but before the parley could go farther, the farmer burst past policeman and jew, and rushed into the passage, roaring, in a voice which made the very windows rattle, "billy poorter! billy poorter! whor be yow? whor be yow?" we all followed him up-stairs, in time to see him charging valiantly, with his stick for a bayonet, the small person of a jew-boy, who stood at the head of the stairs in a scientific attitude. the young rascal planted a dozen blows in the huge carcase--he might as well have thumped the rhinoceros in the regent's park; the old man ran right over him, without stopping, and dashed up the stairs; at the head of which--oh, joy!--appeared a long, shrunken, red-haired figure, the tears on its dirty cheeks glittering in the candle-glare. in an instant father and son were in each other's arms. "oh, my barn! my barn! my barn! my barn!" and then the old hercules held him off at arm's length, and looked at him with a wistful face, and hugged him again with "my barn! my barn!" he had nothing else to say. was it not enough? and poor kelly danced frantically around them, hurrahing; his own sorrows forgotten in his friend's deliverance. the jew-boy shook himself, turned, and darted down stairs past us; the policeman quietly put out his foot, tripped him headlong, and jumping down after him, extracted from his grasp a heavy pocket-book. "ah! my dear mothersh's dying gift! oh, dear! oh dear! give it back to a poor orphansh!" "didn't i see you take it out o' the old un's pocket, you young villain?" answered the maintainer of order, as he shoved the book into his bosom, and stood with one foot on his writhing victim, a complete nineteenth-century st. michael. "let me hold him," i said, "while you go up-stairs." "_you_ hold a jew-boy!--you hold a mad cat!" answered the policeman, contemptuously--and with justice--for at that moment downes appeared on the first-floor landing, cursing and blaspheming. "he's my 'prentice! he's my servant! i've got a bond, with his own hand to it, to serve me for three years. i'll have the law of you--i will!" then the meaning of the big stick came out. the old man leapt down the stairs, and seized downes. "you're the tyrant as has locked my barn up here!" and a thrashing commenced, which it made my bones ache only to look at. downes had no chance; the old man felled him on his face in a couple of blows, and taking both hands to his stick, hewed away at him as if he had been a log. "i waint hit a's head! i waint hit a's head!"--whack, whack. "let me be!"--whack, whack-puff. "it does me gude, it does me gude!"--puff, puff, puff--whack. "i've been a bottling of it up for three years, come whitsuntide!"--whack, whack, whack--while mackaye and crossthwaite stood coolly looking on, and the wife shut herself up in the side-room, and screamed "murder!" the unhappy policeman stood at his wits' end, between the prisoner below and the breach of the peace above, bellowing in vain, in the queen's name, to us, and to the grinning tailors on the landing. at last, as downes's life seemed in danger, he wavered; the jew-boy seized the moment, jumped up, upsetting the constable, dashed like an eel between crossthwaite and mackaye, gave me a back-handed blow in passing, which i felt for a week after, and vanished through the street-door, which he locked after him. "very well!" said the functionary, rising solemnly, and pulling out a note-book--"scar under left eye, nose a little twisted to the right, bad chilblains on the hands. you'll keep till next time, young man. now, you fat gentleman up there, have you done a qualifying of yourself for newgate?" the old man had ran up-stairs again, and was hugging his son; but when the policeman lifted downes, he rushed back to his victim, and begged, like a great school-boy, for leave to "bet him joost won bit moor." "let me bet un! i'll pay un!--i'll pay all as my son owes un! marcy me! where's my pooss?" and so on raged the babel, till we got the two poor fellows safe out of the house. we had to break open the door to do it, thanks to that imp of israel. "for god's sake, take us too!" almost screamed five or six other voices. "they're all in debt--every onesh; they sha'n't go till they paysh, if there's law in england," whined the old jew, who had re-appeared. "i'll pay for 'em--i'll pay every farden, if so be as they treated my boy well. here, you, mr. locke, there's the ten pounds as i promised you. why, whor is my pooss?" the policeman solemnly handed it to him. he took it, turned it over, looked at the policeman half frightened, and pointed with his fat thumb at mackaye. "well, he said as you was a conjuror--and sure he was right." he paid me the money. i had no mind to keep it in such company; so i got the poor fellows' pawn-tickets, and crossthwaite and i took the things out for them. when we returned, we found them in a group in the passage, holding the door open, in their fear lest we should be locked up, or entrapped in some way. their spirits seemed utterly broken. some three or four went off to lodge where they could; the majority went upstairs again to work. that, even that dungeon, was their only home--their only hope--as it is of thousands of "free" englishmen at this moment. we returned, and found the old man with his new-found prodigal sitting on his knee, as if he had been a baby. sandy told me afterwards, that he had scarcely kept him from carrying the young man all the way home; he was convinced that the poor fellow was dying of starvation. i think really he was not far wrong. in the corner sat kelly, crouched together like a baboon, blubbering, hurrahing, invoking the saints, cursing the sweaters, and blessing the present company. we were afraid, for several days, that his wits were seriously affected. and, in his old arm-chair, pipe in mouth, sat good sandy mackaye, wiping his eyes with the many-coloured sleeve, and moralizing to himself, _sotto voce_: "the auld romans made slaves o' their debitors; sae did the anglo-saxons, for a' good major cartwright has writ to the contrary. but i didna ken the same christian practice was part o' the breetish constitution. aweel, aweel--atween riot acts, government by commissions, and ither little extravagants and codicils o' mammon's making, it's no that easy to ken, the day, what is the breetish constitution, and what isn't. tak a drappie, billy porter, lad?" "never again so long as i live. i've learnt a lesson and a half about that, these last few months." "aweel, moderation's best, but abstinence better than naething. nae man shall deprive me o' my leeberty, but i'll tempt nae man to gie up his." and he actually put the whisky-bottle by into the cupboard. the old man and his son went home next day, promising me, if i would but come to see them, "twa hundert acres o' the best partridge-shooting, and wild dooks as plenty as sparrows; and to live in clover till i bust, if i liked." and so, as bunyan has it, they went on their way, and i saw them no more. chapter xxii. an emersonian sermon. certainly, if john crossthwaite held the victim-of-circumstance doctrine in theory, he did not allow mike kelly to plead it in practice, as an extenuation of his misdeeds. very different from his owenite "it's-nobody's-fault" harangues in the debating society, or his admiration for the teacher of whom my readers shall have a glimpse shortly, was his lecture that evening to the poor irishmen on "it's all your own fault." unhappy kelly! he sat there like a beaten cur, looking first at one of us, and then at the other, for mercy, and finding none. as soon as crossthwaite's tongue was tired, mackaye's began, on the sins of drunkenness, hastiness, improvidence, over-trustfulness, &c., &c., and, above all, on the cardinal offence of not having signed the protest years before, and spurned the dishonourable trade, as we had done. even his most potent excuse that "a boy must live somehow," crossthwaite treated as contemptuously as if he had been a very leonidas, while mackaye chimed in with-- "an' ye a papist! ye talk o' praying to saints an' martyrs, that died in torments because they wad na do what they should na do? what ha' ye to do wi' martyrs?--a meeserable wretch that sells his soul for a mess o' pottage--four slices per diem o' thin bread-and-butter? et propter veetam veevendi perdere causas! dinna tell me o' your hardships--ye've had your deserts--your rights were just equivalent to your mights, an' so ye got them." "faix, thin, misther mackaye, darlint, an' whin did i desarve to pawn me own goose an' board, an' sit looking at the spidhers for the want o' them?" "pawn his ain goose! pawn himsel! pawn his needle--gin it had been worth the pawning, they'd ha' ta'en it. an' yet there's a command in deuteronomy, ye shall na tak the millstone in pledge, for it's a man's life; nor yet keep his raiment ower night, but gie it the puir body back, that he may sleep in his ain claes, an' bless ye. o--but pawnbrokers dinna care for blessings--na marketable value in them, whatsoever." "and the shopkeeper," said i, "in 'the arabian nights,' refuses to take the fisherman's net in pledge, because he gets his living thereby." "ech! but, laddie, they were puir legal jews, under carnal ordinances, an' daur na even tak an honest five per cent interest for their money. an' the baker o' bagdad, why he was a benighted heathen, ye ken, an' deceivit by that fause prophet, mahomet, to his eternal damnation, or he wad never ha' gone aboot to fancy a fisherman was his brither." "faix, an' ain't we all brothers?" asked kelly. "ay, and no," said sandy, with an expression which would have been a smile, but for its depths of bitter earnestness; "brethren in christ, my laddie." "an' ain't that all over the same?" "ask the preachers. gin they meant brothers, they'd say brothers, be sure; but because they don't mean brothers at a', they say brethren--ye'll mind, brethren--to soun' antiquate, an' professional, an' perfunctory-like, for fear it should be ower real, an' practical, an' startling, an' a' that; and then jist limit it down wi' a' in christ,' for fear o' owre wide applications, and a' that. but "for a' that, and a' that. it's comin' yet, for a' that, when man an' man, the warld owre, shall brothers be, for a' that-- "an' na brithren any mair at a'!" "an' didn't the blessed jesus die for all?" "what? for heretics, micky?" "bedad, thin, an' i forgot that intirely!" "of course you did! it's strange, laddie," said he, turning to me, "that that name suld be everywhere, fra the thunderers o' exeter ha' to this puir, feckless paddy, the watchword o' exclusiveness. i'm thinking ye'll no find the workmen believe in't, till somebody can fin' the plan o' making it the sign o' universal comprehension. gin i had na seen in my youth that a brither in christ meant less a thousand-fold than a brither out o' him, i might ha' believit the noo--we'll no say what. i've an owre great organ o' marvellousness, an' o' veneration too, i'm afeard." "ah!" said crossthwaite, "you should come and hear mr. windrush to-night, about the all-embracing benevolence of the deity, and the abomination of limiting it by all those narrow creeds and dogmas." "an' wha's meester windrush, then?" "oh, he's an american; he was a calvinist preacher originally, i believe; but, as he told us last sunday evening, he soon cast away the worn-out vestures of an obsolete faith, which were fast becoming only crippling fetters." "an' ran oot sarkless on the public, eh? i'm afeard there's mony a man else that throws awa' the gude auld plaid o' scots puritanism, an' is unco fain to cover his nakedness wi' ony cast popinjay's feathers he can forgather wi'. aweel, aweel--a puir priestless age it is, the noo. we'll e'en gang hear him the nicht, alton, laddie; ye ha' na darkened the kirk door this mony a day--nor i neither, mair by token." it was too true. i had utterly given up the whole problem of religion as insoluble. i believed in poetry, science, and democracy--and they were enough for me then; enough, at least, to leave a mighty hunger in my heart, i knew not for what. and as for mackaye, though brought up, as he told me, a rigid scotch presbyterian, he had gradually ceased to attend the church of his fathers. "it was no the kirk o' his fathers--the auld god--trusting kirk that clavers dragoonit down by burns and muirsides. it was a' gane dead an' dry; a piece of auld-bailey barristration anent soul-saving dodges. what did he want wi' proofs o' the being o' god, an' o' the doctrine o' original sin? he could see eneugh o' them ayont the shop-door, ony tide. they made puir rabbie burns an anything-arian, wi' their blethers, an' he was near gaun the same gate." and, besides, he absolutely refused to enter any place of worship where there were pews. "he wadna follow after a multitude to do evil; he wad na gang before his maker wi' a lee in his right hand. nae wonder folks were so afraid o' the names o' equality an' britherhood, when they'd kicked them out e'en o' the kirk o' god. pious folks may ca' me a sinfu' auld atheist. they winna gang to a harmless stage play--an' richt they--for fear o' countenancing the sin that's dune there, an' i winna gang to the kirk, for fear o' countenancing the sin that's dune there, by putting down my hurdies on that stool o' antichrist, a haspit pew!" i was, therefore, altogether surprised at the promptitude with which he agreed to go and hear crossthwaite's new-found prophet. his reasons for so doing may be, i think, gathered from the conversation towards the end of this chapter. well, we went; and i, for my part, was charmed with mr. windrush's eloquence. his style, which was altogether emersonian, quite astonished me by its alternate bursts of what i considered brilliant declamation, and of forcible epigrammatic antithesis. i do not deny that i was a little startled by some of his doctrines, and suspected that he had not seen much, either of st. giles's cellars or tailors' workshops either, when he talked of sin as "only a lower form of good. nothing," he informed us, "was produced in nature without pain and disturbance; and what we had been taught to call sin was, in fact, nothing but the birth-throes attendant on the progress of the species.--as for the devil, novalis, indeed, had gone so far as to suspect him to be a necessary illusion. novalis was a mystic, and tainted by the old creeds. the illusion was not necessary--it was disappearing before the fast-approaching meridian light of philosophic religion. like the myths of christianity, it had grown up in an age of superstition, when men, blind to the wondrous order of the universe, believed that supernatural beings, like the homeric gods, actually interfered in the affairs of mortals. science had revealed the irrevocability of the laws of nature--was man alone to be exempt from them? no. the time would come when it would be as obsolete an absurdity to talk of the temptation of a fiend, as it was now to talk of the wehrwolf, or the angel of the thunder-cloud. the metaphor might remain, doubtless, as a metaphor, in the domain of poetry, whose office was to realize, in objective symbols, the subjective ideas of the human intellect; but philosophy, and the pure sentiment of religion, which found all things, even god himself, in the recesses of its own enthusiastic heart, must abjure such a notion." * * * * * "what!" he asked again, "shall all nature be a harmonious whole, reflecting, in every drop of dew which gems the footsteps of the morning, the infinite love and wisdom of its maker, and man alone be excluded from his part in that concordant choir? yet such is the doctrine of the advocates of free-will, and of sin--its phantom-bantling. man disobey his maker! disarrange and break the golden wheels and springs of the infinite machine! the thought were blasphemy!--impossibility! all things fulfil their destiny; and so does man, in a higher or lower sphere of being. shall i punish the robber? shall i curse the profligate? as soon destroy the toad, because my partial taste may judge him ugly; or doom to hell, for his carnivorous appetite, the muscanonge of my native lakes! toad is not horrible to toad, or thief to thief. philanthropists or statesmen may environ him with more genial circumstances, and so enable his propensities to work more directly for the good of society; but to punish him--to punish nature for daring to be nature!--never! i may thank the upper destinies that they have not made me as other men are--that they have endowed me with nobler instincts, a more delicate conformation than the thief; but i have my part to play, and he has his. why should we wish to be other than the all-wise has made us?" "fine doctrine that," grumbled sandy; "gin ye've first made up your mind wi' the pharisee, that ye _are_ no like ither men." "shall i pray, then? for what? i will coax none, natter none--not even the supreme! i will not be absurd enough to wish to change that order, by which sun and stars, saints and sinners, alike fulfil their destinies. there is one comfort, my friends; coax and flatter as we will, he will not hear us." "pleasant, for puir deevils like us!" quoth mackaye. "what then remains? thanks, thanks--not of words, but of actions. worship is a life, not a ceremony. he who would honour the supreme, let him cheerfully succumb to the destiny which the supreme has allotted, and, like the shell or the flower--('or the pickpocket,' added mackaye, almost audibly)--become the happy puppet of the universal impulse. he who would honour christ, let him become a christ himself! theodore of mopsuestia--born, alas! before his time--a prophet for whom as yet no audience stood ready in the amphitheatre of souls--'christ!' he was wont to say; 'i can become christ myself, if i will.' become thou christ, my brother! he has an idea--the idea of utter submission--abnegation of his own fancied will before the supreme necessities. fulfil that idea, and thou art he! deny thyself, and then only wilt thou be a reality; for thou hast no self. if thou hadst a self, thou wouldst but lie in denying it--and would the being thank thee for denying what he had given thee? but thou hast none! god is circumstance, and thou his creature! be content! fear not, strive not, change not, repent not! thou art nothing! be nothing, and thou becomest a part of all things!" and so mr. windrush ended his discourse, which crossthwaite had been all the while busily taking down in short-hand, for the edification of the readers of a certain periodical, and also for those of this my life. i plead guilty to having been entirely carried away by what i heard. there was so much which was true, so much more which seemed true, so much which it would have been convenient to believe true, and all put so eloquently and originally, as i then considered, that, in short, i was in raptures, and so was poor dear crossthwaite; and as we walked home, we dinned mr. windrush's praises one into each of mackaye's ears. the old man, however, paced on silent and meditative. at last-- "a hunder sects or so in the land o' gret britain; an' a hunder or so single preachers, each man a sect of his ain! an' this the last fashion! last, indeed! the moon of calvinism's far gone in the fourth quarter, when it's come to the like o' that. truly, the soul-saving business is a'thegither fa'n to a low ebb, as master tummas says somewhere!" "well, but," asked crossthwaite, "was not that man, at least, splendid?" "an' hoo much o' thae gran' objectives an' subjectives did ye comprehen', then, johnnie, my man?" "quite enough for me," answered john, in a somewhat nettled tone. "an' sae did i." "but you ought to hear him often. you can't judge of his system from one sermon, in this way." "seestem! and what's that like?" "why, he has a plan for uniting all sects and parties, on the one broad fundamental ground of the unity of god as revealed by science--" "verra like uniting o' men by just pu'ing aff their claes, and telling 'em, 'there, ye're a' brithers noo, on the one broad fundamental principle o' want o' breeks.'" "of course," went on crossthwaite, without taking notice of this interruption, "he allows full liberty of conscience. all he wishes for is the emancipation of intellect. he will allow every one, he says, to realize that idea to himself, by the representations which suit him best." "an' so he has no objection to a wee playing at papistry, gin a man finds it good to tickle up his soul?" "ay, he did speak of that--what did he call it? oh! 'one of the ways in which the christian idea naturally embodied itself in imaginative minds!' but the higher intellects, of course, would want fewer helps of that kind. 'they would see'--ay, that was it--'the pure white light of truth, without requiring those coloured refracting media.'" "that wad depend muckle on whether the light o' truth chose or not, i'm thinking. but, johnnie, lad--guide us and save us!--whaur got ye a' these gran' outlandish words the nicht?" "haven't i been taking down every one of these lectures for the press?" "the press gang to the father o't--and you too, for lending your han' in the matter--for a mair accursed aristocrat i never heerd, sin' i first ate haggis. oh, ye gowk--ye gowk! dinna ye see what be the upshot o' siccan doctrin'? that every puir fellow as has no gret brains in his head will be left to his superstition, an' his ignorance to fulfil the lusts o' his flesh; while the few that are geniuses, or fancy themselves sae, are to ha' the monopoly o' this private still o' philosophy--these carbonari, illuminati, vehmgericht, samothracian mysteries o' bottled moonshine. an' when that comes to pass, i'll just gang back to my schule and my catechism, and begin again wi' 'who was born o' the virgin mary, suffered oonder pontius pilate!' hech! lads, there's no subjectives and objectives there, na beggarly, windy abstractions, but joost a plain fact, that god cam' down to look for puir bodies, instead o' leaving puir bodies to gang looking for him. an' here's a pretty place to be left looking for him in--between gin shops and gutters! a pretty gospel for the publicans an' harlots, to tell 'em that if their bairns are canny eneugh, they may possibly some day be allowed to believe that there is one god, and not twa! and then, by way of practical application--'hech! my dear, starving, simple brothers, ye manna be sae owre conscientious, and gang fashing yourselves anent being brutes an' deevils, for the gude god's made ye sae, and he's verra weel content to see you sae, gin ye be content or no.'" "then, do you believe in the old doctrines of christianity?" i asked. "dinna speir what i believe in. i canna tell ye. i've been seventy years trying to believe in god, and to meet anither man that believed in him. so i'm just like the quaker o' the town o' redcross, that met by himself every first-day in his ain hoose." "well, but," i asked again, "is not complete freedom of thought a glorious aim--to emancipate man's noblest part--the intellect--from the trammels of custom and ignorance?" "intellect--intellect!" rejoined he, according to his fashion, catching one up at a word, and playing on that in order to answer, not what one said, but what one's words led to. "i'm sick o' all the talk anent intellect i hear noo. an' what's the use o' intellect? 'aristocracy o' intellect,' they cry. curse a' aristocracies--intellectual anes, as well as anes o' birth, or rank, or money! what! will i ca' a man my superior, because he's cleverer than mysel?--will i boo down to a bit o' brains, ony mair than to a stock or a stane? let a man prove himsel' better than me, my laddie--honester, humbler, kinder, wi' mair sense o' the duty o' man, an' the weakness o' man--and that man i'll acknowledge--that man's my king, my leader, though he war as stupid as eppe dalgleish, that could na count five on her fingers, and yet keepit her drucken father by her ain hands' labour for twenty-three yeers." we could not agree to all this, but we made a rule of never contradicting the old sage in one of his excited moods, for fear of bringing on a week's silent fit--a state which generally ended in his smoking himself into a bilious melancholy; but i made up my mind to be henceforth a frequent auditor of mr. windrush's oratory. "an' sae the deevil's dead!" said sandy, half to himself, as he sat crooning and smoking that night over the fire. "gone at last, puir fallow!--an' he sae little appreciated, too! every gowk laying his ain sins on nickie's back, puir nickie!--verra like that much misunderstood politeecian, mr. john cade, as charles buller ca'd him in the hoose o' commons--an' he to be dead at last! the warld'll seem quite unco without his auld-farrant phizog on the streets. aweel, aweel--aiblins he's but shammin'.-- "when pleasant spring came on apace, and showers began to fa', john barleycorn got up again, and sore surprised them a'. "at ony rate, i'd no bury him till he began smell a wee strong like. it's a grewsome thing, is premature interment, alton, laddie!" chapter xxiii. the freedom of the press. but all this while, my slavery to mr. o'flynn's party-spirit and coarseness was becoming daily more and more intolerable--an explosion was inevitable; and an explosion came. mr. o'flynn found out that i had been staying at cambridge, and at a cathedral city too; and it was quite a godsend to him to find any one who knew a word about the institutions at which he had been railing weekly for years. so nothing would serve him but my writing a set of articles on the universities, as a prelude to one on the cathedral establishments. in vain i pleaded the shortness of my stay there, and the smallness of my information. "och, were not abuses notorious? and couldn't i get them up out of any radical paper--and just put in a little of my own observations, and a dashing personal cut or two, to spice the thing up, and give it an original look? and if i did not choose to write that--why," with an enormous oath, "i should write nothing." so--for i was growing weaker and weaker, and indeed my hack-writing was breaking down my moral sense, as it does that of most men--i complied; and burning with vexation, feeling myself almost guilty of a breach of trust toward those from whom i had received nothing but kindness, i scribbled off my first number and sent it to the editor--to see it appear next week, three-parts re-written, and every fact of my own furnishing twisted and misapplied, till the whole thing was as vulgar and commonplace a piece of rant as ever disgraced the people's cause. and all this, in spite of a solemn promise, confirmed by a volley of oaths, that i "should say what i liked, and speak my whole mind, as one who had seen things with his own eyes had a right to do." furious, i set off to the editor; and not only my pride, but what literary conscience i had left, was stirred to the bottom by seeing myself made, whether i would or not, a blackguard and a slanderer. as it was ordained, mr. o'flynn was gone out for an hour or two; and, unable to settle down to any work till i had fought my battle with him fairly out, i wandered onward, towards the west end, staring into print-shop windows, and meditating on many things. as it was ordained, also, i turned up regent street, and into langham place; when, at the door of all-souls church, behold a crowd and a long string of carriages arriving, and all the pomp and glory of a grand wedding. i joined the crowd from mere idleness, and somehow found myself in the first rank, just as the bride was stepping out of the carriage--it was miss staunton; and the old gentleman who handed her out was no other than the dean. they were, of course, far too deeply engaged to recognise insignificant little me, so that i could stare as thoroughly to my heart's content as any of the butcher-boys and nursery-maids around me. she was closely veiled--but not too closely to prevent my seeing her magnificent lip and nostril curling with pride, resolve, rich tender passion. her glorious black-brown hair--the true "purple locks" which homer so often talks of--rolled down beneath her veil in great heavy ringlets; and with her tall and rounded figure, and step as firm and queenly as if she were going to a throne, she seemed to me the very ideal of those magnificent eastern zubeydehs and nourmahals, whom i used to dream of after reading the "arabian nights." as they entered the doorway, almost touching me, she looked round, as if for some one. the dean whispered something in his gentle, stately way, and she answered by one of those looks so intense, and yet so bright, so full of unutterable depths of meaning and emotion, that, in spite of all my antipathy, i felt an admiration akin to awe thrill through me, and gazed after her so intently, that lillian--lillian herself--was at my side, and almost passed me before i was aware of it. yes, there she was, the foremost among a bevy of fair girls, "herself the fairest far," all april smiles and tears, golden curls, snowy rosebuds, and hovering clouds of lace--a fairy queen;--but yet--but yet--how shallow that hazel, eye, how empty of meaning those delicate features, compared with the strength and intellectual richness of the face which had preceded her! it was too true--i had never remarked it before; but now it flashed across me like lightning--and like lightning vanished; for lillian's eye caught mine, and there was the faintest spark of a smile of recognition, and pleased surprise, and a nod. i blushed scarlet with delight; some servant-girl or other, who stood next to me, had seen it too--quick-eyed that women are--and was looking curiously at me. i turned, i knew not why, in my delicious shame, and plunged through the crowd to hide i knew not what. i walked on--poor fool--in an ecstasy; the whole world was transfigured in my eyes, and virtue and wisdom beamed from every face i passed. the omnibus-horses were racers, and the drivers--were they not my brothers of the people? the very policemen looked sprightly and philanthropic. i shook hands earnestly with the crossing-sweeper of the regent circus, gave him my last twopence, and rushed on, like a young david, to exterminate that philistine o'flynn. ah well! i was a great fool, as others too have been; but yet, that little chance-meeting did really raise me. it made me sensible that i was made for better things than low abuse of the higher classes. it gave me courage to speak out, and act without fear, of consequences, once at least in that confused facing-both-ways period of my life. o woman! woman! only true missionary of civilization and brotherhood, and gentle, forgiving charity; is it in thy power, and perhaps in thine only, to bind up the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives? one real lady, who should dare to stoop, what might she not do with us--with our sisters? if-- there are hundreds, answers the reader, who do stoop. elizabeth fry was a lady, well-born, rich, educated, and she has many scholars. true, my dear readers, true--and may god bless her and her scholars. do you think the working men forget them? but look at st. giles's, or spitalfields, or shadwell, and say, is not the harvest plentiful, and the labourers, alas! few? no one asserts that nothing is done; the question is, is enough done? does the supply of mercy meet the demand of misery? walk into the next court and see! * * * * * i found mr. o'flynn in his sanctum, busy with paste and scissors, in the act of putting in a string of advertisements--indecent french novels, atheistic tracts, quack medicines, and slopsellers' puffs; and commenced with as much dignity as i could muster: "what on earth do you mean, sir, by re-writing my article?" "what--(in the other place)--do you mean by giving me the trouble of re-writing it? me head's splitting now with sitting up, cutting out, and putting in. poker o' moses! but ye'd given it an intirely aristocratic tendency. what did ye mane" (and three or four oaths rattled out) "by talking about the pious intentions of the original founders, and the democratic tendencies of monastic establishments?" "i wrote it because i thought it." "is that any reason ye should write it? and there was another bit, too--it made my hair stand on end when i saw it, to think how near i was sending the copy to press without looking at it--something about a french socialist, and church property." "oh! you mean, i suppose, the story of the french socialist, who told me that church property was just the only property in england which he would spare, because it was the only one which had definite duties attached to it, that the real devourers of the people were not the bishops, who, however rich, were at least bound to work in return for their riches, but the landlords and millionaires, who refused to confess the duties of property, while they raved about its rights." "bedad, that's it; and pretty doctrine, too!" "but it's true: it's an entirely new and a very striking notion, and i consider it my duty to mention it." "thrue! what the devil does that matter? there's a time to speak the truth, and a time not, isn't there? it'll make a grand hit, now, in a leader upon the irish church question, to back the prastes against the landlords. but if i'd let that in as it stood, bedad, i'd have lost three parts of my subscribers the next week. every soul of the independents, let alone the chartists, would have bid me good morning. now do, like a good boy, give us something more the right thing next time. draw it strong.--a good drunken supper-party and a police-row; if ye haven't seen one, get it up out of pater priggins--or laver might do, if the other wasn't convanient. that's dublin, to be sure, but one university's just like another. and give us a seduction or two, and a brace of dons carried home drunk from barnwell by the procthors." "really i never saw anything of the kind; and as for profligacy amongst the dons, i don't believe it exists. i'll call them idle, and bigoted, and careless of the morals of the young men, because i know that they are so; but as for anything more, i believe them to be as sober, respectable a set of pharisees as the world ever saw." mr. o'flynn was waxing warm, and the bully-vein began fast to show itself. "i don't care a curse, sir! my subscribers won't stand it, and they sha'n't! i am a man of business, sir, and a man of the world, sir, and faith that's more than you are, and i know what will sell the paper, and by j----s i'll let no upstart spalpeen dictate to me!" "then i'll tell you what, sir," quoth i, waxing warm in my turn, "i don't know which are the greater rogues, you or your subscribers. you a patriot? you are a humbug. look at those advertisements, and deny it if you can. crying out for education, and helping to debauch the public mind with voltaire's 'candide,' and eugène sue--swearing by jesus, and puffing atheism and blasphemy--yelling at a quack government, quack law, quack priesthoods, and then dirtying your fingers with half-crowns for advertising holloway's ointment and parr's life pills--shrieking about slavery of labour to capital, and inserting moses and son's doggerel--ranting about searching investigations and the march of knowledge, and concealing every fact which cannot be made to pander to the passions of your dupes--extolling the freedom of the press, and showing yourself in your own office a tyrant and a censor of the press. you a patriot? you the people's friend? you are doing everything in your power to blacken the people's cause in the eyes of their enemies. you are simply a humbug, a hypocrite, and a scoundrel; and so i bid you good morning." mr. o'flynn had stood, during this harangue, speechless with passion, those loose lips of his wreathing like a pair of earthworms. it was only when i stopped that he regained his breath, and with a volley of incoherent oaths, caught up his chair and hurled it at my head. luckily, i had seen enough of his temper already, to keep my hand on the lock of the door for the last five minutes. i darted out of the room quicker than i ever did out of one before or since. the chair took effect on the luckless door; and as i threw a flying glance behind me, i saw one leg sticking through the middle panel, in a way that augured ill for my skull, had it been in the way of mr. o'flynn's fury. i ran home to mackaye in a state of intense self-glorification, and told him the whole story. he chuckled, he crowed, he hugged me to his bosom. "leeze me o' ye! but i kenned ye were o' the true norse blude after a'! "for a' that, an' a' that, a man's a man for a' that. "oh, but i hae expeckit it this month an' mare! oh, but i prophesied it, johnnie!" "then why, in heaven's name, did you introduce me to such a scoundrel?" "i sent you to schule, lad, i sent you to schule. ye wad na be ruled by me. ye tuk me for a puir doited auld misanthrope; an' i thocht to gie ye the meat ye lusted after, an' fill ye wi' the fruit o' your ain desires. an' noo that ye've gane doon in the fire o' temptation, an' conquered, here's your reward standin' ready. special prawvidences!--wha can doot them? i ha' had mony--miracles i might ca' them, to see how they cam' just when i was gaun daft wi' despair." and then he told me that the editor of a popular journal, of the howitt and eliza cook school, had called on me that morning, and promised me work enough, and pay enough, to meet all present difficulties. i did indeed accept the curious coincidence, if not as a reward for an act of straightforwardness, in which i saw no merit, at least as proof that the upper powers had not altogether forgotten me. i found both the editor and his periodical, as i should have wished them, temperate and sunny--somewhat clap-trap and sentimental, perhaps, and afraid of speaking out, as all parties are, but still willing to allow my fancy free range in light fictions, descriptions of foreign countries, scraps of showy rose-pink morality and such like; which, though they had no more power against the raging mass of crime, misery, and discontent, around, than a peacock's feather against a three-decker, still were all genial, graceful, kindly, humanizing, and soothed my discontented and impatient heart in the work of composition. chapter xxiv. the townsman's sermon to the gownsman. one morning in february, a few days after this explosion, i was on the point of starting to go to the dean's house about that weary list of subscribers, which seemed destined never to be filled up, when my cousin george burst in upon me. he was in the highest good spirits at having just taken a double first-class at cambridge; and after my congratulations, sincere and hearty enough, were over, he offered to accompany me to that reverend gentleman's house. he said in an off-hand way, that he had no particular business there, but he thought it just as well to call on the dean and mention his success, in case the old fellow should not have heard of it. "for you see," he said, "i am a sort of _protégé_, both on my own account and on lord lynedale's--ellerton, he is now--you know he is just married to the dean's niece, miss staunton--and ellerton's a capital fellow--promised me a living as soon as i'm in priest's orders. so my cue is now," he went on as we walked down the strand together, "to get ordained as fast as ever i can." "but," i asked, "have you read much for ordination, or seen much of what a clergyman's work should be?" "oh! as for that--you know it isn't one out of ten who's ever entered a school, or a cottage even, except to light a cigar, before he goes into the church: and as for the examination, that's all humbug; any man may cram it all up in a month--and, thanks to king's college, i knew all i wanted to know before i went to cambridge. and i shall be three-and-twenty by trinity sunday, and then in i go, neck or nothing. only the confounded bore is, that this bishop of london won't give one a title--won't let any man into his diocese, who has not been ordained two years; and so i shall be shoved down into some poking little country-curacy, without a chance of making play before the world, or getting myself known at all. horrid bore! isn't it?" "i think," i said, "considering what london is just now, the bishop's regulation seems to be one of the best specimens of episcopal wisdom that i've heard of for some time." "great bore for me, though, all the same: for i must make a name, i can tell you, if i intend to get on. a person must work like a horse, now-a-days, to succeed at all; and lynedale's a desperately particular fellow, with all sorts of _outré_ notions about people's duties and vocations and heaven knows what." "well," i said, "my dear cousin, and have you no high notions of a clergyman's vocation? because we--i mean the working men--have. it's just their high idea of what a clergyman should be, which makes them so furious at clergymen for being what they are." "it's a queer way of showing their respect to the priesthood," he answered, "to do all they can to exterminate it." "i dare say they are liable, like other men, to confound the thing with its abuses; but if they hadn't some dim notion that the thing might be made a good thing in itself, you may depend upon it they would not rave against those abuses so fiercely." (the reader may see that i had not forgotten my conversation with miss staunton.) "and," thought i to myself, "is it not you, and such as you, who do so incorporate the abuses into the system, that one really cannot tell which is which, and longs to shove the whole thing aside as rotten to the core, and make a trial of something new?" "well, but," i said, again returning to the charge, for the subject was altogether curious and interesting to me, "do you really believe the doctrines of the prayer-book, george?" "believe them!" he answered, in a tone of astonishment, "why not? i was brought up a churchman, whatever my parents were; i was always intended for the ministry. i'd sign the thirty-nine articles now, against any man in the three kingdoms: and as for all the proofs out of scripture and church history, i've known them ever since i was sixteen--i'll get them all up again in a week as fresh as ever." "but," i rejoined, astonished in my turn at my cousin's notion of what belief was, "have you any personal faith?--you know what i mean--i hate using cant words--but inward experience of the truth of all these great ideas, which, true or false, you will have to preach and teach? would you live by them, die for them, as a patriot would for his country, now?" "my dear fellow, i don't know anything about all those methodistical, mystical, calvinistical, inward experiences, and all that. i'm a churchman, remember, and a high churchman, too; and the doctrine of the church is, that children are regenerated in holy baptism; and there's not the least doubt, from the authority both of scripture and the fathers, that that's the--" "for heaven's sake," i said, "no polemical discussions! whether you're right or wrong, that's not what i'm talking about. what i want to know is this:--you are going to teach people about god and jesus christ. do you delight in god? do you love jesus christ? never mind what i do, or think, or believe. what do you do, george?" "well, my dear fellow, if you take things in that way, you know, of course"--and he dropped his voice into that peculiar tone, by which all sects seem to think they show their reverence; while to me, as to most other working men, it never seemed anything but a symbol of the separation and discrepancy between their daily thoughts and their religious ones--"of course, we don't any of us think of these things half enough, and i'm sure i wish i could be more earnest than i am; but i can only hope it will come in time. the church holds that there's a grace given in ordination; and really--really, i do hope and wish to do my duty--indeed, one can't help doing it; one is so pushed on by the immense competition for preferment; an idle parson hasn't a chance now-a-days." "but," i asked again, half-laughing, half-disgusted, "do you know what your duty is?" "bless you, my good fellow, a man can't go wrong there. carry out the church system; that's the thing--all laid down by rule and method. a man has but to work out that--and it's the only one for the lower classes i'm convinced." "strange," i said, "that they have from the first been so little of that opinion, that every attempt to enforce it, for the last three hundred years, has ended either in persecution or revolution." "ah! that was all those vile puritans' fault. they wouldn't give the church a chance of showing her powers." "what! not when she had it all her own way, during the whole eighteenth century?" "ah! but things are very different now. the clergy are awakened now to the real beauty of the catholic machinery; and you have no notion how much is doing in church-building and schools, and societies of every sort and kind. it is quite incredible what is being done now for the lower orders by the church." "i believe," i said, "that the clergy are exceedingly improved; and i believe, too, that the men to whom they owe all their improvement are the wesleys and whitfields--in short, the very men whom they drove one by one out of the church, from persecution or disgust. and i do think it strange, that if so much is doing for the lower classes, the working men, who form the mass of the lower classes, are just those who scarcely feel the effects of it; while the churches seem to be filled with children, and rich and respectable, to the almost entire exclusion of the adult lower classes. a strange religion this!" i went on, "and, to judge by its effects, a very different one from that preached in judea years ago, if we are to believe the gospel story." "what on earth do you mean? is not the church of england the very purest form of apostolic christianity?" "it may be--and so may the other sects. but, somehow, in judea, it was the publicans and harlots who pressed into the kingdom of heaven; and it was the common people who heard christ gladly. christianity, then, was a movement in the hearts of the lower order. but now, my dear fellow, you rich, who used to be told, in st. james's time, to weep and howl, have turned the tables upon us poor. it is _you_ who are talking, all day long, of converting _us_. look at any place of worship you like, orthodox and heretical.--who fill the pews?--the outcast and the reprobate? no! the pharisees and the covetous, who used to deride christ, fill his churches, and say still, 'this people, these masses, who know not the gospel are accursed.' and the universal feeling, as far as i can judge, seems to be, not 'how hardly shall they who have,' but how hardly shall they who have _not_, 'riches, enter into the kingdom of heaven!'" "upon my word," said he, laughing, "i did not give you credit for so much eloquence: you seem to have studied the bible to some purpose, too. i didn't think that so much radicalism could be squeezed out of a few texts of scripture. it's quite a new light to me. i'll just mark that card, and play it when i get a convenient opportunity. it may be a winning one in these democratic times." and he did play it, as i heard hereafter; but at present he seemed to think that the less that was said further on clerical subjects the better, and commenced quizzing the people whom we passed, humorously and neatly enough; while i walked on in silence, and thought of mr. bye-ends, in the "pilgrim's progress." and yet i believe the man was really in earnest. he was really desirous to do what was right, as far as he knew it; and all the more desirous, because he saw, in the present state of society, what was right would pay him. god shall judge him, not i. who can unravel the confusion of mingled selfishness and devotion that exists even in his own heart, much less in that of another? the dean was not at home that day, having left town on business. george nodded familiarly to the footman who opened the door. "you'll mind and send me word the moment your master comes home--mind now!" the fellow promised obedience, and we walked away. "you seem to be very intimate here," said i, "with all parties?" "oh! footmen are useful animals--a half-sovereign now and then is not altogether thrown away upon them. but as for the higher powers, it is very easy to make oneself at home in the dean's study, but not so much so as to get a footing in the drawing-room above. i suspect he keeps a precious sharp eye upon the fair miss lillian." "but," i asked, as a jealous pang shot through my heart, "how did you contrive to get this same footing at all? when i met you at cambridge, you seemed already well acquainted with these people." "how?--how does a hound get a footing on a cold scent? by working and casting about and about, and drawing on it inch by inch, as i drew on them for years, my boy; and cold enough the scent was. you recollect that day at the dulwich gallery? i tried to see the arms on the carriage, but there were none; so that cock wouldn't fight." "the arms! i should never have thought of such a plan." "dare say you wouldn't. then i harked back to the doorkeeper, while you were st. sebastianizing. he didn't know their names, or didn't choose to show me their ticket, on which it ought to have been; so i went to one of the fellows whom i knew, and got him to find out. there comes out the value of money--for money makes acquaintances. well, i found who they were.--then i saw no chance of getting at them. but for the rest of that year at cambridge, i beat every bush in the university, to find some one who knew them; and as fortune favours the brave, at last i hit off this lord lynedale; and he, of course, was the ace of trumps--a fine catch in himself, and a double catch because he was going to marry the cousin. so i made a dead set at him; and tight work i had to nab him, i can tell you, for he was three or four years older than i, and had travelled a good deal, and seen life. but every man has his weak side; and i found his was a sort of a high-church radicalism, and that suited me well enough, for i was always a deuce of a radical myself; so i stuck to him like a leech, and stood all his temper, and his pride, and those unpractical, windy visions of his, that made a common-sense fellow like me sick to listen to; but i stood it, and here i am." "and what on earth induced you to stoop to all this--" meanness i was on the point of saying. "surely you are in no want of money--your father could buy you a good living to-morrow." "and he will, but not the one i want; and he could not buy me reputation, power, rank, do you see, alton, my genius? and what's more, he couldn't buy me a certain little tit-bit, a jewel, worth a jew's eye and a half, alton, that i set my heart on from the first moment i set my eye on it." my heart beat fast and fierce, but he ran on-- "do you think i'd have eaten all this dirt if it hadn't lain in my way to her? eat dirt! i'd drink blood, alton--though i don't often deal in strong words--if it lay in that road. i never set my heart on a thing yet, that i didn't get it at last by fair means or foul--and i'll get her! i don't care for her money, though that's a pretty plum. upon my life, i don't. i worship her, limbs and eyes. i worship the very ground she treads on. she's a duck and a darling," said he, smacking his lips like an ogre over his prey, "and i'll have her before i've done, so help me--" "whom do you mean?" i stammered out. "lillian, you blind beetle." i dropped his arm--"never, as i live!" he started back, and burst into a horse-laugh. "hullo! my eye and betty martin! you don't mean to say that i have the honour of finding a rival in my talented cousin?" i made no answer. "come, come, my dear fellow, this is too ridiculous. you and i are very good friends, and we may help each other, if we choose, like kith and kin in this here wale. so if you're fool enough to quarrel with me, i warn you i'm not fool enough to return the compliment. only" (lowering his voice), "just bear one little thing in mind--that i am, unfortunately, of a somewhat determined humour; and if folks will get in my way, why it's not my fault if i drive over them. you understand? well, if you intend to be sulky, i don't. so good morning, till you feel yourself better." and he turned gaily down a side-street and disappeared, looking taller, handsomer, manfuller than ever. i returned home miserable; i now saw in my cousin not merely a rival, but a tyrant; and i began to hate him with that bitterness which fear alone can inspire. the eleven pounds still remained unpaid. between three and four pounds was the utmost which i had been able to hoard up that autumn, by dint of scribbling and stinting; there was no chance of profit from my book for months to come--if indeed it ever got published, which i hardly dare believe it would; and i knew him too well to doubt that neither pity nor delicacy would restrain him from using his power over me, if i dared even to seem an obstacle in his way. i tried to write, but could not. i found it impossible to direct my thoughts, even to sit still; a vague spectre of terror and degradation crushed me. day after day i sat over the fire, and jumped up and went into the shop, to find something which i did not want, and peep listlessly into a dozen books, one after the other, and then wander back again to the fireside, to sit mooning and moping, starting at that horrible incubus of debt--a devil which may give mad strength to the strong, but only paralyses the weak. and i was weak, as every poet is, more or less. there was in me, as i have somewhere read that there is in all poets, that feminine vein--a receptive as well as a creative faculty--which kept up in me a continual thirst after beauty, rest, enjoyment. and here was circumstance after circumstance goading me onward, as the gadfly did io, to continual wanderings, never ceasing exertions; every hour calling on me to do, while i was only longing to be--to sit and observe, and fancy, and build freely at my own will. and then--as if this necessity of perpetual petty exertion was not in itself sufficient torment--to have that accursed debt--that knowledge that i was in a rival's power, rising up like a black wall before me, to cripple, and render hopeless, for aught i knew, the very exertions to which it compelled me! i hated the bustle--the crowds; the ceaseless roar of the street outside maddened me. i longed in vain for peace--for one day's freedom--to be one hour a shepherd-boy, and lie looking up at the blue sky, without a thought beyond the rushes that i was plaiting! "oh! that i had wings as a dove!--then would i flee away, and be at rest!"-- and then, more than once or twice either, the thoughts of suicide crossed me; and i turned it over, and looked at it, and dallied with it, as a last chance in reserve. and then the thought of lillian came, and drove away the fiend. and then the thought of my cousin came, and paralysed me again; for it told me that one hope was impossible. and then some fresh instance of misery or oppression forced itself upon me, and made me feel the awful sacredness of my calling, as a champion of the poor, and the base cowardice of deserting them for any selfish love of rest. and then i recollected how i had betrayed my suffering brothers.--how, for the sake of vanity and patronage, i had consented to hide the truth about their rights--their wrongs. and so on through weary weeks of moping melancholy--"a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways?" at last, mackaye, who, as i found afterwards, had been watching all along my altered mood, contrived to worm my secret out of me. i had dreaded, that whole autumn, having to tell him the truth, because i knew that his first impulse would be to pay the money instantly out of his own pocket; and my pride, as well as my sense of justice, revolted at that, and sealed my lips. but now this fresh discovery--the knowledge that it was not only in my cousin's power to crush me, but also his interest to do so--had utterly unmanned me; and after a little innocent and fruitless prevarication, out came the truth with tears of bitter shame. the old man pursed up his lips, and, without answering me, opened his table drawer, and commenced fumbling among accounts and papers. "no! no! no! best, noblest of friends! i will not burden you with the fruits of my own vanity and extravagance. i will starve, go to gaol sooner than take your money. if you offer it me i will leave the house, bag and baggage, this moment." and i rose to put my threat into execution. "i havena at present ony sic intention," answered he, deliberately, "seeing that there's na necessity for paying debits twice owre, when ye ha' the stampt receipt for them." and he put into my hands, to my astonishment and rapture, a receipt in full for the money, signed by my cousin. not daring to believe my own eyes, i turned it over and over, looked at it, looked at him--there was nothing but clear, smiling assurance in his beloved old face, as he twinkled, and winked, and chuckled, and pulled off his spectacles, and wiped them, and put them on upside-down; and then relieved himself by rushing at his pipe, and cramming it fiercely with tobacco till he burst the bowl. yes; it was no dream!--the money was paid, and i was free! the sudden relief was as intolerable as the long burden had been; and, like a prisoner suddenly loosed from off the rack, my whole spirit seemed suddenly to collapse, and i sank with my head upon the table to faint even for gratitude. * * * * * but who was my benefactor? mackaye vouchsafed no answer, but that i "suld ken better than he." but when he found that i was really utterly at a loss to whom to attribute the mercy, he assured me, by way of comfort, that he was just as ignorant as myself; and at last, piecemeal, in his circumlocutory and cautious scotch method, informed me, that some six weeks back he had received an anonymous letter, "a'thegither o' a belgravian cast o' phizog," containing a bank note for twenty pounds, and setting forth the writer's suspicions that i owed my cousin money, and their desire that mr. mackaye, "o' whose uprightness and generosity they were pleased to confess themselves no that ignorant," should write to george, ascertain the sum, and pay it without my knowledge, handing over the balance, if any, to me, when he thought fit--"sae there's the remnant--aucht pounds, sax shillings, an' saxpence; tippence being deduckit for expense o' twa letters anent the same transaction." "but what sort of handwriting was it?" asked i, almost disregarding the welcome coin. "ou, then--aiblins a man's, aiblins a maid's. he was no chirographosophic himsel--an' he had na curiosity anent ony sic passage o' aristocratic romance." "but what was the postmark of the letter?" "why for suld i speired? gin the writers had been minded to be beknown, they'd ha' sign't their names upon the document. an' gin they didna sae intend, wad it be coorteous o' me to gang speiring an' peering ower covers an' seals?" "but where is the cover?" "ou, then," he went on, with the same provoking coolness, "white paper's o' geyan use, in various operations o' the domestic economy. sae i just tare it up--aiblins for pipe-lights--i canna mind at this time." "and why," asked i, more vexed and disappointed than i liked to confess--"why did you not tell me before?" "how wad i ken that you had need o't? an' verily, i thocht it no that bad a lesson for ye, to let ye experiment a towmond mair on the precious balms that break the head--whereby i opine the psalmist was minded to denote the delights o' spending borrowed siller." there was nothing more to be extracted from him; so i was fain to set to work again (a pleasant compulsion truly) with a free heart, eight pounds in my pocket, and a brainful of conjectures. was it the dean? lord lynedale? or was it--could it be--lillian herself? that thought was so delicious that i made up my mind, as i had free choice among half a dozen equally improbable fancies, to determine that the most pleasant should be the true one; and hoarded the money, which i shrunk from spending as much as i should from selling her miniature or a lock of her beloved golden hair. they were a gift from her--a pledge--the first fruits of--i dare not confess to myself what. whereat the reader will smile, and say, not without reason, that i was fast fitting myself for bedlam; if, indeed, i had not proved my fitness for it already, by paying the tailors' debts, instead of my own, with the ten pounds which farmer porter had given me. i am not sure that he would not be correct; but so i did, and so i suffered. chapter xxv. a true nobleman. at last my list of subscribers was completed, and my poems actually in the press. oh! the childish joy with which i fondled my first set of proofs! and how much finer the words looked in print than they ever did in manuscript!--one took in the idea of a whole page so charmingly at a glance, instead of having to feel one's way through line after line, and sentence after sentence.--there was only one drawback to my happiness--mackaye did not seem to sympathize with it. he had never grumbled at what i considered, and still do consider, my cardinal offence, the omission of the strong political passages; he seemed, on the contrary, in his inexplicable waywardness, to be rather pleased at it than otherwise. it was my publishing at all at which he growled. "ech," he said, "owre young to marry, is owre young to write; but it's the way o' these puir distractit times. nae chick can find a grain o' corn, but oot he rins cackling wi' the shell on his head, to tell it to a' the warld, as if there was never barley grown on the face o' the earth before. i wonder whether isaiah began to write before his beard was grown, or dawvid either? he had mony a long year o' shepherding an' moss-trooping, an' rugging an' riving i' the wilderness, i'll warrant, afore he got thae gran' lyrics o' his oot o' him. ye might tak example too, gin ye were minded, by moses, the man o' god, that was joost forty years at the learning o' the egyptians, afore he thocht gude to come forward into public life, an' then fun' to his gran' surprise, i warrant, that he'd begun forty years too sune--an' then had forty years mair, after that, o' marching an' law-giving, an' bearing the burdens o' the people, before he turned poet." "poet, sir! i never saw moses in that light before." "then ye'll just read the th psalm--'the prayer o' moses, the man o' god'--the grandest piece o' lyric, to my taste, that i ever heard o' on the face o' god's earth, an' see what a man can write that'll have the patience to wait a century or twa before he rins to the publisher's. i gie ye up fra' this moment; the letting out o' ink is like the letting out o' waters, or the eating o' opium, or the getting up at public meetings.--when a man begins he canna stop. there's nae mair enslaving lust o' the flesh under the heaven than that same _furor scribendi_, as the latins hae it." but at last my poems were printed, and bound, and actually published, and i sat staring at a book of my own making, and wondering how it ever got into being! and what was more, the book "took," and sold, and was reviewed in people's journals, and in newspapers; and mackaye himself relaxed into a grin, when his oracle, the _spectator_, the only honest paper, according to him, on the face of the earth, condescended, after asserting its impartiality by two or three searching sarcasms, to dismiss me, grimly-benignant, with a paternal pat on the shoulder. yes--i was a real live author at last, and signed myself, by special request, in the * * * * magazine, as "the author of songs of the highways." at last it struck me, and mackaye too, who, however he hated flunkeydom, never overlooked an act of discourtesy, that it would be right for me to call upon the dean, and thank him formally for all the real kindness he had shown me. so i went to the handsome house off harley-street, and was shown into his study, and saw my own book lying on the table, and was welcomed by the good old man, and congratulated on my success, and asked if i did not see my own wisdom in "yielding to more experienced opinions than my own, and submitting to a censorship which, however severe it might have appeared at first, was, as the event proved, benignant both in its intentions and effects?" and then i was asked, even i, to breakfast there the next morning. and i went, and found no one there but some scientific gentlemen, to whom i was introduced as "the young man whose poems we were talking of last night." and lillian sat at the head of the table, and poured out the coffee and tea. and between ecstasy at seeing her, and the intense relief of not finding my dreaded and now hated cousin there, i sat in a delirium of silent joy, stealing glances at her beauty, and listening with all my ears to the conversation, which turned upon the new-married couple. i heard endless praises, to which i could not but assent in silence, of lord ellerton's perfections. his very personal appearance had been enough to captivate my fancy; and then they went on to talk of his magnificent philanthropic schemes, and his deep sense, of the high duties of a landlord; and how, finding himself, at his father's death, the possessor of two vast but neglected estates, he had sold one in order to be able to do justice to the other, instead of laying house to house, and field to field, like most of his compeers, "till he stood alone in the land, and there was no place left;" and how he had lowered his rents, even though it had forced him to put down the ancestral pack of hounds, and live in a corner of the old castle; and how he was draining, claying, breaking up old moorlands, and building churches, and endowing schools, and improving cottages; and how he was expelling the old ignorant bankrupt race of farmers, and advertising everywhere for men of capital, and science, and character, who would have courage to cultivate flax and silk, and try every species of experiment; and how he had one scientific farmer after another, staying in his house as a friend; and how he had numbers of his books rebound in plain covers, that he might lend them to every one on his estate who wished to read them; and how he had thrown open his picture gallery, not only to the inhabitants of the neighbouring town, but what (strange to say) seemed to strike the party as still more remarkable, to the labourers of his own village; and how he was at that moment busy transforming an old unoccupied manor-house into a great associate farm, in which all the labourers were to live under one roof, with a common kitchen and dining-hall, clerks and superintendents, whom they were to choose, subject only to his approval, and all of them, from the least to the greatest, have their own interest in the farm, and be paid by percentage on the profits; and how he had one of the first political economists of the day staying with him, in order to work out for him tables of proportionate remuneration, applicable to such an agricultural establishment; and how, too, he was giving the spade-labour system a fair-trial, by laying out small cottage-farms, on rocky knolls and sides of glens, too steep to be cultivated by the plough; and was locating on them the most intelligent artisans whom he could draft from the manufacturing town hard by-- and at that notion, my brain grew giddy with the hope of seeing myself one day in one of those same cottages, tilling the earth, under god's sky, and perhaps--. and then a whole cloud-world of love, freedom, fame, simple, graceful country luxury steamed up across my brain, to end--not, like the man's in the "arabian nights," in my kicking over the tray of china, which formed the base-point of my inverted pyramid of hope--but in my finding the contents of my plate deposited in my lap, while i was gazing fixedly at lillian. i must say for myself, though, that such accidents happened seldom; whether it was bashfulness, or the tact which generally, i believe, accompanies a weak and nervous body, and an active mind; or whether it was that i possessed enough relationship to the monkey-tribe to make me a first-rate mimic, i used to get tolerably well through on these occasions, by acting on the golden rule of never doing anything which i had not seen some one else do first--a rule which never brought me into any greater scrape than swallowing something intolerably hot, sour, and nasty (whereof i never discovered the name), because i had seen the dean do so a moment before. but one thing struck me through the whole of this conversation--the way in which the new-married lady ellerton was spoken of, as aiding, encouraging, originating--a helpmeet, if not an oracular guide, for her husband--in all these noble plans. she had already acquainted herself with every woman on the estate; she was the dispenser, not merely of alms--for those seemed a disagreeable necessity, from which lord ellerton was anxious to escape as soon as possible--but of advice, comfort, and encouragement. she not only visited the sick, and taught in the schools--avocations which, thank god, i have reason to believe are matters of course, not only in the families of clergymen, but those of most squires and noblemen, when they reside on their estates--but seemed, from the hints which i gathered, to be utterly devoted, body and soul, to the welfare of the dwellers on her husband's land. "i had no notion," i dared at last to remark, humbly enough, "that miss--lady ellerton cared so much for the people." "really! one feels inclined sometimes to wish that she cared for anything beside them," said lillian, half to her father and half to me. this gave a fresh shake to my estimate of that remarkable woman's character. but still, who could be prouder, more imperious, more abrupt in manner, harsh, even to the very verge of good-breeding? (for i had learnt what good-breeding was, from the debating society as well as from the drawing-room;) and, above all, had she not tried to keep me from lillian? but these cloudy thoughts melted rapidly away in that sunny atmosphere of success and happiness, and i went home as merry as a bird, and wrote all the morning more gracefully and sportively, as i fancied, than i had ever yet done. but my bliss did not end here. in a week or so, behold one morning a note--written, indeed, by the dean--but directed in lillian's own hand, inviting me to come there to tea, that i might see a few, of the literary characters of the day. i covered the envelope with kisses, and thrust it next my fluttering heart. i then proudly showed the note to mackaye. he looked pleased, yet pensive, and then broke out with a fresh adaptation of his favourite song, --and shovel hats and a' that-- a man's a man for a' that. "the auld gentleman is a man and a gentleman; an' has made a verra courteous, an' weel considerit move, gin ye ha' the sense to profit by it, an' no turn it to yer ain destruction." "destruction?" "ay--that's the word, an' nothing less, laddie!" and he went into the outer shop, and returned with a volume of bulwer's "ernest maltravers." "what! are you a novel reader, mr. mackaye?" "how do ye ken what i may ha' thocht gude to read in my time? yell be pleased the noo to sit down an' begin at that page--an read, mark, learn, an' inwardly digest, the history of castruccio cesarini--an' the gude god gie ye grace to lay the same to heart." i read that fearful story; and my heart sunk, and my eyes were full of tears, long ere i had finished it. suddenly i looked up at mackaye, half angry at the pointed allusion to my own case. the old man was watching me intently, with folded hands, and a smile of solemn interest and affection worthy of socrates himself. he turned his head as i looked up, but his lips kept moving. i fancied, i know not why, that he was praying for me. chapter xxvi. the triumphant author. so to the party i went, and had the delight of seeing and hearing the men with whose names i had been long acquainted, as the leaders of scientific discovery in this wondrous age; and more than one poet, too, over whose works i had gloated, whom i had worshipped in secret. intense was the pleasure of now realizing to myself, as living men, wearing the same flesh and blood as myself, the names which had been to me mythic ideas. lillian was there among them, more exquisite than ever; but even she at first attracted my eyes and thoughts less than did the truly great men around her. i hung on every word they spoke, i watched every gesture, as if they must have some deep significance; the very way in which they drank their coffee was a matter of interest to me. i was almost disappointed to see them eat and chat like common men. i expected that pearls and diamonds would drop from their lips, as they did from those of the girl, in the fairy-tale, every time they opened their mouths; and certainly, the conversation that evening was a new world to me--though i could only, of course, be a listener. indeed, i wished to be nothing more. i felt that i was taking my place there among the holy guild of authors--that i too, however humbly, had a thing to say, and had said it; and i was content to sit on the lowest step of the literary temple, without envy for those elder and more practised priests of wisdom, who had earned by long labour the freedom of the inner shrine. i should have been quite happy enough standing there, looking and listening--but i was at last forced to come forward. lillian was busy chatting with grave, grey-headed men, who seemed as ready to flirt, and pet and admire the lovely little fairy, as if they had been as young and gay as herself. it was enough for me to see her appreciated and admired. i loved them for smiling on her, for handing her from her seat to the piano with reverent courtesy: gladly would i have taken their place: i was content, however, to be only a spectator; for it was not my rank, but my youth, i was glad to fancy, which denied me that blissful honour. but as she sang, i could not help stealing up to the piano; and, feasting my greedy eyes with every motion of those delicious lips, listen and listen, entranced, and living only in that melody. suddenly, after singing two or three songs, she began fingering the keys, and struck into an old air, wild and plaintive, rising and falling like the swell of an Æolian harp upon a distant breeze. "ah! now," she said, "if i could get words for that! what an exquisite lament somebody might write to it, if they could only thoroughly take in the feeling and meaning of it." "perhaps," i said, humbly, "that is the only way to write songs--to let some air get possession of ones whole soul, and gradually inspire the words for itself; as the old hebrew prophets had music played before them, to wake up the prophetic spirit within them." she looked up, just as if she had been unconscious of my presence till that moment. "ah! mr. locke!--well, if you understand my meaning so thoroughly, perhaps you will try and write some words for me." "i am afraid that i do not enter sufficiently into the meaning of the air." "oh! then, listen while i play it over again. i am sure _you_ ought to appreciate anything so sad and tender." and she did play it, to my delight, over again, even more gracefully and carefully than before--making the inarticulate sounds speak a mysterious train of thoughts and emotions. it is strange how little real intellect, in women especially, is required for an exquisite appreciation of the beauties of music--perhaps, because it appeals to the heart and not the head. she rose and left the piano, saying archly, "now, don't forget your promise;" and i, poor fool, my sunlight suddenly withdrawn, began torturing my brains on the instant to think of a subject. as it happened, my attention was caught by hearing two gentlemen close to me discuss a beautiful sketch by copley fielding, if i recollect rightly, which hung on the wall--a wild waste of tidal sands, with here and there a line of stake-nets fluttering in the wind--a grey shroud of rain sweeping up from the westward, through which low red cliffs glowed dimly in the rays of the setting sun--a train of horses and cattle splashing slowly through shallow desolate pools and creeks, their wet, red, and black hides glittering in one long line of level light. they seemed thoroughly conversant with art; and as i listened to their criticisms, i learnt more in five minutes about the characteristics of a really true and good picture, and about the perfection to which our unrivalled english landscape-painters have attained, than i ever did from all the books and criticisms which i had read. one of them had seen the spot represented, at the mouth of the dee, and began telling wild stories of salmon-fishing, and wildfowl shooting--and then a tale of a girl, who, in bringing her father's cattle home across the sands, had been caught by a sudden flow of the tide, and found next day a corpse hanging among the stake-nets far below. the tragedy, the art of the picture, the simple, dreary grandeur of the scenery, took possession of me; and i stood gazing a long time, and fancying myself pacing the sands, and wondering whether there were shells upon it--i had often longed for once only in my life to pick up shells--when lady ellerton, whom i had not before noticed, woke me from my reverie. i took the liberty of asking after lord ellerton. "he is not in town--he has stayed behind for one day to attend a great meeting of his tenantry--you will see the account in the papers to-morrow morning--he comes to-morrow." and as she spoke her whole face and figure seemed to glow and heave, in spite of herself, with pride and affection. "and now, come with me, mr. locke--the * * * ambassador wishes to speak to you." "the * * * ambassador!" i said, startled; for let us be as democratic as we will, there is something in the name of great officers which awes, perhaps rightly, for the moment, and it requires a strong act of self-possession to recollect that "a man's a man for a' that." besides, i knew enough of the great man in question to stand in awe of him for his own sake, having lately read a panegyric of him, which perfectly astounded me, by its description of his piety and virtue, his family affection, and patriarchal simplicity, the liberality and philanthropy of all his measures, and the enormous intellectual powers, and stores of learning, which enabled him, with the affairs of europe on his shoulders, to write deeply and originally on the most abstruse questions of theology, history, and science. lady ellerton seemed to guess my thoughts. "you need not be afraid of meeting an aristocrat, in the vulgar sense of the word. you will see one who, once perhaps as unknown as yourself, has risen by virtue and wisdom to guide the destinies of nations--and shall i tell you how? not by fawning and yielding to the fancies of the great; not by compromising his own convictions to suit their prejudices--" i felt the rebuke, but she went on-- "he owes his greatness to having dared, one evening, to contradict a crown-prince to his face, and fairly conquer him in argument, and thereby bind the truly royal heart to him for ever." "there are few scions of royalty to whose favour that would be a likely path." "true; and therefore the greater honour is due to the young student who could contradict, and the prince who could be contradicted." by this time we had arrived in the great man's presence; he was sitting with a little circle round him, in the further drawing-room, and certainly i never saw a nobler specimen of humanity. i felt myself at once before a hero--not of war and bloodshed, but of peace and civilization; his portly and ample figure, fair hair and delicate complexion, and, above all, the benignant calm of his countenance, told of a character gentle and genial--at peace with himself and all the world; while the exquisite proportion of his chiselled and classic features, the lofty and ample brain, and the keen, thoughtful eye, bespoke, at the first glance, refinement and wisdom-- the reason firm, the temperate will-- endurance, foresight, strength, and skill. i am not ashamed to say, chartist as i am, that i felt inclined to fall upon my knees, and own a master of god's own making. he received my beautiful guide with a look of chivalrous affection, which i observed that she returned with interest; and then spoke in a voice peculiarly bland and melodious: "so, my dear lady, this is the _protégé_ of whom you have so often spoken?" so she had often spoken of me! blind fool that i was, i only took it in as food for my own self-conceit, that my enemy (for so i actually fancied her) could not help praising me. "i have read your little book, sir," he said, in the same soft, benignant voice, "with very great pleasure. it is another proof, if i required any, of the under-current of living and healthful thought which exists even in the less-known ranks of your great nation. i shall send it to some young friends of mine in germany, to show them that englishmen can feel acutely and speak boldly on the social evils of their country, without indulging in that frantic and bitter revolutionary spirit, which warps so many young minds among us. you understand the german language at all?" i had not that honour. "well, you must learn it. we have much to teach you in the sphere of abstract thought, as you have much to teach us in those of the practical reason and the knowledge of mankind. i should be glad to see you some day in a german university. i am anxious to encourage a truly spiritual fraternization between the two great branches of the teutonic stock, by welcoming all brave young english spirits to their ancient fatherland. perhaps hereafter your kind friends here will be able to lend you to me. the means are easy, thank god! you will find in the germans true brothers, in ways even more practical than sympathy and affection." i could not but thank the great man, with many blushes, and went home that night utterly _"tête montée,"_ as i believe the french phrase is--beside myself with gratified vanity and love; to lie sleepless under a severe fit of asthma--sent perhaps as a wholesome chastisement to cool my excited spirits down to something like a rational pitch. as i lay castle-building, lillian's wild air rang still in my ears, and combined itself somehow with that picture of the cheshire sands, and the story of the drowned girl, till it shaped itself into a song, which, as it is yet unpublished, and as i have hitherto obtruded little or nothing of my own composition on my readers, i may be excused for inserting it here. i. "o mary, go and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, and call the cattle home, across the sands o' dee;" the western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, and all alone went she. ii. the creeping tide came up along the sand, and o'er and o'er the sand, and round and round the sand, as far as eye could see; the blinding mist came down and hid the land-- and never home came she. iii. "oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- a tress o' golden hair, o' drowned maiden's hair, above the nets at sea? was never salmon yet that shone so fair, among the stakes on dee." iv. they rowed her in across the rolling foam, the cruel crawling foam, the cruel hungry foam, to her grave beside the sea: but still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, across the sands o' dee. there--let it go!--it was meant as an offering for one whom it never reached. about mid-day i took my way towards the dean's house, to thank him for his hospitality--and, i need not say, to present my offering at my idol's shrine; and as i went, i conned over a dozen complimentary speeches about lord ellerton's wisdom, liberality, eloquence--but behold! the shutters of the house were closed. what could be the matter? it was full ten minutes before the door was opened; and then, at last, an old woman, her eyes red with weeping, made her appearance. my thoughts flew instantly to lillian--something must have befallen her. i gasped out her name first, and then, recollecting myself, asked for the dean. "they had all left town that morning," "miss--miss winnstay--is she ill?" "no." "thank god!" i breathed freely again. what matter what happened to all the world beside? "ay, thank god, indeed; but poor lord ellerton was thrown from his horse last night and brought home dead. a messenger came here by six this morning, and they're all gone off to * * * *. her ladyship's raving mad.--and no wonder." and she burst out crying afresh, and shut the door in my face. lord ellerton dead! and lillian gone too! something whispered that i should have cause to remember that day. my heart sunk within me. when should i see her again? that day was the st of june, . on the th of april, , i saw lillian winnstay again. dare i write my history between those two points of time? yes, even that must be done, for the sake of the rich who read, and the poor who suffer. chapter xxvii. the plush breeches tragedy. my triumph had received a cruel check enough when just at its height, and more were appointed to follow. behold! some two days after, another--all the more bitter, because my conscience whispered that it was not altogether undeserved. the people's press had been hitherto praising and petting me lovingly enough. i had been classed (and heaven knows that the comparison was dearer to me than all the applause of the wealthy) with the corn-law rhymer, and the author of the "purgatory of suicides." my class had claimed my talents as their own--another "voice fresh from the heart of nature," another "untutored songster of the wilderness," another "prophet arisen among the suffering millions,"--when, one day, behold in mr. o'flynn's paper a long and fierce attack on me, my poems, my early history! how he could have got at some of the facts there mentioned, how he could have dared to inform his readers that i had broken my mother's heart by my misconduct, i cannot conceive; unless my worthy brother-in-law, the baptist preacher, had been kind enough to furnish him with the materials. but however that may be, he showed me no mercy. i was suddenly discovered to be a time-server, a spy, a concealed aristocrat. such paltry talent as i had, i had prostituted for the sake of fame. i had deserted the people's cause for filthy lucre--an allurement which mr. o'flynn had always treated with withering scorn--_in print_. nay, more, i would write, and notoriously did write, in any paper, whig, tory, or radical, where i could earn a shilling by an enormous gooseberry, or a scrap of private slander. and the working men were solemnly warned to beware of me and my writings, till the editor had further investigated certain ugly facts in my history, which he would in due time report to his patriotic and enlightened readers. all this stung me in the most sensitive nerve of my whole heart, for i knew that i could not altogether exculpate myself; and to that miserable certainty was added the dread of some fresh exposure. had he actually heard of the omissions in my poems?--and if he once touched on that subject, what could i answer? oh! how bitterly now i felt the force of the critic's careless lash! the awful responsibility of those written words, which we bandy about so thoughtlessly! how i recollected now, with shame and remorse, all the hasty and cruel utterances to which i, too, had given vent against those who had dared to differ from me; the harsh, one-sided judgments, the reckless imputations of motive, the bitter sneers, "rejoicing in evil rather than in the truth." how i, too, had longed to prove my victims in the wrong, and turned away, not only lazily, but angrily, from many an exculpatory fact! and here was my nemesis come at last. as i had done unto others, so it was done unto me! it was right that it should be so. however indignant, mad, almost murderous, i felt at the time, i thank god for it now. it is good to be punished in kind. it is good to be made to feel what we have made others feel. it is good--anything is good, however bitter, which shows us that there is such a law as retribution; that we are not the sport of blind chance or a triumphant fiend, but that there is a god who judges the earth--righteous to repay every man according to his works. but at the moment i had no such ray of comfort--and, full of rage and shame, i dashed the paper down before mackaye. "how shall i answer him? what shall i say?" the old man read it all through, with a grim saturnine smile. "hoolie, hoolie, speech, is o' silver--silence is o' gold says thomas carlyle, anent this an' ither matters. wha'd be fashed wi' sic blethers? ye'll just abide patient, and haud still in the lord, until this tyranny be owerpast. commit your cause to him, said the auld psalmist, an' he'll mak your righteousness as clear as the light, an' your just dealing as the noonday." "but i must explain; i owe it as a duty to myself; i must refute these charges; i must justify myself to our friends." "can ye do that same, laddie?" asked he, with one of his quaint, searching looks. somehow i blushed, and could not altogether meet his eye, while he went on, "--an' gin ye could, whaur would ye do 't? i ken na periodical whar the editor will gie ye a clear stage an' no favour to bang him ower the lugs." "then i will try some other paper." "an' what for then? they that read him, winna read the ither; an' they that read the ither, winna read him. he has his ain set o' dupes like every ither editor; an' ye mun let him gang his gate, an' feed his ain kye with his ain hay. he'll no change it for your bidding." "what an abominable thing this whole business of the press is then, if each editor is to be allowed to humbug his readers at his pleasure, without a possibility of exposing or contradicting him!" "an' ye've just spoken the truth, laddie. there's na mair accursed inquisition, than this of thae self-elected popes, the editors. that puir auld roman ane, ye can bring him forat when ye list, bad as he is. 'fænum habet in cornu;' his name's ower his shop-door. but these anonymies--priests o' the order of melchisedec by the deevil's side, without father or mither, beginning o' years nor end o' days--without a local habitation or a name-as kittle to baud as a brock in a cairn--" "what do you mean, mr. mackaye?" asked i, for he was getting altogether unintelligibly scotch, as was his custom when excited. "ou, i forgot; ye're a puir southern body, an' no sensible to the gran' metaphoric powers o' the true dawric. but it's an accursit state a'thegither, the noo, this, o' the anonymous press--oreeginally devised, ye ken, by balaam the son o' beor, for serving god wi'out the deevil's finding it out--an' noo, after the way o' human institutions, translated ower to help folks to serve the deevil without god's finding it out. i'm no' astonished at the puir expiring religious press for siccan a fa'; but for the working men to be a' that's bad--it's grewsome to behold. i'll tell ye what, my bairn, there's na salvation for the workmen, while they defile themselves this fashion, wi' a' the very idols o' their ain tyrants--wi' salvation by act o' parliament--irresponsible rights o' property--anonymous balaamry--fechtin' that canny auld farrant fiend, mammon, wi' his ain weapons--and then a' fleyed, because they get well beaten for their pains. i'm sair forfaughten this mony a year wi' watching the puir gowks, trying to do god's wark wi' the deevil's tools. tak tent o' that." and i did "tak tent o' it." still there would have been as little present consolation as usual in mackaye's unwelcome truths, even if the matter had stopped there. but, alas! it did not stop there. o'flynn seemed determined to "run a muck" at me. every week some fresh attack appeared. the very passages about the universities and church property, which had caused our quarrel, were paraded against me, with free additions and comments; and, at last, to my horror, out came the very story which i had all along dreaded, about the expurgation of my poems, with the coarsest allusions to petticoat influence--aristocratic kisses--and the duchess of devonshire canvassing draymen for fox, &c., &c. how he got a clue to the scandal i cannot conceive. mackaye and crossthwaite, i had thought, were the only souls to whom i had ever breathed the secret, and they denied indignantly the having ever betrayed my weakness. how it came out, i say again, i cannot conceive; except because it is a great everlasting law, and sure to fulfil itself sooner or later, as we may see by the histories of every remarkable, and many an unremarkable, man--"there is nothing secret, but it shall be made manifest; and whatsoever ye have spoken in the closet, shall be proclaimed upon the house-tops." for some time after that last exposure, i was thoroughly crest-fallen--and not without reason. i had been giving a few lectures among the working men, on various literary and social subjects. i found my audience decrease--and those who remained seemed more inclined to hiss than to applaud me. in vain i ranted and quoted poetry, often more violently than my own opinions justified. my words touched no responsive chord in my hearers' hearts; they had lost faith in me. at last, in the middle of a lecture on shelley, i was indulging, and honestly too, in some very glowing and passionate praise of the true nobleness of a man, whom neither birth nor education could blind to the evils of society; who, for the sake of the suffering many, could trample under foot his hereditary pride, and become an outcast for the people's cause. i heard a whisper close to me, from one whose opinion i valued, and value still--a scholar and a poet, one who had tasted poverty, and slander, and a prison, for the good cause: "fine talk: but it's 'all in his day's work.' will he dare to say that to-morrow to the ladies at the west-end?" no--i should not. i knew it; and at that instant i felt myself a liar, and stopped short--my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. i fumbled at my papers--clutched the water-tumbler--tried to go on--stopped short again--caught up my hat, and rushed from the room, amid peals of astonished laughter. it was some months after this that, fancying the storm blown over, i summoned up courage enough to attend a political meeting of our party; but even there my nemesis met full face. after some sanguinary speech, i really forgot from whom, and, if i recollected, god forbid that i should tell now, i dared to controvert, mildly enough, heaven knows, some especially frantic assertion or other. but before i could get out three sentences, o'flynn flew at me with a coarse invective, hounded on, by-the-by, by one who, calling himself a gentleman, might have been expected to know better. but, indeed, he and o'flynn had the same object in view, which was simply to sell their paper; and as a means to that great end, to pander to the fiercest passions of their readers, to bully and silence all moderate and rational chartists, and pet and tar on the physical-force men, till the poor fellows began to take them at their word. then, when it came to deeds and not to talk, and people got frightened, and the sale of the paper decreased a little, a blessed change came over them--and they awoke one morning meeker than lambs; "ulterior measures" had vanished back into the barbarous ages, pikes, vitriol-bottles, and all; and the public were entertained with nothing but homilies on patience and resignation, the "triumphs of moral justice," the "omnipotence of public opinion," and the "gentle conquests of fraternal love"--till it was safe to talk treason and slaughter again. but just then treason happened to be at a premium. sedition, which had been floundering on in a confused, disconsolate, underground way ever since , was supposed by the public to be dead; and for that very reason it was safe to talk it, or, at least, back up those who chose to do so. and so i got no quarter--though really, if the truth must be told, i had said nothing unreasonable. home i went disgusted, to toil on at my hack-writing, only praying that i might be let alone to scribble in peace, and often thinking, sadly, how little my friends in harley-street could guess at the painful experience, the doubts, the struggles, the bitter cares, which went to the making of the poetry which they admired so much! i was not, however, left alone to scribble in peace, either by o'flynn or by his readers, who formed, alas! just then, only too large a portion of the thinking artizans; every day brought some fresh slight or annoyance with it, till i received one afternoon, by the parcels delivery company, a large unpaid packet, containing, to my infinite disgust, an old pair of yellow plush breeches, with a recommendation to wear them, whose meaning could not be mistaken. furious, i thrust the unoffending garment into the lire, and held it there with the tongs, regardless of the horrible smell which accompanied its martyrdom, till the lady-lodger on the first floor rushed down to inquire whether the house was on fire. i answered by hurling a book at her head, and brought down a volley of abuse, under which i sat in sulky patience, till mackaye and crossthwaite came in, and found her railing in the doorway, and me sitting over the fire, still intent on the frizzling remains of the breeches. "was this insult of your invention, mr. crossthwaite?" asked i, in a tone of lofty indignation, holding up the last scrap of unroasted plush. roars of laughter from both of them made me only more frantic, and i broke out so incoherently, that it was some time before the pair could make out the cause of my fury. "upon my honour, locke," quoth john, at last, holding his sides, "i never sent them; though, on the whole--you've made my stomach ache with laughing. i can't speak. but you must expect a joke or two, after your late fashionable connexions." i stood, still and white with rage. "really, my good fellow, how can you wonder if our friends suspect you? can you deny that you've been off and on lately between flunkeydom and the cause, like a donkey between two bundles of hay? have you not neglected our meetings? have you not picked all the spice out of your poems? and can you expect to eat your cake and keep it too? you must be one thing or the other; and, though sandy, here, is too kind-hearted to tell you, you have disappointed us both miserably--and there's the long and short of it." i hid my face in my hands, and sat moodily over the fire; my conscience told me that i had nothing to answer. "whisht, johnnie! ye're ower sair on the lad. he's a' right at heart still, an he'll do good service. but the deevil a'ways fechts hardest wi' them he's maist 'feard of. what's this anent agricultural distress ye had to tell me the noo?" "there is a rising down in the country, a friend of mine writes me. the people are starving, not because bread is dear, but because it's cheap; and, like sensible men, they're going to have a great meeting, to inquire the rights and wrong of all that. now, i want to send a deputation down, to see how far they are inclined to go, and let them know we up in london are with them. and then we might get up a corresponding association, you know. it's a great opening for spreading the principles of the charter." "i sair misdoubt, it's just bread they'll be wanting, they labourers, mair than liberty. their god is their belly, i'm thinking, and a verra poor empty idol he is the noo; sma' burnt offerings and fat o' rams he gets to propitiate him. but ye might send down a canny body, just to spy out the nakedness o' the land." "i will go," i said, starting up. "they shall see that i do care for the cause. if it's a dangerous mission, so much the better. it will prove my sincerity. where is the place?" "about ten miles from d * * * *." "d * * * *!" my heart sank. if it had been any other spot in england! but it was too late to retract. sandy saw what was the matter, and tried to turn the subject; but i was peremptory, almost rude with him. i felt i must keep up my present excitement, or lose my heart, and my caste, for ever; and as the hour for the committee was at hand, i jumped up and set off thither with them, whether they would or not. i heard sandy whisper to crossthwaite, and turned quite fiercely on him. "if you want to speak about me, speak out. if you fancy that i shall let my connexion with that place" (i could not bring myself to name it) "stand in the way of my duty, you do not know me." i announced my intention at the meeting. it was at first received coldly; but i spoke energetically--perhaps, as some told me afterwards, actually eloquently. when i got heated, i alluded to my former stay at d * * * *, and said (while my heart sunk at the bravado which i was uttering) that i should consider it a glory to retrieve my character with them, and devote myself to the cause of the oppressed, in the very locality whence had first arisen their unjust and pardonable suspicions. in short, generous, trusting hearts as they were, and always are, i talked them round; they shook me by the hand one by one, bade me god speed, told me that i stood higher than ever in their eyes, and then set to work to vote money from their funds for my travelling expenses, which i magnanimously refused, saying that i had a pound or two left from the sale of my poems, and that i must be allowed, as an act of repentance and restitution, to devote it to the cause. my triumph was complete. even o'flynn, who, like all irishmen, had plenty of loose good-nature at bottom, and was as sudden and furious in his loves as in his hostilities, scrambled over the benches, regardless of patriots' toes, to shake me violently by the hand, and inform me that i was "a broth of a boy," and that "any little disagreements between us had vanished like a passing cloud from the sunshine of our fraternity"--when my eye was caught by a face which there was no mistaking--my cousin's! yes, there he sat, watching me like a basilisk, with his dark, glittering, mesmeric eyes, out of a remote corner of the room--not in contempt or anger, but there was a quiet, assured, sardonic smile about his lips, which chilled me to the heart. the meeting was sufficiently public to allow of his presence, but how had he found out its existence? had he come there as a spy on me? had he been in the room when my visit to d * * * * was determined on? i trembled at the thought; and i trembled, too, lest he should be daring enough--and i knew he could dare anything--to claim acquaintance with me there and then. it would have ruined my new-restored reputation for ever. but he sat still and steady: and i had to go through the rest of the evening's business under the miserable, cramping knowledge that every word and gesture was being noted down by my most deadly enemy; trembling whenever i was addressed, lest some chance word of an acquaintance would implicate me still further--though, indeed, i was deep enough already. the meeting seemed interminable; and there i fidgeted, with my face scarlet--always seeing those basilisk eyes upon me--in fancy--for i dared not look again towards the corner where i knew they were. at last it was over--the audience went out; and when i had courage to look round, my cousin had vanished among them. a load was taken off my breast, and i breathed freely again--for five minutes;--for i had not made ten steps up the street, when an arm was familiarly thrust through mine, and i found myself in the clutches of my evil genius. "how are you, my dear fellow? expected to meet you there. why, what an orator you are! really, i haven't heard more fluent or passionate english this month of sundays. you must give me a lesson in sermon-preaching. i can tell you, we parsons want a hint or two in that line. so you're going down to d * * * *, to see after those poor starving labourers? 'pon my honour, i've a great mind to go with you." so, then, he knew all! however, there was nothing for it but to brazen it out; and, besides, i was in his power, and however hateful to me his seeming cordiality might be, i dared not offend him at that moment. "it would be well if you did. if you parsons would show yourselves at such places as these a little oftener, you would do more to make the people believe your mission real, than by all the tracts and sermons in the world." "but, my dear cousin" (and he began to snuffle and sink his voice), "there is so much sanguinary language, so much unsanctified impatience, you frighten away all the meek apostolic men among the priesthood--the very ones who feel most for the lost sheep of the flock. "then the parsons are either great pharisees or great cowards, or both." "very likely. i was in a precious fright myself, i know, when i saw you recognized me. if i had not felt strengthened, you know, as of course one ought to be in all trials, by the sense of my holy calling, i think i should have bolted at once. however, i took the precaution of bringing my bowie and revolver with me, in case the worst came to the worst." "and a very needless precaution it was," said i, half laughing at the quaint incongruity of the priestly and the lay elements in his speech. "you don't seem to know much of working men's meetings, or working men's morals. why, that place was open to all the world. the proceedings will be in the newspaper to-morrow. the whole bench of bishops might have been there, if they had chosen; and a great deal of good it would have done them!" "i fully agree with you, my dear fellow. no one hates the bishops more than we true high-churchmen, i can tell you--that's a great point of sympathy between us and the people. but i must be off. by-the-by, would you like me to tell our friends at d * * * * that i met you? they often ask after you in their letters, i assure you." this was a sting of complicated bitterness. i felt all that it meant at once. so he was in constant correspondence with them, while i--and that thought actually drove out of my head the more pressing danger of his utterly ruining me in their esteem, by telling them, as he had a very good right to do, that i was going to preach chartism to discontented mobs. "ah! well! perhaps you wouldn't wish it mentioned? as you like, you know. or, rather," and he laid an iron grasp on my arm, and dropped his voice--this time in earnest--"as you behave, my wise and loyal cousin! good night." i went home--the excitement of self-applause, which the meeting had called up, damped by a strange weight of foreboding. and yet i could not help laughing, when, just as i was turning into bed, crossthwaite knocked at my door, and, on being admitted, handed over to me a bundle wrapped up in paper. "there's a pair of breeks for you--not plush ones, this time, old fellow--but you ought to look as smart as possible. there's so much in a man's looking dignified, and all that, when he's speechifying. so i've just brought you down my best black trousers to travel in. we're just of a size, you know; little and good, like a welshman's cow. and if you tear them, why, we're not like poor, miserable, useless aristocrats; tailors and sailors can mend their own rents." and he vanished, whistling the "marseillaise." i went to bed and tossed about, fancying to myself my journey, my speech, the faces of the meeting, among which lillian's would rise, in spite of all the sermons which i preached to myself on the impossibility of her being there, of my being known, of any harm happening from the movement; but i could not shake off the fear. if there were a riot, a rising!--if any harm were to happen to her! if--till, mobbed into fatigue by a rabble of such miserable hypothetic ghosts, i fell asleep, to dream that i was going to be hanged for sedition, and that the mob were all staring and hooting at me, and lillian clapping her hands and setting them on; and i woke in an agony, to find sandy mackaye standing by my bedside with a light. "hoolie, laddie! ye need na jump up that way. i'm no' gaun to burke ye the nicht; but i canna sleep; i'm sair misdoubtful o' the thing. it seems a' richt, an' i've been praying for us, an' that's mickle for me, to be taught our way; but i dinna see aught for ye but to gang. if your heart is richt with god in this matter, then he's o' your side, an' i fear na what men may do to ye. an' yet, ye're my joseph, as it were, the son o' my auld age, wi' a coat o' many colours, plush breeks included; an' gin aught take ye, ye'll bring down my grey haffets wi' sorrow to the grave!" the old man gazed at me as be spoke, with a deep, earnest affection i had never seen in him before; and the tears glistened in his eyes by the flaring candlelight, as he went on: "i ha' been reading the bible the nicht. it's strange how the words o't rise up, and open themselves whiles, to puir distractit bodies; though, maybe, no' always in just the orthodox way. an' i fell on that, 'behold i send ye forth as lambs in the midst o' wolves. be ye therefore wise as serpents an' harmless as doves;' an' that gave me comfort, laddie, for ye. mind the warning, dinna gang wud, whatever ye may see an' hear; it's an ill way o' showing pity, to gang daft anent it. dinna talk magniloquently; that's the workman's darling sin. an' mind ye dinna go too deep wi' them. ye canna trust them to understand ye; they're puir foolish sheep that ha' no shepherd--swine that ha' no wash, rather. so cast na your pearls before swine, laddie, lest they trample them under their feet, an' turn again an' rend ye." he went out, and i lay awake tossing till morning, making a thousand good resolutions--like the rest of mankind. chapter xxviii. the men who are eaten. with many instructions from our friends, and warnings from mackaye, i started next day on my journey. when i last caught sight of the old man, he was gazing fixedly after me, and using his pocket-handkerchief in a somewhat suspicious way. i had remarked how depressed he seemed, and my own spirits shared the depression. a presentiment of evil hung over me, which not even the excitement of the journey--to me a rare enjoyment--could dispel. i had no heart, somehow, to look at the country scenes around, which in general excited in me so much interest, and i tried to lose myself in summing up my stock of information on the question which i expected to hear discussed by the labourers. i found myself not altogether ignorant. the horrible disclosures of s.g.o., and the barbarous abominations of the andover workhouse, then fresh in the public mind, had had their due effect on mine; and, like most thinking artizans, i had acquainted myself tolerably from books and newspapers with the general condition of the country labourers. i arrived in the midst of a dreary, treeless country, whose broad brown and grey fields were only broken by an occasional line of dark, doleful firs, at a knot of thatched hovels, all sinking and leaning every way but the right, the windows patched with paper, the doorways stopped with filth, which surrounded a beer-shop. that was my destination--unpromising enough for any one but an agitator. if discontent and misery are preparatives for liberty--and they are--so strange and unlike ours are the ways of god--i was likely enough to find them there. i was welcomed by my intended host, a little pert, snub-nosed shoemaker, who greeted me as his cousin from london--a relationship which it seemed prudent to accept. he took me into his little cabin, and there, with the assistance of a shrewd, good-natured wife, shared with me the best he had; and after supper commenced, mysteriously and in trembling, as if the very walls might have ears, a rambling, bitter diatribe on the wrongs and sufferings of the labourers; which went on till late in the night, and which i shall spare my readers: for if they have either brains or hearts, they ought to know more than i can tell them, from the public prints, and, indeed, from their own eyes--although, as a wise man says, there is nothing more difficult than to make people see first the facts which lie under their own nose. upon one point, however, which was new to me, he was very fierce--the customs of landlords letting the cottages with their farms, for the mere sake of saving themselves trouble; thus giving up all power of protecting the poor man, and delivering him over, bound hand and foot, even in the matter of his commonest home comforts, to farmers, too penurious, too ignorant, and often too poor, to keep the cottages in a state fit for the habitation of human beings. thus the poor man's hovel, as well as his labour, became, he told me, a source of profit to the farmer, out of which he wrung the last drop of gain. the necessary repairs were always put off as long as possible--the labourers were robbed of their gardens--the slightest rebellion lost them not only work, but shelter from the elements; the slavery under which they groaned penetrated even to the fireside and to the bedroom. "and who was the landlord of this parish?" "oh! he believed he was a very good sort of man, and uncommon kind to the people where he lived, but that was fifty miles away in another country; and he liked that estate better than this, and never came down here, except for the shooting." full of many thoughts, and tired out with my journey, i went up to bed, in the same loft with the cobbler and his wife, and fell asleep, and dreamt of lillian. * * * * * about eight o'clock the next morning i started forth with my guide, the shoemaker, over as desolate a country as men can well conceive. not a house was to be seen for miles, except the knot of hovels which we had left, and here and there a great dreary lump of farm-buildings, with its yard of yellow stacks. beneath our feet the earth was iron, and the sky iron above our heads. dark curdled clouds, "which had built up everywhere an under-roof of doleful grey," swept on before the bitter northern wind, which whistled through the low leafless hedges and rotting wattles, and crisped the dark sodden leaves of the scattered hollies, almost the only trees in sight. we trudged on, over wide stubbles, with innumerable weeds; over wide fallows, in which the deserted ploughs stood frozen fast; then over clover and grass, burnt black with frost; then over a field of turnips, where we passed a large fold of hurdles, within which some hundred sheep stood, with their heads turned from the cutting blast. all was dreary, idle, silent; no sound or sign of human beings. one wondered where the people lived, who cultivated so vast a tract of civilized, over-peopled, nineteenth-century england. as we came up to the fold, two little boys hailed us from the inside--two little wretches with blue noses and white cheeks, scarecrows of rags and patches, their feet peeping through bursten shoes twice too big for them, who seemed to have shared between them a ragged pair of worsted gloves, and cowered among the sheep, under the shelter of a hurdle, crying and inarticulate with cold. "what's the matter, boys?" "turmits is froze, and us can't turn the handle of the cutter. do ye gie us a turn, please?" we scrambled over the hurdles, and gave the miserable little creatures the benefit of ten minutes' labour. they seemed too small for such exertion: their little hands were purple with chilblains, and they were so sorefooted they could scarcely limp. i was surprised to find them at least three years older than their size and looks denoted, and still more surprised, too, to find that their salary for all this bitter exposure to the elements--such as i believe i could not have endured two days running--was the vast sum of one shilling a week each, sundays included. "they didn't never go to school, nor to church nether, except just now and then, sometimes--they had to mind the shop." i went on, sickened with the contrast between the highly-bred, over-fed, fat, thick-woolled animals, with their troughs of turnips and malt-dust, and their racks of rich clover-hay, and their little pent-house of rock-salt, having nothing to do but to eat and sleep, and eat again, and the little half-starved shivering animals who were their slaves. man the master of the brutes? bah! as society is now, the brutes are the masters--the horse, the sheep, the bullock, is the master, and the labourer is their slave. "oh! but the brutes are eaten!" well; the horses at least are not eaten--they live, like landlords, till they die. and those who are eaten, are certainly not eaten by their human servants. the sheep they fat, another kills, to parody shelley; and, after all, is not the labourer, as well as the sheep, eaten by you, my dear society?--devoured body and soul, not the less really because you are longer about the meal, there being an old prejudice against cannibalism, and also against murder--except after the riot act has been read. "what!" shriek the insulted respectabilities, "have we not paid him his wages weekly, and has he not lived upon them?" yes; and have you not given your sheep and horses their daily wages, and have they not lived on them? you wanted to work them; and they could not work, you know, unless they were alive. but here lies your iniquity: you gave the labourer nothing but his daily food--not even his lodgings; the pigs were not stinted of their wash to pay for their sty-room, the man was; and his wages, thanks to your competitive system, were beaten down deliberately and conscientiously (for was it not according to political economy, and the laws thereof?) to the minimum on which he could or would work, without the hope or the possibility of saving a farthing. you know how to invest your capital profitably, dear society, and to save money over and above your income of daily comforts; but what has he saved?--what is he profited by all those years of labour? he has kept body and soul together--perhaps he could have done that without you or your help. but his wages are used up every saturday night. when he stops working, you have in your pocket the whole real profits of his nearly fifty years' labour, and he has nothing. and then you say that you have not eaten him! you know, in your heart of hearts, that you have. else, why in heaven's name do you pay him poor's rates? if, as you say, he has been duly repaid in wages, what is the meaning of that half-a-crown a week?--you owe him nothing. oh! but the man would starve--common humanity forbids? what now, society? give him alms, if you will, on the score of humanity; but do not tax people for his support, whether they choose or not--that were a mere tyranny and robbery. if the landlord's feelings will not allow him to see the labourer starve, let him give, in god's name; but let him not cripple and drain, by compulsory poor-rates, the farmer who has paid him his "just remuneration" of wages, and the parson who probably, out of his scanty income, gives away twice as much in alms as the landlord does out of his superfluous one. no, no; as long as you retain compulsory poor-laws, you confess that it is not merely humane, but just, to pay the labourer more than his wages. you confess yourself in debt to him, over and above an uncertain sum, which it suits you not to define, because such an investigation would expose ugly gaps and patches in that same snug competitive and property world of yours; and, therefore, being the stronger party, you compel your debtor to give up the claim which you confess, for an annuity of half-a-crown a week--that being the just-above-starving-point of the economic thermometer. and yet you say you have not eaten the labourer! you see, we workmen too have our thoughts about political economy, differing slightly from yours, truly--just as the man who is being hanged may take a somewhat different view of the process from the man who is hanging him. which view is likely to be the more practical one? with some such thoughts i walked across the open down, toward a circular camp, the earthwork, probably, of some old british town. inside it, some thousand or so of labouring people were swarming restlessly round a single large block of stone, some relic of druid times, on which a tall man stood, his dark figure thrown out in bold relief against the dreary sky. as we pushed through the crowd, i was struck with the wan, haggard look of all faces; their lacklustre eyes and drooping lips, stooping shoulders, heavy, dragging steps, gave them a crushed, dogged air, which was infinitely painful, and bespoke a grade of misery more habitual and degrading than that of the excitable and passionate artisan. there were many women among them, talking shrilly, and looking even more pinched and wan than the men. i remarked, also, that many of the crowd carried heavy sticks, pitchforks, and other tools which might be used as fearful weapons--an ugly sign, which i ought to have heeded betimes. they glared with sullen curiosity at me and my londoner's clothes, as, with no small feeling of self-importance, i pushed my way to the foot of the stone. the man who stood on it seemed to have been speaking some time. his words, like all i heard that day, were utterly devoid of anything like eloquence or imagination--a dull string of somewhat incoherent complaints, which derived their force only from the intense earnestness, which attested their truthfulness. as far as i can recollect, i will give the substance of what i heard. but, indeed, i heard nothing but what has been bandied about from newspaper to newspaper for years--confessed by all parties, deplored by all parties, but never an attempt made to remedy it. --"the farmers makes slaves on us. i can't hear no difference between a christian and a nigger, except they flogs the niggers and starves the christians; and i don't know which i'd choose. i served farmer * * * * seven year, off and on, and arter harvest he tells me he's no more work for me, nor my boy nether, acause he's getting too big for him, so he gets a little 'un instead, and we does nothing; and my boy lies about, getting into bad ways, like hundreds more; and then we goes to board, and they bids us go and look for work; and we goes up next part to london. i couldn't get none; they'd enough to do, they said, to employ their own; and we begs our way home, and goes into the union; and they turns us out again in two or three days, and promises us work again, and gives us two days' gravel-picking, and then says they has no more for us; and we was sore pinched, and laid a-bed all day; then next board-day we goes to 'em and they gives us one day more--and that threw us off another week, and then next board-day we goes into the union again for three days, and gets sent out again: and so i've been starving one-half of the time, and they putting us off and on o' purpose like that; and i'll bear it no longer, and that's what i says." he came down, and a tall, powerful, well-fed man, evidently in his sunday smock-frock and clean yellow leggings, got up and began: "i hav'n't no complaint to make about myself. i've a good master, and the parson's a right kind 'un, and that's more than all can say, and the squire's a real gentleman; and my master, he don't need to lower his wages. i gets my ten shillings a week all the year round, and harvesting, and a pig, and a 'lotment--and that's just why i come here. if i can get it, why can't you?" "cause our masters baint like yourn." "no, by george, there baint no money round here like that, i can tell you." "and why ain't they?" continued the speaker. "there's the shame on it. there's my master can grow five quarters where yourn only grows three; and so he can live and pay like a man; and so he say he don't care for free trade. you know, as well as i, that there's not half o' the land round here grows what it ought. they ain't no money to make it grow more, and besides, they won't employ no hands to keep it clean. i come across more weeds in one field here, than i've seen for nine year on our farm. why arn't some of you a-getting they weeds up? it 'ud pay 'em to farm better--and they knows that, but they're too lazy; if they can just get a living off the land, they don't care; and they'd sooner save money out of your wages, than save it by growing more corn--it's easier for 'em, it is. there's the work to be done, and they won't let you do it. there's you crying out for work, and work crying out for you--and neither of you can get to the other. i say that's a shame, i do. i say a poor man's a slave. he daren't leave his parish--nobody won't employ him, as can employ his own folk. and if he stays in his parish, it's just a chance whether he gets a good master or a bad 'un. he can't choose, and that's a shame, it is. why should he go starving because his master don't care to do the best by the land? if they can't till the land, i say let them get out of it, and let them work it as can. and i think as we ought all to sign a petition to government, to tell 'em all about it; though i don't see as how they could help us, unless they'd make a law to force the squires to put in nobody to a farm as hasn't money to work it fairly." "i says," said the next speaker, a poor fellow whose sentences were continually broken by a hacking cough, "just what he said. if they can't till the land, let them do it as can. but they won't; they won't let us have a scrap on it, though we'd pay 'em more for it nor ever they'd make for themselves. but they says it 'ud make us too independent, if we had an acre or so o' land; and so it 'ud for they. and so i says as he did--they want to make slaves on us altogether, just to get the flesh and bones off us at their own price. look you at this here down.--if i had an acre on it, to make a garden on, i'd live well with my wages, off and on. why, if this here was in garden, it 'ud be worth twenty, forty times o' that it be now. and last spring i lays out o' work from christmas till barley-sowing, and i goes to the farmer and axes for a bit o' land to dig and plant a few potatoes--and he says, 'you be d--d! if you're minding your garden after hours, you'll not be fit to do a proper day's work for me in hours--and i shall want you by-and-by, when the weather breaks'--for it was frost most bitter, it was. 'and if you gets potatoes you'll be getting a pig--and then you'll want straw, and meal to fat 'un--and then i'll not trust you in my barn, i can tell ye;' and so there it was. and if i'd had only one half-acre of this here very down as we stands on, as isn't worth five shillings a year--and i'd a given ten shillings for it--my belly wouldn't a been empty now. oh, they be dogs in the manger, and the lord'll reward 'em therefor! first they says they can't afford to work the land 'emselves, and then they wain't let us work it ether. then they says prices is so low they can't keep us on, and so they lowers our wages; and then when prices goes up ever so much, our wages don't go up with 'em. so, high prices or low prices, it's all the same. with the one we can't buy bread, and with the other we can't get work. i don't mind free trade--not i: to be sure, if the loaf's cheap, we shall be ruined; but if the loafs dear, we shall be starved, and for that, we is starved now. nobody don't care for us; for my part, i don't much care for myself. a man must die some time or other. only i thinks if we could some time or other just see the queen once, and tell her all about it, she'd take our part, and not see us put upon like that, i do." "gentlemen!" cried my guide, the shoemaker, in a somewhat conceited and dictatorial tone, as he skipped up by the speaker's side, and gently shouldered him down--"it ain't like the ancient times, as i've read off, when any poor man as had a petition could come promiscuously to the king's royal presence, and put it direct into his own hand, and be treated like a gentleman. don't you know as how they locks up the queen now-a-days, and never lets a poor soul come a-near her, lest she should hear the truth of all their iniquities? why they never lets her stir without a lot o' dragoons with drawn swords riding all around her; and if you dared to go up to her to ax mercy, whoot! they'd chop your head off before you could say, 'please your majesty.' and then the hypocrites say as it's to keep her from being frightened--and that's true--for it's frightened she'd be, with a vengeance, if she knowed all that they grand folks make poor labourers suffer, to keep themselves in power and great glory. i tell ye, 'tarn't per-practicable at all, to ax the queen for anything; she's afeard of her life on 'em. you just take my advice, and sign a round-robin to the squires--you tell 'em as you're willing to till the land for 'em, if they'll let you. there's draining and digging enough to be done as 'ud keep ye all in work, arn't there?" "ay, ay; there's lots o' work to be done, if so be we could get at it. everybody knows that." "well, you tell 'em that. tell 'em here's hundreds, and hundreds of ye starving, and willing to work; and then tell 'em, if they won't find ye work, they shall find ye meat. there's lots o' victuals in their larders now; haven't you as good a right to it as their jackanapes o' footmen? the squires is at the bottom of it all. what do you stupid fellows go grumbling at the farmers for? don't they squires tax the land twenty or thirty shillings an acre; and what do they do for that? the best of 'em, if he gets five thousand a year out o' the land, don't give back five hundred in charity, or schools, or poor-rates--and what's that to speak of? and the main of 'em--curse 'em!--they drains the money out o' the land, and takes it up to london, or into foreign parts, to spend on fine clothes and fine dinners; or throws it away at elections, to make folks beastly drunk, and sell their souls for money--and we gets no good on it. i'll tell you what it's come to, my men--that we can't afford no more landlords. we can't afford 'em, and that's the truth of it!" the crowd growled a dubious assent. "oh, yes, you can grumble at the farmers, acause you deals with them first-hand; but you be too stupid to do aught but hunt by sight. i be an old dog, and i hunts cunning. i sees farther than my nose, i does, i larnt politics to london when i was a prentice; and i ain't forgotten the plans of it. look you here. the farmers, they say they can't live unless they can make four rents, one for labour, and one for stock, and one for rent, and one for themselves; ain't that about right? very well; just now they can't make four rents--in course they can't. now, who's to suffer for that?--the farmer as works, or the labourer as works, or the landlord as does nothing? but he takes care on himself. he won't give up his rent--not he. perhaps he might give back ten per cent, and what's that?--two shillings an acre, maybe. what's that, if corn falls two pound a load, and more? then the farmer gets a stinting; and he can't stint hisself, he's bad enough off already; he's forty shillings out o' pocket on every load of wheat--that's eight shillings, maybe, on every acre of his land on a four-course shift--and where's the eight shillings to come from, for the landlord's only given him back two on it? he can't stint hisself, he daren't stint his stock, and so he stints the labourers; and so it's you as pays the landlord's rent--you, my boys, out o' your flesh and bones, you do--and you can't afford it any longer, by the look of you--so just tell 'em so!" this advice seemed to me as sadly unpractical as the rest. in short, there seemed to be no hope, no purpose among them--and they felt it; and i could hear, from the running comment of murmurs, that they were getting every moment more fierce and desperate at the contemplation of their own helplessness--a mood which the next speech was not likely to soften. a pale, thin woman scrambled up on the stone, and stood there, her scanty and patched garments fluttering in the bitter breeze, as, with face sharpened with want, and eyes fierce with misery, she began, in a querulous, 'scornful falsetto: "i am an honest woman. i brought up seven children decently; and never axed the parish for a farden, till my husband died. then they tells me i can support myself and mine--and so i does. early and late i hoed turmits, and early and late i rep, and left the children at home to mind each other; and one on 'em fell into the fire, and is gone to heaven, blessed angel! and two more it pleased the lord to take in the fever; and the next, i hope, will soon be out o' this miserable sinful world. but look you here: three weeks agone, i goes to the board. i had no work. they say they could not relieve me for the first week, because i had money yet to take.--the hypocrites! they knowing as i couldn't but owe it all, and a lot more beside. next week they sends the officer to inquire. that was ten days gone, and we starving. then, on board-day, they gives me two loaves. then, next week, they takes it off again. and when i goes over (five miles) to the board to ax why--they'd find me work--and they never did; so we goes on starving for another week--for no one wouldn't trust us; how could they when we was in debt already a whole lot?--you're all in debt!" "that we are." "there's some here as never made ten shillings a week in their lives, as owes twenty pounds at the shop!" "ay, and more--and how's a man ever to pay that?" "so this week, when i comes, they offers me the house. would i go into the house? they'd be glad to have me, acause i'm strong and hearty and a good nurse. but would i, that am an honest woman, go to live with they offscourings--they"--(she used a strong word)--"would i be parted from my children? would i let them hear the talk, and keep the company as they will there, and learn all sorts o' sins that they never heard on, blessed be god! i'll starve first, and see them starve too--though, lord knows, it's hard.--oh! it's hard," she said, bursting into tears, "to leave them as i did this morning, crying after their breakfasts, and i none to give 'em. i've got no bread--where should i? i've got no fire--how can i give one shilling and sixpence a hundred for coals? and if i did, who'd fetch 'em home? and if i dared break a hedge for a knitch o' wood, they'd put me in prison, they would, with the worst. what be i to do? what be you going to do? that's what i came here for. what be ye going to do for us women--us that starve and stint, and wear our hands off for you men and your children, and get hard words, and hard blows from you? oh! if i was a man, i know what i'd do, i do! but i don't think you be men three parts o' you, or you'd not see the widow and the orphan starve as you do, and sit quiet and grumble, as long as you can keep your own bodies and souls together. eh! ye cowards!" what more she would have said in her excitement, which had risen to an absolute scream, i cannot tell; but some prudent friend pulled her down off the stone, to be succeeded by a speaker more painful, if possible; an aged blind man, the worn-out melancholy of whose slow, feeble voice made my heart sink, and hushed the murmuring crowd into silent awe. slowly he turned his grey, sightless head from side to side, as if feeling for the faces below him--and then began: "i heard you was all to be here--and i suppose you are; and i said i would come--though i suppose they'll take off my pay, if they hear of it. but i knows the reason of it, and the bad times and all. the lord revealed it to me as clear as day, four years agone come easter-tide. it's all along of our sins, and our wickedness--because we forgot him--it is. i mind the old war times, what times they was, when there was smuggled brandy up and down in every public, and work more than hands could do. and then, how we all forgot the lord, and went after our own lusts and pleasures--squires and parsons, and farmers and labouring folk, all alike. they oughted to ha' knowed better--and we oughted too. many's the sunday i spent in skittle-playing and cock-fighting, and the pound i spent in beer, as might ha' been keeping me now. we was an evil and perverse generation--and so one o' my sons went for a sodger, and was shot at waterloo, and the other fell into evil ways, and got sent across seas--and i be left alone for my sins. but the lord was very gracious to me and showed me how it was all a judgment on my sins, he did. he has turned his face from us, and that's why we're troubled. and so i don't see no use in this meeting. it won't do no good; nothing won't do us no good, unless we all repent of our wicked ways, our drinking, and our dirt, and our love-children, and our picking and stealing, and gets the lord to turn our hearts, and to come back again, and have mercy on us, and take us away speedily out of this wretched world, where there's nothing but misery and sorrow, into his everlasting glory, amen! folks say as the day of judgment's a coming soon--and i partly think so myself. i wish it was all over, and we in heaven above; and that's all i have to say." it seemed a not unnatural revulsion, when a tall, fierce man, with a forbidding squint, sprung jauntily on the stone, and setting his arms a-kimbo, broke out: "here be i, blinkey, and i has as good a right to speak as ere a one. you're all blamed fools, you are. so's that old blind buffer there. you sticks like pigs in a gate, hollering and squeeking, and never helping yourselves. why can't you do like me? i never does no work--darned if i'll work to please the farmers. the rich folks robs me, and i robs them, and that's fair and equal. you only turn poachers--you only go stealing turmits, and fire-ud, and all as you can find--and then you'll not need to work. arn't it yourn? the game's no one's, is it now?--you know that. and if you takes turmits or corn, they're yourn--you helped to grow 'em. and if you're put to prison, i tell ye, it's a darned deal warmer, and better victuals too, than ever a one of you gets at home, let alone the union. now i knows the dodge. whenever my wife's ready for her trouble, i gets cotched; then i lives like a prince in gaol, and she goes to the workus; and when it's all over, start fair again. oh, you blockheads'--to stand here shivering with empty bellies.--you just go down to the farm and burn they stacks over the old rascal's head; and then they that let you starve now, will be forced to keep you then. if you can't get your share of the poor-rates, try the county-rates, my bucks--you can get fat on them at the queen's expense--and that's more than you'll do in ever a union as i hear on. who'll come down and pull the farm about the folks' ears? warn't he as turned five on yer off last week? and ain't he more corn there than 'ud feed you all round this day, and won't sell it, just because he's waiting till folks are starved enough, and prices rise? curse the old villain!--who'll help to disappoint him 'o that? come along!" a confused murmur arose, and a movement in the crowd. i felt that now or never was the time to speak. if once the spirit of mad aimless riot broke loose, i had not only no chance of a hearing, but every likelihood of being implicated in deeds which i abhorred; and i sprung on the stone and entreated a few minutes' attention, telling them that i was a deputation from one of the london chartist committees. this seemed to turn the stream of their thoughts, and they gaped in stupid wonder at me as i began hardly less excited than themselves. i assured them of the sympathy of the london working men, made a comment on their own speeches--which the reader ought to be able to make for himself--and told them that i had come to entreat their assistance towards obtaining such a parliamentary representation as would secure them their rights. i explained the idea of the charter, and begged for their help in carrying it out. to all which they answered surlily, that they did not know anything about politics--that what they wanted was bread. i went on, more vehement than ever, to show them how all their misery sprung (as i then fancied) from being unrepresented--how the laws were made by the rich for the poor, and not by all for all--how the taxes bit deep into the necessaries of the labourer, and only nibbled at the luxuries of the rich--how the criminal code exclusively attacked the crimes to which the poor were prone, while it dared not interfere with the subtler iniquities of the high-born and wealthy--how poor-rates, as i have just said, were a confession on the part of society that the labourer was not fully remunerated. i tried to make them see that their interest, as much as common justice, demanded that they should have a voice in the councils of the nation, such as would truly proclaim their wants, their rights, their wrongs; and i have seen no reason since then to unsay my words. to all which they answered, that their stomachs were empty, and they wanted bread. "and bread we will have!" "go, then," i cried, losing my self-possession between disappointment and the maddening desire of influence--and, indeed, who could hear their story, or even look upon their faces, and not feel some indignation stir in him. unless self-interest had drugged his heart and conscience--"go," i cried, "and get bread! after all, you have a right to it. no man is bound to starve. there are rights above all laws, and the right to live is one. laws were made for man, not man for laws. if you had made the laws yourselves, they might bind you even in this extremity; but they were made in spite of you--against you. they rob you, crash you; even now they deny you bread. god has made the earth free to all, like the air and sunshine, and you are shut out from off it. the earth is yours, for you till it. without you it would be a desert. go and demand your share of that corn, the fruit of your own industry. what matter, if your tyrants imprison, murder you?--they can but kill your bodies at once, instead of killing them piecemeal, as they do now; and your blood will cry against them from the ground:--ay, woe!"--i went on, carried away by feelings for which i shall make no apology; for, however confused, there was, and is, and ever will be, a god's truth in them, as this generation will find out at the moment when its own serene self-satisfaction crumbles underneath it--"woe unto those that grind the faces of the poor! woe unto those who add house to house, and field to field, till they stand alone in the land, and there is no room left for the poor man! the wages of their reapers, which they have held back by fraud, cry out against them; and their cry has entered into the ears of the god of heaven--" but i had no time to finish. the murmur swelled into a roar for "bread! bread!" my hearers had taken me at my word. i had raised the spirit; could i command him, now he was abroad? "go to jennings's farm!" "no! he ain't no corn, he sold un' all last week." "there's plenty at the hall farm! rouse out the old steward!" and, amid yells and execrations, the whole mass poured down the hill, sweeping me away with them. i was shocked and terrified at their threats. i tried again and again to stop and harangue them. i shouted myself hoarse about the duty of honesty; warned them against pillage and violence; entreated them to take nothing but the corn which they actually needed; but my voice was drowned in the uproar. still i felt myself in a measure responsible for their conduct; i had helped to excite them, and dare not, in honour, desert them; and trembling, i went on, prepared to see the worst; following, as a flag of distress, a mouldy crust, brandished on the point of a pitchfork. bursting through the rotting and half-fallen palings, we entered a wide, rushy, neglected park, and along an old gravel road, now green with grass, we opened on a sheet of frozen water, and, on the opposite bank, the huge square corpse of a hall, the close-shuttered windows of which gave it a dead and ghastly look, except where here and there a single one showed, as through a black empty eye-socket, the dark unfurnished rooms within. on the right, beneath us, lay, amid tall elms, a large mass of farm-buildings, into the yard of which the whole mob rushed tumultuously--just in time to see an old man on horseback dart out and gallop hatless up the park, amid the yells of the mob. "the old rascal's gone! and he'll call up the yeomanry. we must be quick, boys!" shouted one, and the first signs of plunder showed themselves in an indiscriminate chase after various screaming geese and turkeys; while a few of the more steady went up to the house-door, and knocking, demanded sternly the granary keys. a fat virago planted herself in the doorway, and commenced railing at them, with the cowardly courage which the fancied immunity of their sex gives to coarse women; but she was hastily shoved aside, and took shelter in an upper room, where she stood screaming and cursing at the window. the invaders returned, cramming their mouths with bread, and chopping asunder flitches of bacon. the granary doors were broken open, and the contents scrambled for, amid immense waste, by the starving wretches. it was a sad sight. here was a poor shivering woman, hiding scraps of food under her cloak, and hurrying out of the yard to the children she had left at home. there was a tall man, leaning against the palings, gnawing ravenously at the same loaf as a little boy, who had scrambled up behind him. then a huge blackguard came whistling up to me, with a can of ale. "drink, my beauty! you're dry with hollering by now!" "the ale is neither yours nor mine; i won't touch it." "darn your buttons! you said the wheat was ourn, acause we growed it--and thereby so's the beer--for we growed the barley too." and so thought the rest; for the yard was getting full of drunkards, a woman or two among them, reeling knee-deep in the loose straw among the pigs. "thresh out they ricks!" roared another. "get out the threshing-machine!" "you harness the horses!" "no! there bain't no time. yeomanry'll be here. you mun leave the ricks." "darned if we do. old woods shan't get naught by they." "fire 'em, then, and go on to slater's farm!" "as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb," hiccuped blinkey, as he rushed through the yard with a lighted brand. i tried to stop him, but fell on my face in the deep straw, and got round the barns to the rick-yard just in time to here a crackle--there was no mistaking it; the windward stack was in a blaze of fire. i stood awe-struck--i cannot tell how long--watching how the live flame-snakes crept and hissed, and leapt and roared, and rushed in long horizontal jets from stack to stack before the howling wind, and fastened their fiery talons on the barn-eaves, and swept over the peaked roofs, and hurled themselves in fiery flakes into the yard beyond--the food of man, the labour of years, devoured in aimless ruin!--was it my doing? was it not? at last i recollected myself, and ran round again into the straw-yard, where the fire was now falling fast. the only thing which saved the house was the weltering mass of bullocks, pigs, and human beings drunk and sober, which, trampled out unwittingly the flames as fast as they caught. the fire had seized the roofs of the cart-stables, when a great lubberly boy blubbered out:-- "git my horses out! git my horses out o' the fire! i be so fond o' mun!" "well, they ain't done no harm, poor beasts!" and a dozen men ran in to save them; but the poor wretches, screaming with terror, refused to stir. i never knew what became of them-but their shrieks still haunt my dreams.... the yard now became a pandemonium. the more ruffianly part of the mob--and alas! there were but too many of them--hurled the furniture out of the windows, or ran off with anything that they could carry. in vain i expostulated, threatened; i was answered by laughter, curses, frantic dances, and brandished plunder. then i first found out how large a portion of rascality shelters itself under the wing of every crowd; and at the moment, i almost excused the rich for overlooking the real sufferers, in indignation at the rascals. but even the really starving majority, whose faces proclaimed the grim fact of their misery, seemed gone mad for the moment. the old crust of sullen, dogged patience had broken up, and their whole souls had exploded into reckless fury and brutal revenge--and yet there was no hint of violence against the red fat woman, who, surrounded with her blubbering children, stood screaming and cursing at the first-floor window, getting redder and fatter at every scream. the worst personality she heard was a roar of laughter, in which, such is poor humanity, i could not but join, as her little starved drab of a maid-of-all-work ran out of the door, with a bundle of stolen finery under her arm, and high above the roaring of the flames, and the shouts of the rioters, rose her mistress's yell. "o betsy! betsy! you little awdacious unremorseful hussy!--a running away with my best bonnet and shawl!" the laughter soon, however, subsided, when a man rushed breathless into the yard, shouting, "the yeomanry!" at that sound; to my astonishment, a general panic ensued. the miserable wretches never stopped to enquire how many, or how far off, they were--but scrambled to every outlet of the yard, trampling each other down in their hurry. i leaped up on the wall, and saw, galloping down the park, a mighty armament of some fifteen men, with a tall officer at their head, mounted on a splendid horse. "there they be! there they be! all the varmers, and young squire clayton wi' mun, on his grey hunter! o lord! o lord! and all their swords drawn!" i thought of the old story in herodotus--how the scythian masters returned from war to the rebel slaves who had taken possession of their lands and wives, and brought them down on their knees with terror, at the mere sight of the old dreaded dog-whips. i did not care to run. i was utterly disgusted, disappointed with myself--the people. i longed, for the moment, to die and leave it all; and left almost alone, sat down on a stone, buried my head between my hands, and tried vainly to shut out from my ears the roaring of the fire. at that moment "blinkey" staggered out past me and against me, a writing-desk in his hands, shouting, in his drunken glory, "i've vound ut at last! i've got the old fellow's money! hush! what a vule i be, hollering like that!"--and he was going to sneak off, with a face of drunken cunning, when i sprung up and seized him by the throat. "rascal! robber! lay that down! have you not done mischief enough already?" "i wain't have no sharing. what? do you want un yourself, eh? then we'll see who's the stronger!" and in an instant he shook me from him, and dealt me a blow with the corner of the desk, that laid me on the ground.... i just recollect the tramp of the yeomanry horses, and the gleam and jingle of their arms, as they galloped into the yard. i caught a glimpse of the tall young officer, as his great grey horse swept through the air, over the high yard-pales--a feat to me utterly astonishing. half a dozen long strides--the wretched ruffian, staggering across the field with his booty, was caught up.--the clear blade gleamed in the air--and then a fearful yell--and after that i recollect nothing. * * * * * slowly i recovered my consciousness. i was lying on a truckle-bed--stone walls and a grated window! a man stood over me with a large bunch of keys in his hand. he had been wrapping my head with wet towels. i knew, instinctively, where i was. "well, young man," said he, in a not unkindly tone--"and a nice job you've made of it! do you know where you are?". "yes," answered i, quietly; "in d * * * * gaol." "exactly so!" chapter xxix. the trial. the day was come--quickly, thank heaven; and i stood at the bar, with four or five miserable, haggard labourers, to take my trial for sedition, riot, and arson. i had passed the intervening weeks half stupified with the despair of utter disappointment; disappointment at myself and my own loss of self-possession, which had caused all my misfortune,--perhaps, too, and the thought was dreadful, that of my wretched fellow-sufferers:--disappointment with the labourers, with the cause; and when the thought came over me, in addition, that i was irreparably disgraced in the eyes of my late patrons, parted for ever from lillian by my own folly, i laid down my head and longed to die. then, again, i would recover awhile, and pluck up heart. i would plead my cause myself--i would testify against the tyrants to their face--i would say no longer to their besotted slaves, but to the men themselves, "go to, ye rich men, weep and howl! the hire of your labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is by you kept back by fraud, crieth; and the cries of them that have reaped hath entered into the ears of the lord god of hosts." i would brave my fate--i would die protesting, and glory in my martyrdom. but-- "martyrdom?" said mackaye, who had come down to d * * * *, and was busy night and day about my trial. "ye'll just leave alone the martyr dodge, my puir bairn. ye're na martyr at a', ye'll understand, but a vera foolish callant, that lost his temper, an' cast his pearls before swine--an' very questionable pearls they, too, to judge by the price they fetch i' the market." and then my heart sank again. and a few days before the trial a letter came, evidently in my cousin's handwriting, though only signed with his initials: "sir,--you are in a very great scrape--you will not deny that. how you will get out of it depends on your own common sense. you probably won't be hanged--for nobody believes that you had a hand in burning the farm; but, unless you take care, you will be transported. call yourself john nokes; entrust your case to a clever lawyer, and keep in the background. i warn you, as a friend--if you try to speechify, and play the martyr, and let out who you are, the respectable people who have been patronizing you will find it necessary for their own sakes to clap a stopper on you for good and all, to make you out an impostor and a swindler, and get you out of the way for life: while, if you are quiet, it will suit them to be quiet too, and say nothing about you, if you say nothing about them; and then there will be a chance that they, as well as your own family, will do everything in their power to hush the matter up. so, again, don't let out your real name; and instruct your lawyers to know nothing about the w.'s; and then, perhaps, the queen's counsel will know nothing about them either. mind--you are warned, and woe to you if you are fool enough not to take the warning. "g.l." plead in a false name! never, so help me heaven! to go into court with a lie in my mouth--to make myself an impostor--probably a detected one--it seemed the most cunning scheme for ruining me, which my evil genius could have suggested, whether or not it might serve his own selfish ends. but as for the other hints, they seemed not unreasonable, and promised to save me trouble; while the continued pressure of anxiety and responsibility was getting intolerable to my over-wearied brain. so i showed the letter to mackaye, who then told me that he had taken it for granted that i should come to my right mind, and had therefore already engaged an old compatriot as attorney, and the best counsel which money could procure. "but where did you get the money? you have not surely been spending your own savings on me?" "i canna say that i wadna ha' so dune, in case o' need. but the men in town just subscribit; puir honest fellows." "what! is my folly to be the cause of robbing them of their slender earnings? never, mackaye! besides, they cannot have subscribed enough to pay the barrister whom you just mentioned. tell me the whole truth, or, positively, i will plead my cause myself." "aweel, then, there was a bit bank-note or twa cam' to hand--i canna say whaur fra'. but they that sent it direckit it to be expendit in the defence o' the sax prisoners--whereof ye make ane." again a world of fruitless conjecture. it must be the same unknown friend who had paid my debt to my cousin--lillian? * * * * * and so the day was come. i am not going to make a long picturesque description of my trial--trials have become lately quite hackneyed subjects, stock properties for the fiction-mongers--neither, indeed, could i do so, if i would. i recollect nothing of that day, but fragments--flashes of waking existence, scattered up and down in what seemed to me a whole life of heavy, confused, painful dreams, with the glare of all those faces concentrated on me--those countless eyes which i could not, could not meet--stony, careless, unsympathizing--not even angry--only curious. if they had but frowned on me, insulted me, gnashed their teeth on me, i could have glared back defiance; as it was, i stood cowed and stupified, a craven by the side of cravens. let me see--what can i recollect? those faces--faces--everywhere faces--a faint, sickly smell of flowers--a perpetual whispering and rustling of dresses--and all through it, the voice of some one talking, talking--i seldom knew what, or whether it was counsel, witness, judge, or prisoner, that was speaking. i was like one asleep at a foolish lecture, who hears in dreams, and only wakes when the prosing stops. was it not prosing? what was it to me what they said? they could not understand me--my motives--my excuses; the whole pleading, on my side as well as the crown's, seemed one huge fallacy--beside the matter altogether--never touching the real point at issue, the eternal moral equity of my deeds or misdeeds. i had no doubt that it would all be conducted quite properly, and fairly, and according to the forms of law; but what was law to me--i wanted justice. and so i let them go on their own way, conscious of but one thought--was lillian in the court? i dared not look and see. i dared not lift up my eyes toward the gaudy rows of ladies who had crowded to the "interesting trial of the d * * * * rioters." the torture of anxiety was less than that of certainty might be, and i kept my eyes down, and wondered how on earth the attorneys had found in so simple a case enough to stuff those great blue bags. when, however, anything did seem likely to touch on a reality, i woke up forthwith, in spite of myself. i recollect well, for instance, a squabble about challenging the jurymen; and my counsel's voice of pious indignation, as he asked, "do you call these agricultural gentlemen, and farmers, however excellent and respectable--on which point heaven forbid that i, &c., &c.--the prisoner's 'pares,' peers, equals, or likes? what single interest, opinion, or motive, have they in common, but the universal one of self-interest, which, in this case, happens to pull in exactly opposite directions? your lordship has often animadverted fully and boldly on the practice of allowing a bench of squires to sit in judgment on a poacher; surely it is quite as unjust that agricultural rioters should be tried by a jury of the very class against whom they are accused of rebelling." "perhaps my learned brother would like a jury of rioters?" suggested some queen's counsel. "upon my word, then, it would be much the fairer plan." i wondered whether he would have dared to say as much in the street outside--and relapsed into indifference. i believe there was some long delay, and wrangling about law-quibbles, which seemed likely at one time to quash the whole prosecution, but i was rather glad than sorry to find that it had been overruled. it was all a play, a game of bowls--the bowls happening to be human heads--got up between the lawyers, for the edification of society; and it would have been a pity not to play it out, according to the rules and regulations thereof. as for the evidence, its tenor may be easily supposed from my story. there were those who could swear to my language at the camp. i was seen accompanying the mob to the farm, and haranguing them. the noise was too great for the witnesses to hear all i said, but they were certain i talked about the sacred name of liberty. the farmer's wife had seen me run round to the stacks when they were fired--whether just before or just after, she never mentioned. she had seen me running up and down in front of the house, talking loudly, and gesticulating violently; she saw me, too, struggling with another rioter for her husband's desk;--and the rest of the witnesses, some of whom i am certain i had seen, busy plundering, though they were ready to swear that they had been merely accidental passers-by, seemed to think that they proved their own innocence, and testified their pious indignation, by avoiding carefully any fact which could excuse me. but, somehow, my counsel thought differently; and cross-examined, and bullied, and tormented, and misstated--as he was bound to do; and so one witness after another, clumsy and cowardly enough already, was driven by his engines of torture, as if by a pitiless spell, to deny half that he had deposed truly, and confess a great deal that was utterly false--till confusion became worse confounded, and there seemed no truth anywhere, and no falsehood either, and "naught was everything, and everything was naught;" till i began to have doubts whether the riot had ever occurred at all--and, indeed, doubts of my own identity also, when i had heard the counsel for the crown impute to me personally, as in duty bound, every seditious atrocity which, had been committed either in england or france since . to him, certainly, i did listen tolerably; it was "as good as a play." atheism, blasphemy, vitriol-throwing, and community of women, were among my lighter offences--for had i not actually been engaged in a plot for the destruction of property? how did the court know that i had not spent the night before the riot, as "the doctor" and his friends did before the riots of , in drawing lots for the estates of the surrounding gentlemen, with my deluded dupes and victims?--for of course i, and not want of work, had deluded them into rioting; at least, they never would have known that they were starving, if i had not stirred up their evil passions by daring to inform them of that otherwise impalpable fact. i, the only chartist there? might there not have been dozens of them?--emissaries from london, dressed up as starving labourers, and rheumatic old women? there were actually traces of a plan for seizing all the ladies in the country, and setting up a seraglio of them in d * * * * cathedral. how did the court know that there was not one? ay, how indeed? and how did i know either? i really began to question whether the man might not be right after all. the whole theory seemed so horribly coherent--possible, natural. i might have done it, under possession of the devil, and forgotten it in excitement--i might--perhaps i did. and if there, why not elsewhere? perhaps i had helped jourdan coupe-tête at lyons, and been king of the munster anabaptists--why not? what matter? when would this eternity of wigs, and bonnets, and glaring windows, and ear-grinding prate and jargon, as of a diabolic universe of street organs, end--end--end--and i get quietly hanged, and done with it all for ever? oh, the horrible length of that day! it seemed to me as if i had been always on my trial, ever since i was born. i wondered at times how many years ago it had all begun. i felt what a far stronger and more single-hearted patriot than i, poor somerville, says of himself under the torture of the sergeant's cat, in a passage, whose horrible simplicity and unconscious pathos have haunted me ever since i read it; how, when only fifty out of his hundred lashes had fallen on the bleeding back, "_the time since they began was like a long period of life: i felt as if i had lived all the time of my real life in torture, and, that the days when existence had a pleasure, in it were a dream long, long gone by._" the reader may begin to suspect that i was fast going mad; and i believe i was. if he has followed my story with a human heart, he may excuse me of any extreme weakness, if i did at moments totter on the verge of that abyss. what saved me, i believe now, was the keen, bright look of love and confidence which flashed on me from crossthwaite's glittering eyes, when he was called forward as a witness to my character. he spoke out like a man, i hear, that day. but the counsel for the crown tried to silence him triumphantly, by calling on him to confess himself a chartist; as if a man must needs be a liar and a villain because he holds certain opinions about the franchise! however that was, i heard, the general opinion of the court. and then crossthwaite lost his temper and called the queen's counsel a hired bully, and so went down; having done, as i was told afterwards, no good to me. and then there followed a passage of tongue fence between mackaye and some barrister, and great laughter at the barrister's expense; and then. i heard the old man's voice rise thin and clear: "let him that is without sin amang ye, cast the first stane!" and as he went down he looked at me--a look full of despair. i never had had a ray of hope from the beginning; but now i began to think whether men suffered much when they were hung, and whether one woke at once into the next life, or had to wait till the body had returned to the dust, and watch the ugly process of one's own decay. i was not afraid of death--i never experienced that sensation. i am not physically brave. i am as thoroughly afraid of pain as any child can be; but that next world has never offered any prospect to me, save boundless food for my insatiable curiosity. * * * * * but at that moment my attorney thrust into my hand a little dirty scrap of paper. "do you know this man?" i read it. "sir,--i wull tell all truthe. mr. locke is a murdered man if he be hanged. lev me spek out, for love of the lord. "j. davis." no. i never had heard of him; and i let the paper fall. a murdered man? i had known that all along. had not the queen's counsel been trying all day to murder me, as was their duty, seeing that they got their living thereby? a few moments after, a labouring man was in the witness-box; and to my astonishment, telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. i will not trouble the reader with his details, for they were simply and exactly what i have already stated. he was badgered, bullied, cross-examined, but nothing could shake him. with that dogged honesty, and laconic dignity, which is the good side of the english peasant's character, he stood manfully to his assertion--that i had done everything that words or actions could do to prevent violence, even to the danger of my own personal safety. he swore to the words which i used when trying to wrest the desk from the man who had stolen it; and when the queen's counsel asked him, tauntingly, who had set him on bringing his new story there at the eleventh hour, he answered, equally to the astonishment of his questioner, and of me, "muster locke, hisself." "what! the prisoner?" almost screamed the counsellor, who fancied, i suppose, that he had stumbled on a confession of unblushing bribery. "yes, he; he there. as he went up over hill to meeting he met my two boys a shep-minding; and, because the cutter was froze, he stop and turn the handle for 'em for a matter of ten minutes; and i was coming up over field, and says i, i'll hear what that chap's got to say--there can't be no harm in going up arter the likes of he; for, says i to myself, a man can't have got any great wickedness a plotting in he's head, when he'll stop a ten minutes to help two boys as he never sot eyes on afore in his life; and i think their honours'll say the same." whether my reader will agree or not with the worthy fellow, my counsel, i need not say, did, and made full use of his hint. all the previous evidence was now discovered to have corroborated the last witness, except where it had been notoriously overthrown. i was extolled as a miracle of calm benevolence; and black became grey, and grey became spotless white, and the whole feeling of the court seemed changed in my favour; till the little attorney popped up his head and whispered to me: "by george! that last witness has saved your life." to which i answered, "very well"--and turned stupidly back upon that nightmare thought--was lillian in the court? * * * * * at last, a voice, the judge's i believe, for it was grave, gentle, almost compassionate, asked us one by one whether we had anything to say in our own defence. i recollect an indistinct murmur from one after another of the poor semi-brutes on my left; and then my attorney looking up to me, made me aware that i was expected to speak. on the moment, somehow, my whole courage returned to me. i felt that i must unburden my heart, now or never. with a sudden effort i roused myself, and looking fixedly and proudly at the reverend face opposite, began: "the utmost offence which has been proved against me is a few bold words, producing consequences as unexpected as illogical. if the stupid ferocity with which my words were misunderstood, as by a horde of savages rather than englishmen;--if the moral and physical condition of these prisoners at my side;--of those witnesses who have borne testimony against me, miserable white slaves, miscalled free labourers;--ay, if a single walk through the farms and cottages on which this mischief was bred, affords no excuse for one indignant sentence--" there she was! there she had been all the time--right opposite to me, close to the judge--cold, bright, curious--smiling! and as our eyes met, she turned away, and whispered gaily something to a young man who sat beside her. every drop of blood in my body rushed into my forehead; the court, the windows, and the faces, whirled round and round, and i fell senseless on the floor of the dock. * * * * * i next recollect some room or other in the gaol, mackaye with both my hands in his; and the rough kindly voice of the gaoler congratulating me on having "only got three years." "but you didn't show half a good pluck," said some one. "there's two on 'em transported, took it as bold as brass, and thanked the judge for getting 'em out 'o this starving place 'free gracious for nothing," says they." "ah!" quoth the little attorney, rubbing his hands, "you should have seen * * * * and * * * * after the row in ' ! they were the boys for the bull ring! gave a barrister as good as he brought, eh, mr. mackaye? my small services, you remember, were of no use, really no use at all--quite ashamed to send in my little account. managed the case themselves, like two patriotic parties as they were, with a degree of forensic acuteness, inspired by the consciousness of a noble cause--ahem! you remember, friend m.? grand triumphs those, eh?" "ay," said sandy, "i mind them unco weel--they cost me a' my few savings, mair by token; an' mony a braw fallow paid for ither folks' sins that tide. but my puir laddie here's no made o' that stuff. he's ower thin-skinned for a patriot." "ah, well--this little taste of british justice will thicken his hide for him, eh?" and the attorney chuckled and winked. "he'll come out again as tough as a bull dog, and as surly too. eh, mr. mackaye?--eh?" "'deed, then, i'm unco sair afeard that your opeenion is no a'thegither that improbable," answered sandy with a drawl of unusual solemnity. chapter xxx. prison thoughts. i was alone in my cell. three years' imprisonment! thirty-six months!--one thousand and ninety-five days--and twenty-four whole hours in each of them! well--i should sleep half the time: one-third at least. perhaps i should not be able to sleep! to lie awake, and think--there! the thought was horrible--it was all horrible. to have three whole years cut out of my life, instead of having before me, as i had always as yet had, a mysterious eldorado of new schemes and hopes, possible developments, possible triumphs, possible bliss--to have nothing, nothing before me but blank and stagnation, dead loss and waste: and then to go out again, and start once more where i had left off yesterday! it should not be! i would not lose these years! i would show myself a man; they should feel my strength just when they fancied they had crushed me utterly! they might bury me, but i should rise again!--i should rise again more glorious, perhaps to be henceforth immortal, and live upon the lips of men. i would educate myself; i would read--what would i not read? these three years should be a time of sacred retirement and contemplation, as of thebaid anchorite, or mahomet in his arabian cave. i would write pamphlets that should thunder through the land, and make tyrants tremble on their thrones! all england--at least all crushed and suffering hearts--should break forth at my fiery words into one roar of indignant sympathy. no--i would write a poem; i would concentrate all my experience, my aspirations, all the hopes, and wrongs, and sorrows of the poor, into one garland of thorns--one immortal epic of suffering. what should i call it? and i set to work deliberately--such a thing is man--to think of a title. i looked up, and my eye caught the close bars of the little window; and then came over me, for the first time, the full meaning of that word--prison; that word which the rich use so lightly, knowing well that there is no chance, in these days, of there ever finding themselves in one; for the higher classes never break the laws--seeing that they have made them to fit themselves. ay, i was in prison. i could not go out or come in at will. i was watched, commanded at every turn. i was a brute animal, a puppet, a doll, that children put away in a cupboard, and there it lies. and yet my whole soul was as wide, fierce, roving, struggling as ever. horrible contradiction! the dreadful sense of helplessness, the crushing weight of necessity, seemed to choke me. the smooth white walls, the smooth white ceiling, seemed squeezing in closer and closer on me, and yet dilating into vast inane infinities, just as the merest knot of mould will transform itself, as one watches it, and nothing else, into enormous cliffs, long slopes of moor, and spurs of mountain-range. oh, those smooth white walls and ceilings! if there had but been a print--a stain of dirt--a cobweb, to fleck their unbroken ghastliness! they stared at me, like grim, impassive, featureless formless fiends; all the more dreadful for their sleek, hypocritic cleanliness--purity as of a saint-inquisitor watching with spotless conscience the victim on the rack. they choked me--i gasped for breath, stretched out my arms, rolled shrieking on the floor--the narrow chequered glimpse of free blue sky, seen through the window, seemed to fade dimmer and dimmer, farther and farther off. i sprang up, as if to follow it--rushed to the bars, shook and wrenched at them with my thin, puny arms--and stood spell-bound, as i caught sight of the cathedral towers, standing out in grand repose against the horizontal fiery bars of sunset, like great angels at the gates of paradise, watching in stately sorrow all the wailing and the wrong below. and beneath, beneath--the well-known roofs--lillian's home, and all its proud and happy memories! it was but a corner of a gable, a scrap of garden, that i could see beyond intervening roofs and trees--but could i mistake them? there was the very cedar-tree; i knew its dark pyramid but too well! there i had walked by her; there, just behind that envious group of chestnuts, she was now. the light was fading; it must be six o'clock; she must be in her room now, dressing herself for dinner, looking so beautiful! and as i gazed, and gazed, all the intervening objects became transparent and vanished before the intensity of my imagination. were my poems in her room still? perhaps she had thrown them away--the condemned rioter's poems! was she thinking of me? yes--with horror and contempt. well, at least she was thinking of me. and she would understand me at last--she must. some day she would know all i had borne for love of her--the depth, the might, the purity of my adoration. she would see the world honouring me, in the day of my triumph, when i was appreciated at last; when i stood before the eyes of admiring men, a people's singer, a king of human spirits, great with the rank which genius gives, then she would find out what a man had loved her: then she would know the honour, the privilege of a poet's worship. --but that trial scene. ay--that trial scene. that cold unmoved smile!--when she knew me, must have known me, not to be the wretch which those hired slanderers had called me. if she had cared for me--if she had a woman's heart in her at all, any pity, any justice, would she not have spoken? would she not have called on others to speak, and clear me of the calumny? nonsense! impossible! she--so frail, tender, retiring--how could she speak? how did i know that she had not felt for me? it was woman's nature--duty, to conceal her feelings; perhaps that after all was the true explanation of that smile. perhaps, too, she might have spoken--might be even now pleading for me in secret; not that i wished to be pardoned--not i--but it would be so delicious to have her, her, pleading for me! perhaps--perhaps i might hear of her--from her! surely she could not leave me here so close, without some token! and i actually listened, i know not how long, expecting the door to open, and a message to arrive; till, with my eyes riveted on that bit of gable, and my ears listening behind me like a hare's in her form, to catch every sound in the ward outside, i fell fast asleep, and forgot all in the heavy dreamless torpor of utter mental and bodily exhaustion. i was awakened by the opening of my cell door and the appearance of the turnkey. "well, young man, all right again? you've had a long nap; and no wonder, you've had a hard time of it lately; and a good lesson, to you, too." "how long have i slept? i do not recollect going to bed. and how came i to lie down without undressing?" "i found you, at lock-up hours, asleep there kneeling on the chair, with your head on the window-sill; and a mercy you hadn't tumbled off and broke your back. now, look here.--you seems a civil sort of chap; and civil gets as civil gives with me. only don't you talk no politics. they ain't no good to nobody, except the big 'uns, wot gets their living thereby; and i should think you'd had dose enough on 'em to last for a month of sundays. so just get yourself tidy, there's a lad, and come along with me to chapel." i obeyed him, in that and other things; and i never received from him, or, indeed, from any one else there, aught but kindness. i have no complaint to make--but prison is prison. as for talking politics, i never, during those three years, exchanged as many sentences with any of my fellow-prisoners. what had i to say to them? poachers and petty thieves--the scum of misery, ignorance, and rascality throughout the country. if my heart yearned toward them at times, it was generally shut close by the exclusive pride of superior intellect and knowledge. i considered it, as it was, a degradation to be classed with such; never asking myself how far i had brought that degradation on myself; and i loved to show my sense of injustice by walking, moody and silent, up and down a lonely corner of the yard; and at last contrived, under the plea of ill health (and, truly, i never was ten minutes without coughing), to confine myself entirely to my cell, and escape altogether the company of a class whom i despised, almost hated, as my betrayers, before whom i had cast away my pearls--questionable though they were according to mackaye. oh! there is in the intellectual workman's heart, as in all others, the root of pharisaism--the lust after self-glorifying superiority, on the ground of "genius." we too are men; frail, selfish, proud as others. the days are past, thank god, when the "gentlemen button-makers," used to insist on a separate tap-room from the mere "button-makers," on the ground of earning a few more shillings per week. but we are not yet thorough democrats, my brothers; we do not yet utterly believe our own loud doctrine of equality; nor shall we till--but i must not anticipate the stages of my own experience. * * * * * i complain of no one, again i say--neither of judge, jury, gaolers, or chaplain. true, imprisonment was the worst possible remedy for my disease that could have been devised, if, as the new doctrine is, punishments are inflicted only to reform the criminal. what could prison do for me, but embitter and confirm all my prejudices? but i do not see what else they could have done with me while law is what it is, and perhaps ever will be; dealing with the overt acts of the poor, and never touching the subtler and more spiritual iniquities of the rich respectable. when shall we see a nation ruled, not by the law, by the gospel; not in the letter which kills, but in the spirit which is love, forgiveness, life? when? god knows! and god does know. * * * * * but i did work, during those three years, for months at a time, steadily and severely; and with little profit, alas! to my temper of mind. i gorged my intellect, for i could do nothing else. the political questions which i longed to solve in some way or other, were tabooed by the well-meaning chaplain. he even forbid me a standard english work on political economy, which i had written to mackaye to borrow for me; he was not so careful, it will be seen hereafter, with foreign books. he meant, of course, to keep my mind from what he considered at once useless and polluting; but the only effect of his method was, that all the doubts and questions remained, rankling and fierce, imperiously demanding my attention, and had to be solved by my own moody and soured meditations, warped and coloured by the strong sense of universal wrong. then he deluged me with tracts, weak and well-meaning, which informed me that "christians," being "not of this world," had nothing to do with politics; and preached to me the divine right of kings, passive obedience to the powers--or impotences--that be, &c., &c., with such success as may be imagined. i opened them each, read a few sentences, and laid them by. "they were written by good men, no doubt; but men who had an interest in keeping up the present system;" at all events by men who knew nothing of my temptations, my creed, my unbelief; who saw all heaven and earth from a station antipodal to my own; i had simply nothing to do with them. and yet, excellent man! pious, benignant, compassionate! god forbid that i should, in writing these words, allow myself a desire so base as that of disparaging thee! however thy words failed of their purpose, that bright, gentle, earnest face never appeared without bringing balm to the wounded spirit. hadst thou not recalled me to humanity, those three years would have made a savage and madman of me. may god reward thee hereafter! thou hast thy reward on earth in the gratitude of many a broken heart bound up, of drunkards sobered, thieves reclaimed, and outcasts taught to look for a paternal home denied them here on earth! while such thy deeds, what matter thine opinions? but alas! (for the truth must be told, as a warning to those who have to face the educated working men,) his opinions did matter to himself. the good man laboured under the delusion, common enough, of choosing his favourite weapons from his weakest faculty; and the very inferiority of his intellect prevented him from seeing where his true strength lay. he _would_ argue; he would try and convert me from scepticism by what seemed to him reasoning, the common figure of which was, what logicians, i believe, call begging the question; and the common method, what they call _ignoratio elenchi_--shooting at pigeons, while crows are the game desired. he always started by demanding my assent to the very question which lay at the bottom of my doubts. he would wrangle and wrestle blindly up and down, with tears of earnestness in his eyes, till he had lost his temper, as far as it was possible for one so angel-guarded as he seemed to be; and then, when he found himself confused, contradicting his own words, making concessions at which he shuddered, for the sake of gaining from me assents which he found out the next moment i understood in quite a different sense from his, he would suddenly shift his ground, and try to knock me down authoritatively with a single text of scripture; when all the while i wanted proof that scripture had any authority at all. he carefully confined himself, too, throughout, to the dogmatic phraseology of the pulpit; while i either did not understand, or required justification for, the strange, far-fetched, technical meanings, which he attached to his expressions. if he would only have talked english!--if clergymen would only preach in english!--and then they wonder that their sermons have no effect! their notion seems to be, as my good chaplain's was, that the teacher is not to condescend to the scholar, much less to become all things to all men, if by any means he may save some; but that he has a right to demand that the scholar shall ascend to him before he is taught; that he shall raise himself up of his own strength into the teacher's region of thought as well as feeling; to do for himself, in short, under penalty of being called an unbeliever, just what the preacher professes to do for him. at last, he seemed dimly to discover that i could not acquiesce in his conclusions, while i denied his premises; and so he lent me, in an ill-starred moment, "paley's evidences," and some tracts of the last generation against deism. i read them, and remained, as hundreds more have done, just where i was before. "was paley," i asked, "a really good and pious man?" the really good and pious man hemmed and hawed. "because, if he was not, i can't trust a page of his special pleading, let it look as clever as the whole old bailey in one." besides, i never denied the existence of jesus of nazareth, or his apostles. i doubted the myths and doctrines, which i believed to have been gradually built up round the true story. the fact was, he was, like most of his class, "attacking extinct satans," fighting manfully against voltaire, volney, and tom paine; while i was fighting for strauss, hennell, and emerson. and, at last, he gave me up for some weeks as a hopeless infidel, without ever having touched the points on which i disbelieved. he had never read strauss--hardly even heard of him; and, till clergymen make up their minds to do that, and to answer strauss also, they will, as he did, leave the heretic artisan just where they found him. the bad effect which all this had on my mind may easily be conceived. i felt myself his intellectual superior. i tripped him up, played with him, made him expose his weaknesses, till i really began to despise him. may heaven forgive me for it! but it was not till long afterwards that i began, on looking back, to see how worthless was any superior cleverness of mine before his superior moral and spiritual excellence. that was just what he would not let me see at the time. i was worshipping intellect, mere intellect; and thence arose my doubts; and he tried to conquer them by exciting the very faculty which had begotten them. when will the clergy learn that their strength is in action, and not in argument? if they are to reconvert the masses, it must be by noble deeds, as carlyle says; "not by noisy theoretic laudation of _a_ church, but by silent practical demonstration of _the_ church." * * * * * but, the reader may ask, where was your bible all this time? yes--there was a bible in my cell--and the chaplain read to me, both privately and in chapel, such portions of it as he thought suited my case, or rather his utterly-mistaken view thereof. but, to tell the truth, i cared not to read or listen. was it not the book of the aristocrats--of kings and priests, passive obedience, and the slavery of the intellect? had i been thrown under the influence of the more educated independents in former years, i might have thought differently. they, at least, have contrived, with what logical consistence i know not, to reconcile orthodox christianity with unflinching democratic opinions. but such was not my lot. my mother, as i said in my first chapter, had become a baptist; because she believed that sect, and as i think rightly, to be the only one which logically and consistently carries out the calvinistic theory; and now i looked back upon her delight in gideon and barak, samson and jehu, only as the mystic application of rare exceptions to the fanaticism of a chosen few--the elect--the saints, who, as the fifth-monarchy men held, were one day to rule the world with a rod of iron. and so i fell--willingly, alas!--into the vulgar belief about the politics of scripture, common alike--strange unanimity!--to infidel and churchman. the great idea that the bible is the history of mankind's deliverance from all tyranny, outward as well as inward; of the jews, as the one free constitutional people among a world of slaves and tyrants; of their ruin, as the righteous fruit of a voluntary return to despotism; of the new testament, as the good news that freedom, brotherhood, and equality, once confided only to judæa and to greece, and dimly seen even there, was henceforth to be the right of all mankind, the law of all society--who was there to tell me that? who is there now to go forth and tell it to the millions who have suffered, and doubted, and despaired like me, and turn the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, before the great and terrible day of the lord come? again i ask--who will go forth and preach that gospel, and save his native land? but, as i said before, i read, and steadily. in the first place, i, for the first time in my life, studied shakspeare throughout; and found out now the treasure which i had overlooked. i assure my readers i am not going to give a lecture on him here, as i was minded to have done. only, as i am asking questions, who will write us a "people's commentary on shakspeare"? then i waded, making copious notes and extracts, through the whole of hume, and hallam's "middle ages," and "constitutional history," and found them barren to my soul. when (to ask a third and last question) will some man, of the spirit of carlyle--one who is not ashamed to acknowledge the intervention of a god, a providence, even of a devil, in the affairs of men--arise, and write a "people's history of england"? then i laboured long months at learning french, for the mere purpose of reading french political economy after my liberation. but at last, in my impatience, i wrote to sandy to send me proudhon and louis blanc, on the chance of their passing the good chaplain's censorship--and behold, they passed! he had never heard their names! he was, i suspect, utterly ignorant of french, and afraid of exposing his ignorance by venturing to criticise. as it was, i was allowed peaceable possession of them till within a few months of my liberation, with such consequences as may be imagined: and then, to his unfeigned terror and horror, he discovered, in some periodical, that he had been leaving in my hands books which advocated "the destruction of property," and therefore, in his eyes, of all which is moral or sacred in earth or heaven! i gave them up without a struggle, so really painful was the good soul's concern and the reproaches which he heaped, not on me--he never reproached me in his life--but on himself, for having so neglected his duty. then i read hard for a few months at physical science--at zoology and botany, and threw it aside again in bitterness of heart. it was too bitter to be tantalized with the description of nature's wondrous forms, and i there a prisoner between those four white walls. then i set to work to write an autobiography--at least to commit to paper in regular order the most striking incidents and conversations which i could recollect, and which i had noted down as they occurred in my diary. from that source i have drawn nearly the whole of my history up to this point. for the rest i must trust to memory--and, indeed, the strange deeds and sufferings, and yet stranger revelations, of the last few months, have branded themselves deep enough upon my brain. i need not hope, or fear, that aught of them should slip my memory. * * * * * so went the weary time. week after week, month after month, summer after summer, i scored the days off, like a lonely school boy, on the pages of a calendar; and day by day i went to my window, and knelt there, gazing at the gable and the cedar-tree. that was my only recreation. sometimes, at first, my eyes used to wander over the wide prospect of rich lowlands, and farms, and hamlets, and i used to amuse myself with conjectures about the people who lived in them, and walked where they liked on god's earth: but soon i hated to look at the country; its perpetual change and progress mocked the dreary sameness of my dungeon. it was bitter, maddening, to see the grey boughs grow green with leaves, and the green fade to autumnal yellow, and the grey boughs reappear again, and i still there! the dark sleeping fallows bloomed with emerald blades of corn, and then the corn grew deep and crisp, and blackened before the summer breeze, in "waves of shadow," as mr. tennyson says in one of his most exquisite lyrics; and then the fields grew white to harvest day by day, and i saw the rows of sheaves rise one by one, and the carts crawling homeward under their load. i could almost hear the merry voices of the children round them--children that could go into the woods, and pick wild flowers, and i still there! no--i would look at nothing but the gable and the cedar-tree, and the tall cathedral towers; there was no change in them--they did not laugh at me. but she who lived beneath them? months and seasons crawled along, and yet no sign or hint of her! i was forgotten, forsaken! and yet i gazed, and gazed. i could not forget her; i could not forget what she had been to me. eden was still there, though i was shut out from it for ever: and so, like a widower over the grave of her he loves, morning and evening i watched the gable and the cedar-tree. and my cousin? ah, that was the thought, the only thought, which made my life intolerable! what might he not be doing in the meantime? i knew his purpose, i knew his power. true, i had never seen a hint, a glance, which could have given him hope; but he had three whole years to win her in--three whole years, and i fettered, helpless, absent! "fool! could i have won her if i had been free? at least, i would have tried: we would have fought it fairly out, on even ground; we would have seen which was the strongest, respectability and cunning, or the simplicity of genius. but now!"--and i tore at the bars of the window, and threw myself on the floor of my cell, and longed to die. chapter xxxi. the new church. in a poor suburb of the city, which i could see well enough from my little window, a new gothic church was building. when i first took up my abode in the cell, it was just begun--the walls had hardly risen above the neighbouring sheds and garden-fences. but month after month i had watched it growing; i had seen one window after another filled with tracery, one buttress after another finished off with its carved pinnacle; then i had watched the skeleton of the roof gradually clothed in tiling; and then the glazing of the windows--some of them painted, i could see, from the iron network which was placed outside them the same day. then the doors were put up--were they going to finish that handsome tower? no: it was left with its wooden cap, i suppose for further funds. but the nave, and the deep chancel behind it, were all finished, and surmounted by a cross,--and beautifully enough the little sanctuary looked, in the virgin-purity of its spotless freestone. for eighteen months i watched it grow before my eyes--and i was still in my cell! and then there was a grand procession of surplices and lawn sleeves; and among them i fancied i distinguished the old dean's stately figure, and turned my head away, and looked again, and fancied i distinguished another figure--it must have been mere imagination--the distance was far too great for me to identify any one; but i could not get out of my head the fancy--say rather, the instinct--that it was my cousin's; and that it was my cousin whom i saw daily after that, coming out and going in--when the bell rang to morning and evening prayers--for there were daily services there, and saint's day services, and lent services, and three services on a sunday, and six or seven on good friday and easter-day. the little musical bell above the chancel-arch seemed always ringing: and still that figure haunted me like a nightmare, ever coming in and going out about its priestly calling--and i still in my cell! if it should be he!--so close to her! i shuddered at the thought; and, just because it was so intolerable, it clung to me, and tormented me, and kept me awake at nights, till i became utterly unable to study quietly, and spent hours at the narrow window, watching for the very figure i loathed to see. and then a gothic school-house rose at the churchyard end, and troops of children poured in and out, and women came daily for alms; and when the frosts came on, every morning i saw a crowd, and soup carried away in pitchers, and clothes and blankets given away; the giving seemed endless, boundless; and i thought of the times of the roman empire and the "sportula," when the poor had got to live upon the alms of the rich, more and more, year by year--till they devoured their own devourers, and the end came; and i shuddered. and yet it was a pleasant sight, as every new church is to the healthy-minded man, let his religious opinions be what they may. a fresh centre of civilization, mercy, comfort for weary hearts, relief from frost and hunger; a fresh centre of instruction, humanizing, disciplining, however meagre in my eyes, to hundreds of little savage spirits; altogether a pleasant sight, even to me there in my cell. and i used to wonder at the wasted power of the church--her almost entire monopoly of the pulpits, the schools, the alms of england; and then thank heaven, somewhat prematurely, that she knew and used so little her vast latent power for the destruction of liberty. or for its realization? ay, that is the question! we shall not see it solved--at least, i never shall. but still that figure haunted me; all through that winter i saw it, chatting with old women, patting children's heads, walking to the church with ladies; sometimes with a tiny, tripping figure.--i did not dare to let myself fancy who that might be. * * * * * december passed, and january came. i had now only two months more before my deliverance. one day i seemed to myself to have passed a whole life in that narrow room; and the next, the years and months seemed short and blank as a night's sleep on waking; and there was no salient point in all my memory, since that last sight of lillian's smile, and the faces and the window whirling round me as i fell. at last a letter came from mackaye. "ye speired for news o' your cousin--an' i find he's a neebour o' yours; ca'd to a new kirk i' the city o' your captivity--an' na stickit minister he makes, forbye he's ane o' these new puseyite sectarians, to judge by your uncle's report. i met the auld bailie-bodie on the street, and was gaun to pass him by, but he was sae fou o' good news he could na but stop an' ha' a crack wi' me on politics; for we ha' helpit thegither in certain municipal clamjamfries o' late. an' he told me your cousin wins honour fast, an' maun surely die a bishop--puir bairn! an' besides that he's gaun to be married the spring. i dinna mind the leddy's name; but there's tocher wi' lass o' his i'll warrant. he's na laird o' cockpen, for a penniless lass wi' a long pedigree." as i sat meditating over this news--which made the torment of suspicion and suspense more intolerable than ever--behold a postscript added some two days after. "oh! oh! sic news! gran news! news to make baith the ears o' him that heareth it to tingle. god is god, an' no the deevil after a'! louis philippe is doun!--doun, doun, like a dog, and the republic's proclaimed, an' the auld villain here in england, they say, a wanderer an' a beggar. i ha' sent ye the paper o' the day. ps.-- , , . oh, the psalms are full o't! never say the bible's no true, mair. i've been unco faithless mysel', god forgive me! i got grieving to see the wicked in sic prosperity. i did na gang into the sanctuary eneugh, an' therefore i could na see the end of these men--how he does take them up suddenly after all, an' cast them doun: vanish they do, perish, an' come to a fearful end. yea, like as a dream when one awaketh, so shalt thou make their image to vanish out of the city. oh, but it's a day o' god! an' yet i'm sair afraid for they puir feckless french. i ha' na faith, ye ken, in the celtic blude, an' its spirit o' lees. the saxon spirit o' covetize is a grewsome house-fiend, and sae's our norse speerit o' shifts an' dodges; but the spirit o' lees is warse. puir lustful reubens that they are!--unstable as water, they shall not excel. well, well--after all, there is a god that judgeth the earth; an' when a man kens that, he's learnt eneugh to last him till he dies." chapter xxxii. the tower of babel. a glorious people vibrated again the lightning of the nations; liberty from heart to heart, from tower to tower, o'er france, scattering contagious fire into the sky, gleamed. my soul spurned the chains of its dismay; and in the rapid plumes of song clothed itself sublime and strong. sublime and strong? alas! not so. an outcast, heartless, faithless, and embittered, i went forth from my prison.--but yet louis philippe had fallen! and as i whirled back to babylon and want, discontent and discord, my heart was light, my breath came thick and fierce.--the incubus of france had fallen! and from land to land, like the beacon-fire which leaped from peak to peak proclaiming troy's downfall, passed on the glare of burning idols, the crash of falling anarchies. was i mad, sinful? both--and yet neither. was i mad and sinful, if on my return to my old haunts, amid the grasp of loving hands and the caresses of those who called me in their honest flattery a martyr and a hero--what things, as carlyle says, men will fall down and worship in their extreme need!--was i mad and sinful, if daring hopes arose, and desperate words were spoken, and wild eyes read in wild eyes the thoughts they dare not utter? "liberty has risen from the dead, and we too will be free!" yes, mad and sinful; therefore are we as we are. yet god has forgiven us--perhaps so have those men whose forgiveness is alone worth having. liberty? and is that word a dream, a lie, the watchword only of rebellious fiends, as bigots say even now? our forefathers spoke not so-- the shadow of her coming fell on saxon alfred's olive-tinctured brow. had not freedom, progressive, expanding, descending, been the glory and the strength of england? were magna charta and the habeas corpus act, hampden's resistance to ship-money, and the calm, righteous might of --were they all futilities and fallacies? ever downwards, for seven hundred years, welling from the heaven-watered mountain peaks of wisdom, had spread the stream of liberty. the nobles had gained their charter from john; the middle classes from william of orange: was not the time at hand, when from a queen, more gentle, charitable, upright, spotless, than had ever sat on the throne of england, the working masses in their turn should gain their charter? if it was given, the gift was hers: if it was demanded to the uttermost, the demand would be made, not on her, but on those into whose hands her power had passed, the avowed representatives neither of the crown nor of the people, but of the very commercial class which was devouring us. such was our dream. insane and wicked were the passions which accompanied it; insane and wicked were the means we chose; and god in his mercy to us, rather than to mammon, triumphant in his iniquity, fattening his heart even now for a spiritual day of slaughter more fearful than any physical slaughter which we in our folly had prepared for him--god frustrated them. we confess our sins. shall the chartist alone be excluded from the promise, "if we confess our sins, god is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and cleanse us from all unrighteousness"? and yet, were there no excuses for us? i do not say for myself--and yet three years of prison might be some excuse for a soured and harshened spirit--but i will not avail myself of the excuse; for there were men, stancher chartists than ever i had been--men who had suffered not only imprisonment, but loss of health and loss of fortune; men whose influence with the workmen was far wider than my own, and whose temptations were therefore all the greater, who manfully and righteously kept themselves aloof from all those frantic schemes, and now reap their reward, in being acknowledged as the true leaders of the artizans, while the mere preachers of sedition are scattered to the winds. but were there no excuses for the mass? was there no excuse in the spirit with which the english upper classes regarded the continental revolutions? no excuse in the undisguised dislike, fear, contempt, which they expressed for that very sacred name of liberty, which had been for ages the pride of england and her laws-- the old laws of england, they whose reverend heads with age are grey-- children of a wiser day-- and whose solemn voice must be thine own echo, liberty! for which, according to the latest improvements, is now substituted a bureaucracy of despotic commissions? shame upon those who sneered at the very name of her to whom they owed the wealth they idolize! who cry down liberty because god has given it to them in such priceless abundance, boundless as the sunshine and the air of heaven, that they are become unconscious of it as of the elements by which they live! woe to those who despise the gift of god! woe to those who have turned his grace into a cloak for tyranny; who, like the jews of old, have trampled under foot his covenant at the very moment that they were asserting their exclusive right to it, and denying his all-embracing love! and were there no excuses, too, in the very arguments which nineteen-twentieths of the public press used to deter us from following the example of the continent? if there had been one word of sympathy with the deep wrongs of france, germany, italy, hungary--one attempt to discriminate the righteous and god-inspired desire of freedom, from man's furious and self-willed perversion of it, we would have listened to them. but, instead, what was the first, last, cardinal, crowning argument?--"the cost of sedition!" "revolutions interfered with trade!" and therefore they were damnable! interfere with the food and labour of the millions? the millions would take the responsibility of that upon themselves. if the party of order cares so much for the millions, why had they left them what they are? no: it was with the profits of the few that revolutions interfered; with the divine right, not so much of kings, but of money-making. they hampered mammon, the very fiend who is devouring the masses. the one end and aim of existence was, the maintenance of order--of peace and room to make money in. and therefore louis' spies might make france one great inquisition-hell; german princelets might sell their country piecemeal to french or russian! the hungarian constitution, almost the counterpart of our own, might be sacrificed at the will of an idiot or villain; papal misgovernment might continue to render rome a worse den of thieves than even papal superstition could have made it without the addition of tyranny; but order must be maintained, for how else could the few make money out of the labour of the many? these were their own arguments. whether they were likely to conciliate the workman to the powers that be, by informing him that those powers were avowedly the priests of the very system which was crushing him, let the reader judge. the maintenance of order--of the order of disorder--that was to be the new god before whom the working classes were to bow in spell-bound awe; an idol more despicable and empty than even that old divine right of tyrants, newly applied by some well-meaning but illogical personages, not merely as of old to hereditary sovereigns, but to louis philippes, usurers, upstarts--why not hereafter to demagogues? blindfold and desperate bigots! who would actually thus, in the imbecility of terror, deify that very right of the physically strongest and cunningest, which, if anything, is antichrist itself. that argument against sedition, the workmen heard; and, recollecting , went on their way, such as it was, unheeding. one word more, even at the risk of offending many whom i should be very sorry to offend, and i leave this hateful discussion. let it ever be remembered that the working classes considered themselves deceived, cajoled, by the passers of the reform bill; that they cherished--whether rightly or wrongly it is now too late to ask--a deep-rooted grudge against those who had, as they thought, made their hopes and passions a stepping-stone towards their own selfish ends. they were told to support the reform bill, not only on account of its intrinsic righteousness--which god forbid that i should deny--but because it was the first of a glorious line of steps towards their enfranchisement; and now the very men who told them this, talked peremptorily of "finality," showed themselves the most dogged and careless of conservatives, and pooh-poohed away every attempt at further enlargement of the suffrage. they were told to support it as the remedy for their own social miseries; and behold those miseries were year by year becoming deeper, more wide-spread, more hopeless; their entreaties for help and mercy, in , and at other times, had been lazily laid by unanswered; and almost the only practical efforts for their deliverance had been made by a tory nobleman, the honoured and beloved lord ashley. they found that they had, in helping to pass the reform bill, only helped to give power to the two very classes who crushed them--the great labour kings, and the small shopkeepers; that they had blindly armed their oppressors with the additional weapon of an ever-increasing political majority. they had been told, too (let that never be forgotten), that in order to carry the reform bill, sedition itself was lawful; they had seen the master-manufacturers themselves give the signal for the plug-riots by stopping their mills. their vanity, ferocity, sense of latent and fettered power, pride of numbers, and physical strength, had been nattered and pampered by those who now only talked of grape-shot and bayonets. they had heard the reform bill carried by the threats of men of rank and power, that "manchester should march upon london." were their masters, then, to have a monopoly in sedition, as in everything else? what had been fair in order to compel the reform bill, must surely be fairer still to compel the fulfilment of reform bill pledges? and so, imitating the example of those whom they fancied had first used and then deserted them, they, in their madness, concocted a rebellion, not primarily against the laws and constitution of their land, but against mammon--against that accursed system of competition, slavery of labour, absorption of the small capitalists by the large ones, and of the workman by all, which is, and was, and ever will be, their internecine foe. silly and sanguinary enough were their schemes, god knows! and bootless enough had they succeeded; for nothing nourishes in the revolutionary atmosphere but that lowest embodiment of mammon, "the black pool of agio," and its money-gamblers. but the battle remains still to be fought; the struggle is internecine; only no more with weapons of flesh and blood, but with a mightier weapon--with that association which is the true bane of mammon--the embodiment of brotherhood and love. we should have known that before the tenth of april? most true, reader--but wrath is blindness. you too surely have read more wisdom than you have practised yet; seeing that you have your bible, and perhaps, too, mill's "political economy." have you perused therein the priceless chapter "on the probable futurity of the labouring classes"? if not, let me give you the reference--vol. ii, p. , of the second edition. read it, thou self-satisfied mammon, and perpend; for it is both a prophecy and a doom! * * * * * but, the reader may ask, how did you, with your experience of the reason, honesty, moderation, to be expected of mobs, join in a plan which, if it had succeeded, must have let loose on those "who had" in london, the whole flood of those "who had not"? the reader shall hear. my story may be instructive, as a type of the feelings of thousands beside me. it was the night after i had returned from d * * * *; sitting in crossthwaite's little room, i had heard with mingled anxiety and delight the plans of my friends. they were about to present a monster petition in favour of the charter; to accompany it _en masse_ to the door of the house of commons; and if it was refused admittance--why, then, ulterior measures were the only hope. "and they will refuse it," said crossthwaite; "they're going, i hear, to revive some old law or other, that forbids processions within such and such a distance of the house of commons. let them forbid! to carry arms, to go in public procession, to present petitions openly, instead of having them made a humbug of by being laid on the table unopened by some careless member--they're our rights, and we'll have them. there's no use mincing the matter: it's just like the old fable of the farmer and his wheat--if we want it reaped, we must reap it ourselves. public opinion, and the pressure from without, are the only things which have carried any measure in england for the last twenty years. neither whigs nor tories deny it: the governed govern their governors--that's the 'ordre du jour' just now--and we'll have our turn at it! we'll give those house of commons oligarchs--those tools of the squires and shopkeepers--we'll give them a taste of pleasure from without, as shall make the bar of the house crack again. and then to be under arms, day and night, till the charter's granted." "and if it is refused?" "fight! that's the word, and no other. there's no other hope. no charter,--no social reforms! we must give them ourselves, for no one else will. look there, and judge for yourself!" he pulled a letter out from among his papers, and threw it across to me. "what's this?" "that came while you were in gaol. there don't want many words about it. we sent up a memorial to government about the army and police clothing. we told 'em how it was the lowest, most tyrannous, most ill-paid of all the branches of slop-making; how men took to it only when they were starved out of everything else. we entreated them to have mercy on us--entreated them to interfere between the merciless contractors and the poor wretches on whose flesh and blood contractors, sweaters, and colonels, were all fattening: and there's the answer we got. look at it; read it! again and again i've been minded to placard it on the walls, that all the world might see the might and the mercies of the government. read it! 'sorry to say that it is utterly out of the power of her majesty's * * * *s to interfere--as the question of wages rests entirely between the contractor and the workmen.'" "he lies!" i said. "if it did, the workmen might put a pistol to the contractor's head, and say--'you shall not tempt the poor, needy, greedy, starving workers to their own destruction, and the destruction of their class; you shall not offer these murderous, poisonous prices. if we saw you offering our neighbour a glass of laudanum, we would stop you at all risks--and we will stop you now.' no! no! john, the question don't lie between workman and contractor, but between workman and contractor-plus-grape-and-bayonets!" "look again. there's worse comes after that. 'if government did interfere, it would not benefit the workman, as his rate of wages depends entirely on the amount of competition between the workmen themselves.' yes, my dear children, you must eat each other; we are far too fond parents to interfere with so delightful an amusement! curse them--sleek, hard-hearted, impotent do-nothings! they confess themselves powerless against competition--powerless against the very devil that is destroying us, faster and faster every year! they can't help us on a single point. they can't check population; and if they could, they can't get rid of the population which exists. they daren't give us a comprehensive emigration scheme. they daren't lift a finger to prevent gluts in the labour market. they daren't interfere between slave and slave, between slave and tyrant. they are cowards, and like cowards they shall fall!" "ay--like cowards they shall fall!" i answered; and from that moment i was a rebel and a conspirator. "and will the country join us?" "the cities will; never mind the country. they are too weak to resist their own tyrants--and they are too weak to resist us. the country's always drivelling in the background. a country-party's sure to be a party of imbecile bigots. nobody minds them." i laughed. "it always was so, john. when christianity first spread, it was in the cities--till a pagan, a villager, got to mean a heathen for ever and ever." "and so it was in the french revolution; when popery had died out of all the rest of france, the priests and the aristocrats still found their dupes in the remote provinces." "the sign of a dying system that, to be sure. woe to toryism and the church of england, and everything else, when it gets to boasting that its stronghold is still the hearts of the agricultural poor. it is the cities, john, the cities, where the light dawns first--where man meets man, and spirit quickens spirit, and intercourse breeds knowledge, and knowledge sympathy, and sympathy enthusiasm, combination, power irresistible; while the agriculturists remain ignorant, selfish, weak, because they are isolated from each other. let the country go. the towns shall win the charter for england! and then for social reform, sanitary reform, ædile reform, cheap food, interchange of free labour, liberty, equality, and brotherhood for ever!" such was our babel-tower, whose top should reach to heaven. to understand the allurement of that dream, you must have lain, like us, for years in darkness and the pit. you must have struggled for bread, for lodging, for cleanliness, for water, for education--all that makes life worth living for--and found them becoming, year by year, more hopelessly impossible, if not to yourself, yet still to the millions less gifted than yourself; you must have sat in darkness and the shadow of death, till you are ready to welcome any ray of light, even though it should be the glare of a volcano. chapter xxxiii. a patriot's reward. i never shall forget one evening's walk, as crossthwaite and i strode back together from the convention. we had walked on some way arm in arm in silence, under the crushing and embittering sense of having something to conceal--something, which if those who passed us so carelessly in the street had known--! it makes a villain and a savage of a man, that consciousness of a dark, hateful secret. and it was a hateful one!--a dark and desperate necessity, which we tried to call by noble names, that faltered on our lips as we pronounced them; for the spirit of god was not in us; and instead of bright hope, and the clear fixed lodestar of duty, weltered in our imaginations a wild possible future of tumult, and flame, and blood. "it must be done!--it shall be done!--it will be done!" burst out john, at last, in that positive, excited tone, which indicated a half disbelief of his own words. "i've been reading macerone on street-warfare; and i see the way as clear as day." i felt nothing but the dogged determination of despair. "it must be tried, if the worst comes to the worst--but i have no hope. i read somerville's answer to that colonel macerone. ten years ago he showed it was impossible. we cannot stand against artillery; we have no arms." "i'll tell you where to buy plenty. there's a man, power, or bower, he's sold hundreds in the last few days; and he understands the matter. he tells us we're certain, safe. there are hundreds of young men in the government offices ready to join, if we do but succeed at first. it all depends on that. the first hour settles the fate of a revolution." "if we succeed, yes--the cowardly world will always side with the conquering party; and we shall have every pickpocket and ruffian in our wake, plundering in the name of liberty and order." "then we'll shoot them like dogs, as the french did! 'mort aux voleurs' shall be the word!" "unless they shoot us. the french had a national guard, who had property to lose, and took care of it. the shopkeepers here will be all against us; they'll all be sworn in special constables, to a man; and between them and the soldiers, we shall have three to one upon us." "oh! that power assures me the soldiers will fraternize. he says there are three regiments at least have promised solemnly to shoot their officers, and give up their arms to the mob." "very important, if true--and very scoundrelly, too, i'd sooner be shot myself by fair fighting, than see officers shot by cowardly treason." "well, it's ugly. i like fair play as well as any man. but it can't be done. there must be a surprise, a _coup de main_, as the french say" (poor crossthwaite was always quoting french in those days). "once show our strength--burst upon the tyrants like a thunderclap; and then!-- "men of england, heirs of glory, heroes of unwritten story, rise, shake off the chains like dew which in sleep have fallen on you! ye are many, they are few!" "that's just what i am afraid they are not. let's go and find out this man power, and hear his authority for the soldier-story. who knows him?" "why, mike kelly and he had been a deal together of late, kelly's a true heart now--a true irishman ready for anything. those irish are the boys, after all--though i don't deny they do bluster and have their way a little too much in the convention. but still ireland's wrongs are england's. we have the same oppressors. we must make common cause against the tyrants." "i wish to heaven they would just have stayed at home, and ranted on the other side of the water; they had their own way there, and no mammonite middle-class to keep them down; and yet they never did an atom of good. their eloquence is all bombast, and what's more, crossthwaite, though there are some fine fellows among them, nine-tenths are liars--liars in grain, and you know it--" crossthwaite turned angrily to me. "why, you are getting as reactionary as old mackaye himself!" "i am not--and he is not. i am ready to die on a barricade to-morrow, if it comes to that. i haven't six months' lease of life--i am going into consumption; and a bullet is as easy a death as spitting up my lungs piecemeal. but i despise these irish, because i can't trust them--they can't trust each other--they can't trust themselves. you know as well as i that you can't get common justice done in ireland, because you can depend upon no man's oath. you know as well as i, that in parliament or out, nine out of ten of them will stick at no lie, even if it has been exposed and refuted fifty times over, provided it serves the purpose of the moment; and i often think that, after all, mackaye's right, and what's the matter with ireland is just that and nothing else--that from the nobleman in his castle to the beggar on his dunghill, they are a nation of liars, john crossthwaite!" "sandy's a prejudiced old scotchman." "sandy's a wiser man than you or i, and you know it." "oh, i don't deny that; but he's getting old, and i think he has been failing in his mind of late." "i'm afraid he's failing in his health; he has never been the same man since they hooted him down in john street. but he hasn't altered in his opinions one jot; and i'll tell you what--i believe he's right. i'll die in this matter like a man, because it's the cause of liberty; but i've fearful misgivings about it, just because irishmen are at the head of it." "of course they are--they have the deepest wrongs; and that makes them most earnest in the cause of right. the sympathy of suffering, as they say themselves, has bound them to the english working man against the same oppressors." "then let them fight those oppressors at home, and we'll do the same: that's the true way to show sympathy. charity begins at home. they are always crying 'ireland for the irish'; why can't they leave england for the english?" "you're envious of o'connor's power!" "say that again, john crossthwaite, and we part for ever!" and i threw off his arm indignantly. "no--but--don't let's quarrel, my dear old fellow--now, that perhaps, perhaps we may never meet again--but i can't bear to hear the irish abused. they're noble, enthusiastic, generous fellows. if we english had half as warm hearts, we shouldn't be as we are now; and o'connor's a glorious man, i tell you. just think of him, the descendant of the ancient kings, throwing away his rank, his name, all he had in the world, for the cause of the suffering millions!" "that's a most aristocratic speech, john," said i, smiling, in spite of my gloom. "so you keep a leader because he's descended from ancient kings, do you? i should prefer him just because he was not--just because he was a working man, and come of workmen's blood. we shall see whether he's stanch after all. to my mind, little cuffy's worth a great deal more, as far as earnestness goes." "oh! cuffy's a low-bred, uneducated fellow." "aristocrat again, john!" said i, as we went up-stairs to kelly's room. and crossthwaite did not answer. there was so great a hubbub inside kelly's room, of english, french, and irish, all talking at once, that we knocked at intervals for full five minutes, unheard by the noisy crew; and i, in despair, was trying the handle, which was fast, when, to my astonishment, a heavy blow was struck on the panel from the inside, and the point of a sharp instrument driven right through, close to my knees, with the exclamation-- "what do you think o' that, now, in a policeman's bread-basket?" "i think," answered i, as loud as i dare, and as near the dangerous door, "if i intended really to use it, i wouldn't make such a fool's noise about it." there was a dead silence; the door was hastily opened, and kelly's nose poked out; while we, in spite of the horribleness of the whole thing, could not help laughing at his face of terror. seeing who we were he welcomed us in at once, into a miserable apartment, full of pikes and daggers, brandished by some dozen miserable, ragged, half-starved artizans. three-fourths, i saw at once, were slop-working tailors. there was a bloused and bearded frenchman or two; but the majority were, as was to have been expected, the oppressed, the starved, the untaught, the despairing, the insane; "the dangerous classes," which society creates, and then shrinks in horror, like frankenstein, from the monster her own clumsy ambition has created. thou frankenstein mammon! hast thou not had warnings enough, either to make thy machines like men, or stop thy bungling, and let god make them for himself? i will not repeat what i heard there. there is many a frantic ruffian of that night now sitting "in his right mind"--though not yet "clothed"--waiting for god's deliverance, rather than his own. we got kelly out of the room into the street, and began inquiring of him the whereabouts of this said bower or power. "he didn't know,"--the feather-headed irishman that he was!--"faix, by-the-by, he'd forgotten--an' he went to look for him at the place he tould him, and they didn't know sich a one there--" "oh, oh! mr. power has an _alibi_, then? perhaps an _alias_ too?" "he didn't know his name rightly. some said it was brown; but he was a broth of a boy--a thrue people's man. bedad, he gov' away arms afthen and afthen to them that couldn't buy 'em. an' he's as free-spoken--och, but he's put me into the confidence! come down the street a bit, and i'll tell yees--i'll be lord-lieutenant o' dublin castle meself, if it succades, as shure as there's no snakes in ould ireland, an' revenge her wrongs ankle deep in the bhlood o' the saxon! whirroo! for the marthyred memory o' the three hundred thousint vargens o' wexford!" "hold your tongue, you ass!" said crossthwaite, as he clapped his hand over his mouth, expecting every moment to find us all three in the rhadamanthine grasp of a policeman; while i stood laughing, as people will, for mere disgust at the ridiculous, which almost always intermingles with the horrible. at last, out it came-- "bedad! we're going to do it! london's to be set o' fire in seventeen places at the same moment, an' i'm to light two of them to me own self, and make a holycrust--ay, that's the word--o' ireland's scorpions, to sting themselves to death in circling flame--" "you would not do such a villanous thing?" cried we, both at once. "bedad! but i won't harm a hair o' their heads! shure, we'll save the women and childer alive, and run for the fire-ingins our blessed selves, and then out with the pikes, and seize the bank and the tower-- "an' av' i lives, i lives victhorious, an' av' i dies, my soul in glory is; love fa--a--are--well!" i was getting desperate: the whole thing seemed at once so horrible and so impossible. there must be some villanous trap at the bottom of it. "if you don't tell me more about this fellow power, mike," said i, "i'll blow your brains out on the spot: either you or he are villains." and i valiantly pulled out my only weapon, the door key, and put it to his head. "och! are you mad, thin? he's a broth of a boy; and i'll tell ye. shure he knows all about the red-coats, case he's an arthillery man himself, and that's the way he's found out his gran' combustible." "an artilleryman?" said john. "he told me he was a writer for the press." "bedad, thin, he's mistaken himself intirely; for he tould me with his own mouth. and i'll show you the thing he sowld me as is to do it. shure, it'll set fire to the stones o' the street, av' you pour a bit vitriol on it." "set fire to the stones? i must see that before i believe it." "shure an' ye shall then. where'll i buy a bit? sorra a shop is there open this time o' night; an' troth i forgot the name o' it intirely! poker o' moses, but here's a bit in my pocket!" and out of his tattered coat-tail he lugged a flask of powder and a lump of some cheap chemical salt, whose name i have, i am ashamed to say, forgotten. "you're a pretty fellow to keep such things in the same pocket with gunpowder!" "come along to mackaye's," said crossthwaite. "i'll see to the bottom of this. be hanged, but i think the fellow's a cursed _mouchard_--some government spy!" "spy is he, thin? och, the thief o' the world! i'll stab him! i'll murther him! an' burn the town afterwards, all the same." "unless," said i, "just as you've got your precious combustible to blaze off, up he comes from behind the corner and gives you in charge to a policeman. it's a villanous trap, you miserable fool, as sure as the moon's in heaven." "upon my word, i am afraid it is--and i'm trapped too." "blood and turf! thin, it's he that i'll trap, thin. there's two million free and inlightened irishmen in london, to avenge my marthyrdom wi' pikes and baggonets like raving salviges, and blood for blood!" "like savages, indeed!" said i to crossthwaite, "and pretty savage company we are keeping. liberty, like poverty, makes a man acquainted with strange companions!" "and who's made 'em savages? who has left them savages? that the greatest nation of the earth has had ireland in her hands three hundred years--and her people still to be savages!--if that don't justify a revolution, what does? why, it's just because these poor brutes are what they are, that rebellion becomes a sacred duty. it's for them--for such fools, brutes, as that there, and the millions more like him, and likely to remain like him, and i've made up my mind to do or die to-morrow!" there was a grand half-truth, distorted, miscoloured in the words, that silenced me for the time. we entered mackaye's door; strangely enough at that time of night, it stood wide open. what could be the matter? i heard loud voices in the inner room, and ran forward calling his name, when, to my astonishment, out past me rushed a tall man, followed by a steaming kettle, which, missing him, took full effect on kelly's chest as he stood in the entry, filling his shoes with boiling water, and producing a roar that might have been heard at temple bar. "what's the matter?" "have i hit him?" said the old man, in a state of unusual excitement. "bedad! it was the man power! the cursed spy! an' just as i was going to slate the villain nately, came the kittle, and kilt me all over!" "power? he's as many names as a pickpocket, and as many callings, too, i'll warrant. he came sneaking in to tell me the sogers were a' ready to gie up their arms if i'd come forward to them to-morrow. so i tauld him, sin' he was so sure o't, he'd better gang and tak the arms himsel; an' then he let out he'd been a policeman--" "a policeman!" said both crossthwaite and kelly, with strong expletives. "a policeman doon in manchester; i thought i kenned his face fra the first. and when the rascal saw he'd let out too much, he wanted to make out that he'd been a' along a spy for the chartists, while he was makin' believe to be a spy o' the goovernment's. sae when he came that far, i just up wi' the het water, and bleezed awa at him; an' noo i maun gang and het some mair for my drap toddy." sandy had a little vitriol in the house, so we took the combustible down into the cellar, and tried it. it blazed up: but burnt the stone as much as the reader may expect. we next tried it on a lump of wood. it just scorched the place where it lay, and then went out; leaving poor kelly perfectly frantic with rage, terror, and disappointment. he dashed up-stairs, and out into the street, on a wild-goose chase after the rascal, and we saw no more of him that night. i relate a simple fact. i am afraid--perhaps, for the poor workmen's sake, i should say i am glad, that it was not an unique one. villains of this kind, both in april and in june, mixed among the working men, excited their worst passions by bloodthirsty declamations and extravagant promises of success, sold them arms; and then, like the shameless wretch on whose evidence cuffy and jones were principally convicted, bore witness against their own victims, unblushingly declaring themselves to have been all along the tools of the government. i entreat all those who disbelieve this apparently prodigious assertion, to read the evidence given on the trial of the john street conspirators, and judge for themselves. * * * * * "the petition's filling faster than ever!" said crossthwaite, as that evening we returned to mackaye's little back room. "dirt's plenty," grumbled the old man, who had settled himself again to his pipe, with his feet on the fender, and his head half way up the chimney. "now, or never!" went on crossthwaite, without minding him; "now, or never! the manufacturing districts seem more firm than ever." "an' words cheap," commented mackaye, _sotto voce_. "well," i said, "heaven keep us from the necessity of ulterior measures! but what must be, must." "the government expect it, i can tell you. they're in a pitiable funk, i hear. one regiment is ordered to uxbridge already, because they daren't trust it. they'll find soldiers are men, i do believe, after all." "men they are," said sandy; "an' therefore they'll no be fools eneugh to stan' by an' see ye pu' down a' that is, to build up ye yourselves dinna yet rightly ken what. men? ay, an' wi' mair common sense in them than some that had mair opportunities." "i think i've settled everything," went on crossthwaite, who seemed not to have heard the last speech--"settled everything--for poor katie, i mean. if anything happens to me, she has friends at cork--she thinks so at least--and they'd get her out to service somewhere--god knows!" and his face worked fearfully a minute. "dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori!" said i. "there are twa methods o' fulfilling that saw, i'm thinkin'. impreemis, to shoot your neebour; in secundis, to hang yoursel." "what do you mean by grumbling at the whole thing in this way, mr. mackaye? are you, too, going to shrink back from the cause, now that liberty is at the very doors?" "ou, then, i'm stanch eneuch. i ha' laid in my ain stock o' weapons for the fecht at armageddon." "you don't mean it? what have you got?" "a braw new halter, an' a muckle nail. there's a gran' tough beam here ayont the ingle, will haud me a' crouse and cantie, when the time comes." "what on earth do you mean?" asked we both together. "ha' ye looked into the monster-petition?" "of course we have, and signed it too!" "monster? ay, ferlie! monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum. desinit in piscem mulier formosa superne. leeberty, the bonnie lassie, wi' a sealgh's fud to her! i'll no sign it. i dinna consort wi' shoplifters, an' idiots, an' suckin' bairns--wi' long nose, an' short nose, an' pug nose, an' seventeen deuks o' wellington, let alone a baker's dizen o' queens. it's no company, that, for a puir auld patriot!" "why, my dear mackaye," said i, "you know the reform bill petitions were just as bad." "and the anti-corn-law ones, too, for that matter," said crossthwaite. "you know we can't help accidents; the petition will never be looked through." "it's always been the plan with whigs and tories, too!" "i ken that better than ye, i guess." "and isn't everything fair in a good cause?" said crossthwaite. "desperate men really can't be so dainty." "how lang ha' ye learnit that deil's lee, johnnie? ye were no o' that mind five years agone, lad. ha' ye been to exeter hall the while? a's fair in the cause o' mammon; in the cause o' cheap bread, that means cheap wages; but in the cause o' god--wae's me, that ever i suld see this day ower again! ower again! like the dog to his vomit--just as it was ten, twenty, fifty year agone. i'll just ha' a petition a' alane to mysel--i, an' a twa or three honest men. besides, ye're just eight days ower time wi' it." "what do you mean?" "suld ha' sent it in the st of april, an' no the th; a' fool's day wud ha' suited wi' it ferlie!" "mr. mackaye," said crossthwaite, in a passion, "i shall certainly inform the convention of your extraordinary language!" "do, laddie! do, then! an' tell 'em this, too"--and, as he rose, his whole face and figure assumed a dignity, an awfulness, which i had never seen before in him--"tell them that ha' driven out * * * * and * * * *, an' every one that daur speak a word o' common sense, or common humanity--them that stone the prophets, an' quench the spirit o' god, and love a lie, an' them that mak the same--them that think to bring about the reign o' love an' britherhood wi' pikes an' vitriol bottles, murther an' blasphemy--tell 'em that ane o' fourscore years and mair--ane that has grawn grey in the people's cause--that sat at the feet o' cartwright, an' knelt by the death-bed o' rabbie burns--ane that cheerit burdett as he went to the touer, an' spent his wee earnings for hunt an' cobbett--ane that beheld the shaking o' the nations in the ninety-three, and heard the birth-shriek o' a newborn world--ane that while he was yet a callant saw liberty afar off, an' seeing her was glad, as for a bonny bride, an' followed her through the wilderness for threescore weary waeful years--sends them the last message that e'er he'll send on airth: tell 'em that they're the slaves o' warse than priests and kings--the slaves o' their ain lusts an' passions--the slaves o' every loud-tongued knave an' mountebank that'll pamper them in their self-conceit; and that the gude god'll smite 'em down, and bring 'em to nought, and scatter 'em abroad, till they repent, an' get clean hearts and a richt speerit within them, and learn his lesson that he's been trying to teach 'em this threescore years--that the cause o' the people is the cause o' him that made the people; an' wae to them that tak' the deevil's tools to do his wark wi'! gude guide us!--what was yon, alton, laddie?" "what?" "but i saw a spunk o' fire fa' into your bosom! i've na faith in siccan heathen omens; but auld carlins wud say it's a sign o' death within the year--save ye from it, my puir misguidit bairn! aiblins a fire-flaught o' my een, it might be--i've had them unco often, the day--" and he stooped down to the fire, and began to light his pipe, muttering to himself-- "saxty years o' madness! saxty years o' madness! how lang, o lord, before thou bring these puir daft bodies to their richt mind again?" we stood watching him, and interchanging looks--expecting something, we knew not what. suddenly he sank forward on his knees, with his hands on the bars of the grate; we rushed forward, and caught him up. he turned his eyes up to me, speechless, with a ghastly expression; one side of his face was all drawn aside--and helpless as a child, he let us lift him to his bed, and there he lay staring at the ceiling. * * * * * four weary days passed by--it was the night of the ninth of april. in the evening of that day his speech returned to him on a sudden--he seemed uneasy about something, and several times asked katie the day of the month. "before the tenth--ay, we maun pray for that. i doubt but i'm ower hearty yet--i canna bide to see the shame o' that day-- * * * * * "na--i'll tak no potions nor pills--gin it were na for scruples o' conscience, i'd apocartereeze a'thegither, after the manner o' the ancient philosophers. but it's no' lawful, i misdoubt, to starve onesel." "here is the doctor," said katie. "doctor? wha ca'd for doctors? canst thou administer to a mind diseased? can ye tak long nose, an' short nose, an' snub nose, an' seventeen deuks o' wellington out o' my puddins? will your castor oil, an' your calomel, an' your croton, do that? d'ye ken a medicamentum that'll put brains into workmen--? non tribus anti-cyrus! tons o' hellebore--acres o' strait waistcoats--a hall police-force o' head-doctors, winna do it. juvat insanire--this their way is their folly, as auld benjamin o' tudela saith of the heathen. heigho! 'forty years lang was he grevit wi' this generation, an' swore in his wrath that they suldna enter into his rest.' pulse? tongue? ay, shak your lugs, an' tak your fee, an' dinna keep auld folk out o' their graves. can ye sing?" the doctor meekly confessed his inability. "that's pity--or i'd gar ye sing auld-lang-syne,-- "we twa hae paidlit in the burn-- "aweel, aweel, aweel--" * * * * * weary and solemn was that long night, as we sat there, with the crushing weight of the morrow on our mind, watching by that death-bed, listening hour after hour to the rambling soliloquies of the old man, as "he babbled of green fields"; yet i verily believe that to all of us, especially to poor little katie, the active present interest of tending him kept us from going all but mad with anxiety and excitement. but it was weary work:--and yet, too, strangely interesting, as at times there came scraps of old scotch love-poetry, contrasting sadly with the grim withered lips that uttered them--hints to me of some sorrow long since suffered, but never healed. i had never heard him allude to such an event before but once, on the first day of our acquaintance. "i went to the kirk, my luve sat afore me; i trow my twa een tauld him a sweet story. "aye wakin o'-- wakin aye and weary-- i thocht a' the kirk saw me and my deary. "'aye wakin o'!'--do ye think, noo, we sall ha' knowledge in the next warld o' them we loved on earth? i askit that same o' rab burns ance; an' he said, puir chiel, he 'didna ken ower well, we maun bide and see';--bide and see--that's the gran' philosophy o' life, after a'. aiblins folk'll ken their true freens there; an' there'll be na mair luve coft and sauld for siller-- "gear and tocher is needit nane i' the country whaur my luve is gane. * * * * * "gin i had a true freen the noo! to gang down the wynd, an' find if it war but an auld abraham o' a blue-gown, wi' a bit crowd, or a fizzle-pipe, to play me the bush aboon traquair! na, na, na; it's singing the lord's song in a strange land, that wad be; an' i hope the application's no irreverent, for ane that was rearit amang the hills o' god, an' the trees o' the forest which he hath planted. "oh the broom, and the bonny yellow broom, the broom o' the cowden-knowes. "hech, but she wud lilt that bonnily! * * * * * "did ye ever gang listering saumons by nicht? ou, but it's braw sport, wi' the scars an' the birks a' glowering out blude-red i' the torchlight, and the bonnie hizzies skelping an' skirling on the bank-- * * * * * "there was a gran' leddy, a bonny leddy, came in and talked like an angel o' god to puir auld sandy, anent the salvation o' his soul. but i tauld her no' to fash hersel. it's no my view o' human life, that a man's sent into the warld just to save his soul, an' creep out again. an' i said i wad leave the savin' o' my soul to him that made my soul; it was in richt gude keepin' there, i'd warrant. an' then she was unco fleyed when she found i didna haud wi' the athanasian creed. an' i tauld her, na; if he that died on cross was sic a ane as she and i teuk him to be, there was na that pride nor spite in him, be sure, to send a puir auld sinful, guideless body to eternal fire, because he didna a'thegither understand the honour due to his name." "who was this lady?" he did not seem to know; and katie had never heard of her before--"some district visitor" or other. * * * * * "i sair misdoubt but the auld creeds are in the right anent him, after a'. i'd gie muckle to think it--there's na comfort as it is. aiblins there might be a wee comfort in that, for a poor auld worn-out patriot. but it's ower late to change. i tauld her that, too, ance. it's ower late to put new wine into auld bottles. i was unco drawn to the high doctrines ance, when i was a bit laddie, an' sat in the wee kirk by my minnie an' my daddie--a richt stern auld cameronian sort o' body he was, too; but as i grew, and grew, the bed was ower short for a man to stretch himsel thereon, an' the plaidie ower strait for a man to fauld himself therein; and so i had to gang my gate a' naked in the matter o' formulæ, as maister tummas has it." "ah! do send for a priest, or a clergyman!" said katie, who partly understood his meaning. "parson? he canna pit new skin on auld scars. na bit stickit curate-laddie for me, to gang argumentin' wi' ane that's auld enough to be his gran'father. when the parsons will hear me anent god's people, then i'll hear them anent god. "--sae i'm wearing awa, jean, to the land o' the leal-- "gin i ever get thither. katie, here, hauds wi' purgatory, ye ken! where souls are burnt clean again--like baccy pipes-- "when bazor-brigg is ower and past, every night and alle; to whinny muir thou comest at last, and god receive thy sawle. "gin hosen an' shoon thou gavest nane every night and alle; the whins shall pike thee intil the bane, and god receive thy sawle. "amen. there's mair things aboon, as well as below, than are dreamt o' in our philosophy. at least, where'er i go, i'll meet no long nose, nor short nose, nor snub nose patriots there; nor puir gowks stealing the deil's tools to do god's wark wi'. out among the eternities an' the realities--it's no that dreary outlook, after a', to find truth an' fact--naught but truth an' fact--e'en beside the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is not quenched!" "god forbid!" said katie. "god do whatsoever shall please him, katie--an' that's aye gude like himsel'. shall no the judge of all the earth do right--right--right?" and murmuring that word of words to himself, over and over, more and more faintly, he turned slowly over, and seemed to slumber-- some half hour passed before we tried to stir him. he was dead. and the candles waned grey, and the great light streamed in through every crack and cranny, and the sun had risen on the tenth of april. what would be done before the sun had set? what would be done? just what we had the might to do; and therefore, according to the formula on which we were about to act, that mights are rights, just what we had a right to do--nothing. futility, absurdity, vanity, and vexation of spirit. i shall make my next a short chapter. it is a day to be forgotten--and forgiven. chapter xxxiv. the tenth of april. and he was gone at last! kind women, whom his unknown charities had saved from shame, laid him out duly, and closed his eyes, and bound up that face that never would beam again with genial humour, those lips that would never again speak courage and counsel to the sinful, the oppressed, the forgotten. and there he lay, the old warrior, dead upon his shield; worn out by long years of manful toil in the people's cause; and, saddest thought of all, by disappointment in those for whom he spent his soul. true, he was aged; no one knew how old. he had said, more than eighty years; but we had shortened his life, and we knew it. he would never see that deliverance for which he had been toiling ever since the days when as a boy he had listened to tooke and cartwright, and the patriarchs of the people's freedom. bitter, bitter were our thoughts, and bitter were our tears, as crossthwaite and i stood watching that beloved face, now in death refined to a grandeur, to a youthful simplicity and delicacy, which we had never seen on it before--calm and strong--the square jaws set firm even in death--the lower lip still clenched above the upper, as if in a divine indignation and everlasting protest, even in the grave, against the devourers of the earth. yes, he was gone--the old lion, worn out with many wounds, dead in his cage. where could we replace him? there were gallant men amongst us, eloquent, well-read, earnest--men whose names will ring through this land ere long--men who had boon taught wisdom, even as he, by the sinfulness, the apathy, the ingratitude, as well as by the sufferings of their fellows. but where should we two find again the learning, the moderation, the long experience, above all the more than women's tenderness of him whom we had lost? and at that time, too, of all others! alas! we had despised his counsel: wayward and fierce we would have none of his reproof; and now god has withdrawn him from us; the righteous was taken away from the evil to come. for we knew that evil was coming. we felt all along that we should _not_ succeed. but we were desperate; and his death made us more desperate; still at the moment it drew us nearer to each other. yes--we were rudderless upon a roaring sea, and all before us blank with lurid blinding mist: but still we were together, to live and die; and as we looked into each other's eyes, and clasped each other's hands above the dead man's face, we felt that there was love between us, as of jonathan and david, passing the love of woman. few words passed. even our passionate artizan-nature, so sensitive and voluble in general, in comparison with the cold reserve of the field-labourer and the gentleman, was hushed in silent awe between the thought of the past and the thought of the future. we felt ourselves trembling between two worlds. we felt that to-morrow must decide our destiny--and we felt rightly, though little we guessed what that destiny would be! but it was time to go. we had to prepare for the meeting, we must be at kennington common within three hours at furthest; and crossthwaite hurried away, leaving katie and me to watch the dead. and then came across me the thought of another deathbed--my mother's--how she had lain and lain, while i was far away--and then i wondered whether she had suffered much, or faded away at last in a peaceful sleep, as he had--and then i wondered how her corpse had looked; and pictured it to myself, lying in the little old room day after day, till they screwed the coffin down--before i came!--cruel! did she look as calm, as grand in death as he who lay there? and as i watched the old man's features, i seemed to trace in them the strangest likeness to my mother's. the strangest likeness! i could not shake it off. it became intense--miraculous. was it she, or was it he, who lay there? i shook myself and rose. my loins ached, my limbs were heavy; my brain and eyes swam round. i must be over fatigued by excitement and sleeplessness. i would go down stairs into the fresh air, and shake it off. as i came down the passage, a woman, dressed in black, was standing at the door, speaking to one of the lodgers. "and he is dead! oh, if i had but known sooner that he was even ill!" that voice--that figure-surely, i knew them!--them, at least, there was no mistaking! or, was it another phantom of my disordered brain! i pushed forward to the door, and as i did so, she turned and our eyes met full. it was she--lady ellerton! sad, worn, transformed by widow's weeds, but that face was like no other's still. why did i drop my eyes and draw back at the first glance like a guilty coward? she beckoned me towards her, went out into the street, and herself began the conversation, from which i shrank, i know not why. "when did he die?" "just at sunrise this morning. but how came you here to visit him? were you the lady who, as he said, came to him a few days since?" she did not answer my question. "at sunrise this morning?--a fitting time for him to die, before he sees the ruin and disgrace of those for whom he laboured. and you, too, i hear, are taking your share in this projected madness and iniquity?" "what right have you," i asked, bristling up at a sudden suspicion that crossed me, "to use such words about me?" "recollect," she answered, mildly but firmly, "your conduct, three years ago, at d * * * *." "what," i said, "was it not proved upon my trial, that i exerted all my powers, endangered my very life, to prevent outrage in that case?" "it was proved upon your trial," she replied, in a marked tone; "but we were informed, and alas! from authority only too good, namely, from that of an ear-witness, of the sanguinary and ferocious language which you were not afraid to use at the meeting in london, only two nights before the riot." i turned white with rage and indignation. "tell me," i said--"tell me, if you have any honour, who dared to forge such an atrocious calumny! no! you need not tell me. i see well enough now. he should have told you that i exposed myself that night to insult, not by advocating, but by opposing violence, as i have always done--as i would now, were not i desperate--hopeless of any other path to liberty. and as for this coming struggle, have i not written to my cousin, humiliating as it was to me, to beg him to warn you all from me, lest--" i could not finish the sentence. "you wrote? he has warned us, but he never mentioned your name. he spoke of his knowledge as having been picked up by himself at personal risk to his clerical character." "the risk, i presume, of being known to have actually received a letter from a chartist; but i wrote--on my honour i wrote--a week ago; and received no word of answer!" "is this true?" she asked. "a man is not likely to deal in useless falsehoods, who knows not whether he shall live to see the set of sun!" "then you are implicated in this expected insurrection?" "i am implicated," i answered, "with the people; what they do i shall do. those who once called themselves the patrons of the tailor-poet, left the mistaken enthusiast to languish for three years in prison, without a sign, a hint of mercy, pity, remembrance. society has cast me off; and, in casting me off, it has sent me off to my own people, where i should have stayed from the beginning. now i am at my post, because i am among my class. if they triumph peacefully, i triumph with them. if they need blood to gain their rights, be it so. let the blood be upon the head of those who refuse, not those who demand. at least, i shall be with my own people. and if i die, what better thing on earth can happen to me?" "but the law?" she said. "do not talk to me of law! i know it too well in practice to be moved by any theories about it. laws are no law, but tyranny, when the few make them, in order to oppress the many by them." "oh!" she said, in a voice of passionate earnestness, which i had never heard from her before, "stop--for god's sake, stop! you know not what you are saying--what you are doing. oh! that i had met you before--that i had had more time to speak to poor mackaye! oh! wait, wait--there is a deliverance for you! but never in this path--never. and just while i, and nobler far than i, are longing and struggling to find the means of telling you your deliverance, you, in the madness of your haste, are making it impossible!" there was a wild sincerity in her words--an almost imploring tenderness in her tone. "so young!" said she; "so young to be lost thus!" i was intensely moved. i felt, i knew, that she had a message for me. i felt that hers was the only intellect in the world to which i would have submitted mine; and, for one moment, all the angel and all the devil in me wrestled for the mastery. if i could but have trusted her one moment.... no! all the pride, the spite, the suspicion, the prejudice of years, rolled back upon me. "an aristocrat! and she, too, the one who has kept me from lillian!" and in my bitterness, not daring to speak the real thought within me, i answered with a flippant sneer-- "yes, madam! like cordelia, so young, yet so untender!--thanks to the mercies of the upper classes!" did she turn away in indignation? no, by heaven! there was nothing upon her face but the intensest yearning pity. if she had spoken again she would have conquered; but before those perfect lips could open, the thought of thoughts flashed across me. "tell me one thing! is my cousin george to be married to ----" and i stopped. "he is." "and yet," i said, "you wish to turn me back from dying on a barricade!" and without waiting for a reply, i hurried down the street in all the fury of despair. * * * * * i have promised to say little about the tenth of april, for indeed i have no heart to do so. every one of mackaye's predictions came true. we had arrayed against us, by our own folly, the very physical force to which we had appealed. the dread of general plunder and outrage by the savages of london, the national hatred of that french and irish interference of which we had boasted, armed against us thousands of special constables, who had in the abstract little or no objection to our political opinions. the practical common sense of england, whatever discontent it might feel with the existing system, refused to let it be hurled rudely down, on the mere chance of building up on its ruins something as yet untried, and even undefined. above all, the people would not rise. whatever sympathy they had with us, they did not care to show it. and then futility after futility exposed itself. the meeting which was to have been counted by hundreds of thousands, numbered hardly its tens of thousands; and of them a frightful proportion were of those very rascal classes, against whom we ourselves had offered to be sworn in as special constables. o'connor's courage failed him after all. he contrived to be called away, at the critical moment, by some problematical superintendent of police. poor cuffy, the honestest, if not the wisest, speaker there, leapt off the waggon, exclaiming that we were all "humbugged and betrayed"; and the meeting broke up pitiably piecemeal, drenched and cowed, body and soul, by pouring rain on its way home--for the very heavens mercifully helped to quench our folly--while the monster-petition crawled ludicrously away in a hack cab, to be dragged to the floor of the house of commons amid roars of laughter--"inextinguishable laughter," as of tennyson's epicurean gods-- careless of mankind. for they lie beside their nectar, and their bolts are hurled far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world. there they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, _and praying hands. but they smile, they find a music, centred in a doleful song, steaming up, a lamentation, and an ancient tale of wrong, like a tale of little meaning, though the words are strong_ chanted by an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, sow the seed and reap the harvest with enduring toil, storing little yearly dues of wheat, and wine, and oil; till they perish, and they suffer--some, 'tis whispered, down in hell suffer endless anguish!-- truly--truly, great poets' words are vaster than the singers themselves suppose! chapter xxxv. the lowest deep. sullen, disappointed, desperate, i strode along the streets that evening, careless whither i went. the people's cause was lost--the charter a laughing-stock. that the party which monopolizes wealth, rank, and, as it is fancied, education and intelligence, should have been driven, degraded, to appeal to brute force for self-defence--that thought gave me a savage joy; but that it should have conquered by that last, lowest resource!--that the few should be still stronger than the many, or the many still too cold-hearted and coward to face the few--that sickened me. i hated the well-born young special constables whom i passed, because they would have fought. i hated the gent and shop-keeper special constables, because they would have run away. i hated my own party, because they had gone too far--because they had not gone far enough. i hated myself, because i had not produced some marvellous effect--though what that was to have been i could not tell--and hated myself all the more for that ignorance. a group of effeminate shop-keepers passed me, shouting, "god save the queen!" "hypocrites!" i cried in my heart--"they mean 'god save our shops!' liars! they keep up willingly the useful calumny, that their slaves and victims are disloyal as well as miserable!" i was utterly abased--no, not utterly; for my self-contempt still vented itself--not in forgiveness, but in universal hatred and defiance. suddenly i perceived my cousin, laughing and jesting with a party of fashionable young specials: i shrank from him; and yet, i know not why, drew as near him as i could, unobserved--near enough to catch the words. "upon my honour, locke, i believe you are a chartist yourself at heart." "at least i am no communist," said he, in a significant tone. "there is one little bit of real property which i have no intention of sharing with my neighbours." "what, the little beauty somewhere near cavendish square?" "that's my business." "whereby you mean that you are on your way to her now? well, i am invited to the wedding, remember." he pushed on laughingly, without answering. i followed him fast--"near cavendish square!"--the very part of the town where lillian lived! i had had, as yet, a horror of going near it; but now an intolerable suspicion scourged me forward, and i dogged his steps, hiding behind pillars, and at the corners of streets, and then running on, till i got sight of him again. he went through cavendish square, up harley street--was it possible? i gnashed my teeth at the thought. but it must be so. he stopped at the dean's house, knocked, and entered without parley. in a minute i was breathless on the door-step, and knocked. i had no plan, no object, except the wild wish to see my own despair. i never thought of the chances of being recognized by the servants, or of anything else, except of lillian by my cousin's side. the footman came out smiling, "what did i want?" "i--i--mr. locke." "well you needn't be in such a hurry!" (with a significant grin). "mr. locke's likely to be busy for a few minutes yet, i expect." evidently the man did not know me. "tell him that--that a person wishes to speak to him on particular business." though i had no more notion what that business was than the man himself. "sit down in the hall." and i heard the fellow, a moment afterwards, gossiping and laughing with the maids below about the "young couple." to sit down was impossible; my only thought was--where was lillian? voices in an adjoining room caught my ear. his! yes--and hers too--soft and low. what devil prompted me to turn eavesdropper? to run headlong into temptation? i was close to the dining-room door, but they were not there--evidently they were in the back room, which, as i knew, opened into it with folding-doors. i--i must confess all.--noiselessly, with craft like a madman's, i turned the handle, slipped in as stealthily as a cat--the folding-doors were slightly open. i had a view of all that passed within. a horrible fascination seemed to keep my eyes fixed on them, in spite of myself. honour, shame, despair, bade me turn away, but in vain. i saw them.--how can i write it? yet i will.--i saw them sitting together on the sofa. their arms were round each other. her head lay upon his breast; he bent over her with an intense gaze, as of a basilisk, i thought; how do i know that it was not the fierceness of his love? who could have helped loving her? suddenly she raised her head, and looked up in his face--her eyes brimming with tenderness, her cheeks burning with mingled delight and modesty--their lips met, and clung together.... it seemed a life--an eternity--before they parted again. then the spell was broken, and i rushed from the room. faint, giddy, and blind, i just recollect leaning against the wall of the staircase. he came hastily out, and started as he saw me. my face told all. "what? eavesdropping?" he said, in a tone of unutterable scorn. i answered nothing, but looked stupidly and fixedly in his face, while he glared at me with that keen, burning, intolerable eye. i longed to spring at his throat, but that eye held me as the snake's holds the deer. at last i found words. "traitor! everywhere--in everything--tricking me--supplanting me--in my friends--in my love!" "your love? yours?" and the fixed eye still glared upon me. "listen, cousin alton! the strong and the weak have been matched for the same prize: and what wonder, if the strong man conquers? go and ask lillian how she likes the thought of being a communist's love!" as when, in a nightmare, we try by a desperate effort to break the spell, i sprang forward, and struck at him, he put my hand by carelessly, and felled me bleeding to the ground. i recollect hardly anything more, till i found myself thrust into the street by sneering footmen, and heard them call after me "chartist" and "communist" as i rushed along the pavement, careless where i went. i strode and staggered on through street after street, running blindly against passengers, dashing under horses' heads, heedless of warnings and execrations, till i found myself, i know not how, on waterloo bridge. i had meant to go there when i left the door. i knew that at least--and now i was there. i buried myself in a recess of the bridge, and stared around and up and down. i was alone--deserted even by myself. mother, sister, friends, love, the idol of my life, were all gone. i could have borne that. but to be shamed, and know that i deserved it; to be deserted by my own honour, self-respect, strength of will--who can bear that? i could have borne it, had one thing been left--faith in my own destiny--the inner hope that god had called me to do a work for him. "what drives the frenchman to suicide?" i asked myself, arguing ever even in the face of death and hell--"his faith in nothing but his own lusts and pleasures; and when they are gone, then comes the pan of charcoal--and all is over. what drives the german? his faith in nothing but his own brain. he has fallen down and worshipped that miserable 'ich' of his, and made that, and not god's will, the centre and root of his philosophy, his poetry, and his self-idolizing æsthetics; and when it fails him, then for prussic acid, and nonentity. those old romans, too--why, they are the very experimentum crucis of suicide! as long as they fancied that they had a calling to serve the state, they could live on and suffer. but when they found no more work left for them, then they could die--as porcia died--as cato--as i ought. what is there left for me to do? outcast, disgraced, useless, decrepit--" i looked out over the bridge into the desolate night. below me the dark moaning river-eddies hurried downward. the wild west-wind howled past me, and leapt over the parapet downward. the huge reflexion of saint paul's, the great tap-roots of light from lamp and window that shone upon the lurid stream, pointed down--down--down. a black wherry shot through the arch beneath me, still and smoothly downward. my brain began to whirl madly--i sprang upon the step.--a man rushed past me, clambered on the parapet, and threw up his arms wildly.--a moment more, and he would have leapt into the stream. the sight recalled me to my senses--say, rather, it reawoke in me the spirit of manhood. i seized him by the arm, tore him down upon the pavement, and held him, in spite of his frantic struggles. it was jemmy downes! gaunt, ragged, sodden, blear-eyed, drivelling, the worn-out gin-drinker stood, his momentary paroxysm of strength gone, trembling and staggering. "why won't you let a cove die? why won't you let a cove die? they're all dead--drunk, and poisoned, and dead! what is there left?"--he burst out suddenly in his old ranting style--"what is there left on earth to live for? the prayers of liberty are answered by the laughter of tyrants; her sun is sunk beneath the ocean wave, and her pipe put out by the raging billows of aristocracy! those starving millions of kennington common--where are they? where? i axes you," he cried fiercely, raising his voice to a womanish scream--"where are they?" "gone home to bed, like sensible people; and you had better go too." "bed! i sold ours a month ago; but we'll go. come along, and i'll show you my wife and family; and we'll have a tea-party--jacob's island tea. come along! "flea, flea, unfortunate flea! bereft of his wife and his small family!" he clutched my arm, and dragging me off towards the surrey side, turned down stamford street. i followed half perforce; and the man seemed quite demented--whether with gin or sorrow i could not tell. as he strode along the pavement, he kept continually looking back, with a perplexed terrified air, as if expecting some fearful object. "the rats!--the rats! don't you see 'em coming out of the gullyholes, atween the area railings--dozens and dozens?" "no; i saw none." "you lie; i hear their tails whisking; there's their shiny hats a glistening, and every one on 'em with peelers' staves! quick! quick! or they'll have me to the station-house." "nonsense!" i said; "we are free men! what are the policemen to us?" "you lie!" cried he, with a fearful oath, and a wrench at my arm which almost threw me down. "do you call a sweater's man a free man?" "you a sweater's man?" "ay!" with another oath. "my men ran away--folks said i drank, too; but here i am; and i, that sweated others, i'm sweated myself--and i'm a slave! i'm a slave--a negro slave, i am, you aristocrat villain!" "mind me, downes; if you will go quietly, i will go with you; but if you do not let go of my arm, i give you in charge to the first policeman i meet." "oh, don't, don't!" whined the miserable wretch, as he almost fell on his knees, gin-drinkers' tears running down his face, "or i shall be too late.--and then, the rats'll get in at the roof, and up through the floor, and eat 'em all up, and my work too--the grand new three-pound coat that i've been stitching at this ten days, for the sum of one half-crown sterling--and don't i wish i may see the money? come on, quick; there are the rats, close behind!" and he dashed across the broad roaring thoroughfare of bridge street, and hurrying almost at a run down tooley street, plunged into the wilderness of bermondsey. he stopped at the end of a miserable blind alley, where a dirty gas-lamp just served to make darkness visible, and show the patched windows and rickety doorways of the crazy houses, whose upper stories were lost in a brooding cloud of fog; and the pools of stagnant water at our feet; and the huge heap of cinders which filled up the waste end of the alley--a dreary, black, formless mound, on which two or three spectral dogs prowled up and down after the offal, appearing and vanishing like dark imps in and out of the black misty chaos beyond. the neighbourhood was undergoing, as it seemed, "improvements" of that peculiar metropolitan species which consists in pulling down the dwellings of the poor, and building up rich men's houses instead; and great buildings, within high temporary palings, had already eaten up half the little houses; as the great fish, and the great estates, and the great shopkeepers, eat up the little ones of their species--by the law of competition, lately discovered to be the true creator and preserver of the universe. there they loomed up, the tall bullies, against the dreary sky, looking down, with their grim, proud, stony visages, on the misery which they were driving out of one corner, only to accumulate and intensify it in another. the house at which we stopped was the last in the row; all its companions had been pulled down; and there it stood, leaning out with one naked ugly side into the gap, and stretching out long props, like feeble arms and crutches, to resist the work of demolition. a group of slatternly people were in the entry, talking loudly, and as downes pushed by them, a woman seized him by the arm. "oh! you unnatural villain!--to go away after your drink, and leave all them poor dear dead corpses locked up, without even letting a body go in to stretch them out!" "and breeding the fever, too, to poison the whole house!" growled one. "the relieving officer's been here, my cove," said another, "and he's gone for a peeler and a search warrant to break open the door, i can tell you!" but downes pushed past unheeding, unlocked a door at the end of the passage, thrust me in, locked it again, and then rushed across the room in chase of two or three rats, who vanished into cracks and holes. and what a room! a low lean-to with wooden walls, without a single article of furniture; and through the broad chinks of the floor shone up as it were ugly glaring eyes, staring at us. they were the reflexions of the rushlight in the sewer below. the stench was frightful--the air heavy with pestilence. the first breath i drew made my heart sink, and my stomach turn. but i forgot everything in the object which lay before me, as downes tore a half-finished coat off three corpses laid side by side on the bare floor. there was his little irish wife:--dead--and naked; the wasted white limbs gleamed in the lurid light; the unclosed eyes stared, as if reproachfully, at the husband whose drunkenness had brought her there to kill her with the pestilence; and on each side of her a little, shrivelled, impish, child-corpse,--the wretched man had laid their arms round the dead mother's neck--and there they slept, their hungering and wailing over at last for ever; the rats had been busy already with them--but what matter to them now? "look!" he cried; "i watched 'em dying! day after day i saw the devils come up through the cracks, like little maggots and beetles, and all manner of ugly things, creeping down their throats; and i asked 'em, and they said they were the fever devils." it was too true; the poisonous exhalations had killed them. the wretched man's delirium tremens had given that horrible substantiality to the poisonous fever gases. suddenly downes turned on me, almost menacingly. "money! money! i want some gin!" i was thoroughly terrified--and there was no shame in feeling fear, locked up with a madman far my superior in size and strength, in so ghastly a place. but the shame and the folly too, would have been in giving way to my fear; and with a boldness half assumed, half the real fruit of excitement and indignation at the horrors i beheld, i answered-- "if i had money, i would give you none. what do you want with gin? look at the fruits of your accursed tippling. if you had taken my advice, my poor fellow," i went on, gaining courage as i spoke, "and become a water-drinker, like me--" "curse you and your water-drinking! if you had had no water to drink or wash with for two years but that--that," pointing to the foul ditch below--"if you had emptied the slops in there with one hand, and filled your kettle with the other--" "do you actually mean that that sewer is your only drinking water?" "where else can we get any? everybody drinks it; and you shall, too--you shall!" he cried, with a fearful oath, "and then see if you don't run off to the gin-shop, to take the taste of it out of your mouth. drink? and who can help drinking, with his stomach turned with such hell-broth as that--or such a hell's blast as this air is here, ready to vomit from morning till night with the smells? i'll show you. you shall drink a bucket full of it, as sure as you live, you shall." and he ran out of the back door, upon a little balcony, which hung over the ditch. i tried the door, but the key was gone, and the handle too. i beat furiously on it, and called for help. two gruff authoritative voices were heard in the passage. "let us in; i'm the policeman!" "let me out, or mischief will happen!" the policeman made a vigorous thrust at the crazy door; and just as it burst open, and the light of his lantern streamed into the horrible den, a heavy splash was heard outside. "he has fallen into the ditch!" "he'll be drowned, then, as sure as he's a born man," shouted one of the crowd behind. we rushed out on the balcony. the light of the policeman's lantern glared over the ghastly scene--along the double row of miserable house-backs, which lined the sides of the open tidal ditch--over strange rambling jetties, and balconies, and sleeping-sheds, which hung on rotting piles over the black waters, with phosphorescent scraps of rotten fish gleaming and twinkling out of the dark hollows, like devilish grave-lights--over bubbles of poisonous gas, and bloated carcases of dogs, and lumps of offal, floating on the stagnant olive-green hell-broth--over the slow sullen rows of oily ripple which were dying away into the darkness far beyond, sending up, as they stirred, hot breaths of miasma--the only sign that a spark of humanity, after years of foul life, had quenched itself at last in that foul death. i almost fancied that i could see the haggard face staring up at me through the slimy water; but no, it was as opaque as stone. i shuddered and went in again, to see slatternly gin-smelling women stripping off their clothes--true women even there--to cover the poor naked corpses; and pointing to the bruises which told a tale of long tyranny and cruelty; and mingling their lamentations with stories of shrieks and beating, and children locked up for hours to starve; and the men looked on sullenly, as if they too were guilty, or rushed out to relieve themselves by helping to find the drowned body. ugh! it was the very mouth of hell, that room. and in the midst of all the rout, the relieving officer stood impassive, jotting down scraps of information, and warning us to appear the next day, to state what we knew before the magistrates. needless hypocrisy of law! too careless to save the woman and children from brutal tyranny, nakedness, starvation!--too superstitious to offend its idol of vested interests, by protecting the poor man against his tyrants, the house-owning shopkeepers under whose greed the dwellings of the poor become nests of filth and pestilence, drunkenness and degradation. careless, superstitious, imbecile law!--leaving the victims to die unhelped, and then, when the fever and the tyranny has done its work, in thy sanctimonious prudishness, drugging thy respectable conscience by a "searching inquiry" as to how it all happened--lest, forsooth, there should have been "foul play!" is the knife or the bludgeon, then, the only foul play, and not the cesspool and the curse of rabshakeh? go through bermondsey or spitalfields, st. giles's or lambeth, and see if _there_ is not foul play enough already--to be tried hereafter at a more awful coroner's inquest than thou thinkest of! chapter xxxvi. dreamland. it must have been two o'clock in the morning before i reached my lodgings. too much exhausted to think, i hurried to my bed. i remember now that i reeled strangely as i went up-stairs. i lay down, and was asleep in an instant. how long i had slept i know not, when i awoke with a strange confusion and whirling in my brain, and an intolerable weight and pain about my back and loins. by the light of the gas-lamp i saw a figure standing at the foot of my bed. i could not discern the face, but i knew instinctively that it was my mother. i called to her again and again, but she did not answer. she moved slowly away, and passed out through the wall of the room. i tried to follow her, but could not. an enormous, unutterable weight seemed to lie upon me. the bedclothes grew and grew before me, and upon me, into a vast mountain, millions of miles in height. then it seemed all glowing red, like the cone of a volcano. i heard the roaring of the fires within, the rattling of the cinders down the heaving slope. a river ran from its summit; and up that river-bed it seemed i was doomed to climb and climb for ever, millions and millions of miles upwards, against the rushing stream. the thought was intolerable, and i shrieked aloud. a raging thirst had seized me. i tried to drink the river-water: but it was boiling hot--sulphurous--reeking of putrefaction. suddenly i fancied that i could pass round the foot of the mountain; and jumbling, as madmen will, the sublime and the ridiculous, i sprang up to go round the foot of my bed, which was the mountain. i recollect lying on the floor. i recollect the people of the house, who had been awoke by my shriek and my fall, rushing in and calling to me. i could not rise or answer. i recollect a doctor; and talk about brain fever and delirium. it was true. i was in a raging fever. and my fancy, long pent-up and crushed by circumstances, burst out in uncontrollable wildness, and swept my other faculties with it helpless away over all heaven and earth, presenting to me, as in a vast kaleidoscope, fantastic symbols of all i had ever thought, or read, or felt. that fancy of the mountain returned; but i had climbed it now. i was wandering along the lower ridge of the himalaya. on my right the line of snow peaks showed like a rosy saw against the clear blue morning sky. raspberries and cyclamens were peeping through the snow around me. as i looked down the abysses, i could see far below, through the thin veils of blue mist that wandered in the glens, the silver spires of giant deodars, and huge rhododendrons glowing like trees of flame. the longing of my life to behold that cradle of mankind was satisfied. my eyes revelled in vastness, as they swept over the broad flat jungle at the mountain foot, a desolate sheet of dark gigantic grasses, furrowed with the paths of the buffalo and rhinoceros, with barren sandy water-courses, desolate pools, and here and there a single tree, stunted with malaria, shattered by mountain floods; and far beyond, the vast plains of hindostan, enlaced with myriad silver rivers and canals, tanks and rice-fields, cities with their mosques and minarets, gleaming among the stately palm-groves along the boundless horizon. above me was a hindoo temple, cut out of the yellow sandstone. i climbed up to the higher tier of pillars among monstrous shapes of gods and fiends, that mouthed and writhed and mocked at me, struggling to free themselves from their bed of rock. the bull nundi rose and tried to gore me; hundred-handed gods brandished quoits and sabres round my head; and kali dropped the skull from her gore-dripping jaws, to clutch me for her prey. then my mother came, and seizing the pillars of the portico, bent them like reeds: an earthquake shook the hills--great sheets of woodland slid roaring and crashing into the valleys--a tornado swept through the temple halls, which rocked and tossed like a vessel in a storm: a crash--a cloud of yellow dust which filled the air--choked me--blinded me--buried me-- * * * * * and eleanor came by, and took my soul in the palm of her hand, as the angels did faust's, and carried it to a cavern by the seaside, and dropped it in; and i fell and fell for ages. and all the velvet mosses, rock flowers, and sparkling spars and ores, fell with me, round me, in showers of diamonds, whirlwinds of emerald and ruby, and pattered into the sea that moaned below, and were quenched; and the light lessened above me to one small spark, and vanished; and i was in darkness, and turned again to my dust. * * * * * and i was at the lowest point of created life; a madrepore rooted to the rock, fathoms below the tide-mark; and worst of all, my individuality was gone. i was not one thing, but many things--a crowd of innumerable polypi; and i grew and grew, and the more i grew the more i divided, and multiplied thousand and ten thousandfold. if i could have thought, i should have gone mad at it; but i could only feel. and i heard eleanor and lillian talking, as they floated past me through the deep, for they were two angels; and lillian said, "when will he be one again?" and eleanor said, "he who falls from the golden ladder must climb through ages to its top. he who tears himself in pieces by his lusts, ages only can make him one again. the madrepore shall become a shell, and the shell a fish, and the fish a bird, and the bird a beast; and then he shall become a man again, and see the glory of the latter days." * * * * * and i was a soft crab, under a stone on the sea-shore. with infinite starvation, and struggling, and kicking, i had got rid of my armour, shield by shield, and joint by joint, and cowered, naked and pitiable, in the dark, among dead shells and ooze. suddenly the stone was turned up; and there was my cousin's hated face laughing at me, and pointing me out to lillian. she laughed too, as i looked up, sneaking, ashamed, and defenceless, and squared up at him with my soft useless claws. why should she not laugh? are not crabs, and toads, and monkeys, and a hundred other strange forms of animal life, jests of nature--embodiments of a divine humour, at which men are meant to laugh and be merry? but, alas! my cousin, as he turned away, thrust the stone back with his foot, and squelched me flat. * * * * * and i was a remora, weak and helpless, till i could attach myself to some living thing; and then i had power to stop the largest ship. and lillian was a flying fish, and skimmed over the crests of the waves on gauzy wings. and my cousin was a huge shark, rushing after her, greedy and open-mouthed; and i saw her danger, and clung to him, and held him back; and just as i had stopped him, she turned and swam back into his open jaws. * * * * * sand--sand--nothing but sand! the air was full of sand drifting over granite temples, and painted kings and triumphs, and the skulls of a former world; and i was an ostrich, flying madly before the simoon wind, and the giant sand pillars, which stalked across the plains, hunting me down. and lillian was an amazon queen, beautiful, and cold, and cruel; and she rode upon a charmed horse, and carried behind her on her saddle a spotted ounce, which, was my cousin; and, when i came near her, she made him leap down and course me. and we ran for miles and for days through the interminable sand, till he sprung on me, and dragged me down. and as i lay quivering and dying, she reined in her horse above me, and looked down at me with beautiful, pitiless eyes; and a wild arab tore the plumes from my wings, and she took them and wreathed them in her golden hair. the broad and blood-red sun sank down beneath the sand, and the horse and the amazon and the ostrich plumes shone blood-red in his lurid rays. * * * * * i was a mylodon among south american forests--a vast sleepy mass, my elephantine limbs and yard-long talons contrasting strangely with the little meek rabbit's head, furnished with a poor dozen of clumsy grinders, and a very small kernel of brains, whose highest consciousness was the enjoyment of muscular strength. where i had picked up the sensation which my dreams realized for me, i know not: my waking life, alas! had never given me experience of it. has the mind power of creating sensations for itself? surely it does so, in those delicious dreams about flying which haunt us poor wingless mortals, which would seem to give my namesake's philosophy the lie. however that may be, intense and new was the animal delight, to plant my hinder claws at some tree-foot deep into the black rotting vegetable-mould which steamed rich gases up wherever it was pierced, and clasp my huge arms round the stem of some palm or tree-fern; and then slowly bring my enormous weight and muscle to bear upon it, till the stem bent like a withe, and the laced bark cracked, and the fibres groaned and shrieked, and the roots sprung up out of the soil; and then, with a slow circular wrench, the whole tree was twisted bodily out of the ground, and the maddening tension of my muscles suddenly relaxed, and i sank sleepily down upon the turf, to browse upon the crisp tart foliage, and fall asleep in the glare of sunshine which streamed through the new gap in the green forest roof. much as i had envied the strong, i had never before suspected the delight of mere physical exertion. i now understood the wild gambols of the dog, and the madness which makes the horse gallop and strain onwards till he drops and dies. they fulfil their nature, as i was doing, and in that is always happiness. but i did more--whether from mere animal destructiveness, or from the spark of humanity which was slowly rekindling in me, i began to delight in tearing up trees for its own sake. i tried my strength daily on thicker and thicker boles. i crawled up to the high palm-tops, and bowed them down by my weight. my path through the forest was marked, like that of a tornado, by snapped and prostrate stems and withering branches. had i been a few degrees more human, i might have expected a retribution for my sin. i had fractured my own skull three or four times already. i used often to pass the carcases of my race, killed, as geologists now find them, by the fall of the trees they had overthrown; but still i went on, more and more reckless, a slave, like many a so-called man, to the mere sense of power. one day i wandered to the margin of the woods, and climbing a tree, surveyed a prospect new to me. for miles and miles, away to the white line of the smoking cordillera, stretched a low rolling plain; one vast thistle-bed, the down of which flew in grey gauzy clouds before a soft fitful breeze; innumerable finches fluttered and pecked above it, and bent the countless flower-heads. far away, one tall tree rose above the level thistle-ocean. a strange longing seized me to go and tear it down. the forest leaves seemed tasteless; my stomach sickened at them; nothing but that tree would satisfy me; and descending, i slowly brushed my way, with half-shut eyes, through the tall thistles which buried even my bulk. at last, after days of painful crawling, i dragged my unwieldiness to the tree-foot. around it the plain was bare, and scored by burrows and heaps of earth, among which gold, some in dust, some in great knots and ingots, sparkled everywhere in the sun, in fearful contrast to the skulls and bones which lay bleaching round. some were human, some were those of vast and monstrous beasts. i knew (one knows everything in dreams) that they had been slain by the winged ants, as large as panthers, who snuffed and watched around over the magic treasure. of them i felt no fear; and they seemed not to perceive me, as i crawled, with greedy, hunger-sharpened eyes, up to the foot of the tree. it seemed miles in height. its stem was bare and polished like a palm's, and above a vast feathery crown of dark green velvet slept in the still sunlight. but wonders of wonders! from among the branches hung great sea-green lilies, and, nestled in the heart of each of them, the bust of a beautiful girl. their white bosoms and shoulders gleamed rosy-white against the emerald petals, like conch-shells half-hidden among sea-weeds, while their delicate waists melted mysteriously into the central sanctuary of the flower. their long arms and golden tresses waved languishingly downward in the breeze; their eyes glittered like diamonds; their breaths perfumed the air. a blind ecstasy seized me--i awoke again to humanity, and fiercely clasping the tree, shook and tore at it, in the blind hope of bringing nearer to me the magic beauties above: for i knew that i was in the famous land of wak-wak, from which the eastern merchants used to pluck those flower-born beauties, and bring them home to fill the harems of the indian kings. suddenly i heard a rustling in the thistles behind me, and looking round saw again that dreaded face--my cousin! he was dressed--strange jumble that dreams are!--like an american backwoodsman. he carried the same revolver and bowie-knife which he had showed me the fatal night that he intruded on the chartist club. i shook with terror; but he, too, did not see me. he threw himself on his knees, and began fiercely digging and scraping for the gold. the winged ants rushed on him, but he looked up, and "held them with his glittering eye," and they shrank back abashed into the thistle covert; while i strained and tugged on, and the faces of the dryads above grew sadder and older, and their tears fell on me like a fragrant rain. suddenly the tree-bole cracked--it was tottering. i looked round, and saw that my cousin knelt directly in the path of its fall. i tried to call to him to move; but how could a poor edentate like myself articulate a word? i tried to catch his attention by signs--he would not see. i tried, convulsively, to hold the tree up, but it was too late; a sudden gust of air swept by, and down it rushed, with a roar like a whirlwind, and leaving my cousin untouched, struck me full across the loins, broke my backbone, and pinned me to the ground in mortal agony. i heard one wild shriek rise from the flower fairies, as they fell each from the lily cup, no longer of full human size, but withered, shrivelled, diminished a thousand-fold, and lay on the bare sand, like little rosy humming-birds' eggs, all crushed and dead. the great blue heaven above me spoke, and cried, "selfish and sense-bound! thou hast murdered beauty!" the sighing thistle-ocean answered, and murmured, "discontented! thou hast murdered beauty!" one flower fairy alone lifted up her tiny cheek from the gold-strewn sand, and cried, "presumptuous! thou hast murdered beauty!" it was lillian's face--lillian's voice! my cousin heard it too, and turned eagerly; and as my eyes closed in the last death-shiver, i saw him coolly pick up the little beautiful figure, which looked like a fragment of some exquisite cameo, and deliberately put it away in his cigar-case, as he said to himself, "a charming tit-bit for me, when i return from the diggings"! * * * * * when i awoke again, i was a baby-ape in bornean forests, perched among fragrant trailers and fantastic orchis flowers; and as i looked down, beneath the green roof, into the clear waters paved with unknown water-lilies on which the sun had never shone, i saw my face reflected in the pool--a melancholy, thoughtful countenance, with large projecting brow--it might have been a negro child's. and i felt stirring in me, germs of a new and higher consciousness--yearnings of love towards the mother ape, who fed me and carried me from tree to tree. but i grew and grew; and then the weight of my destiny fell upon me. i saw year by year my brow recede, my neck enlarge, my jaw protrude; my teeth became tusks; skinny wattles grew from my cheeks--the animal faculties in me were swallowing up the intellectual. i watched in myself, with stupid self-disgust, the fearful degradation which goes on from youth to age in all the monkey race, especially in those which approach nearest to the human form. long melancholy mopings, fruitless stragglings to think, were periodically succeeded by wild frenzies, agonies of lust and aimless ferocity. i flew upon my brother apes, and was driven off with wounds. i rushed howling down into the village gardens, destroying everything i met. i caught the birds and insects, and tore them to pieces with savage glee. one day, as i sat among the boughs, i saw lillian coming along a flowery path--decked as eve might have been, the day she turned from paradise. the skins of gorgeous birds were round her waist; her hair was wreathed with fragrant tropic flowers. on her bosom lay a baby--it was my cousin's. i knew her, and hated her. the madness came upon me. i longed to leap from the bough and tear her limb from limb; but brutal terror, the dread of man which is the doom of beasts, kept me rooted to my place. then my cousin came--a hunter missionary; and i heard him talk to her with pride of the new world of civilization and christianity which he was organizing in that tropic wilderness. i listened with a dim jealous understanding--not of the words, but of the facts. i saw them instinctively, as in a dream. she pointed up to me in terror and disgust, as i sat gnashing and gibbering overhead. he threw up the muzzle of his rifle carelessly, and fired--i fell dead, but conscious still. i knew that my carcase was carried to the settlement; and i watched while a smirking, chuckling surgeon dissected me, bone by bone, and nerve by nerve. and as he was fingering at my heart, and discoursing sneeringly about van helmont's dreams of the archæus, and the animal spirit which dwells within the solar plexus, eleanor glided by again, like an angel, and drew my soul out of the knot of nerves, with one velvet finger-tip. * * * * * child-dreams--more vague and fragmentary than my animal ones; and yet more calm, and simple, and gradually, as they led me onward through a new life, ripening into detail, coherence, and reflection. dreams of a hut among the valleys of thibet--the young of forest animals, wild cats, and dogs, and fowls, brought home to be my playmates, and grow up tame around me. snow-peaks which glittered white against the nightly sky, barring in the horizon of the narrow valley, and yet seeming to beckon upwards, outwards. strange unspoken aspirations; instincts which pointed to unfulfilled powers, a mighty destiny. a sense, awful and yet cheering, of a wonder and a majesty, a presence and a voice around, in the cliffs and the pine forests, and the great blue rainless heaven. the music of loving voices, the sacred names of child and father, mother, brother, sister, first of all inspirations.--had we not an all-father, whose eyes looked down upon us from among those stars above; whose hand upheld the mountain roots below us? did he not love us, too, even as we loved each other? * * * * * the noise of wheels crushing slowly through meadows of tall marigolds and asters, orchises and fragrant lilies. i lay, a child, upon a woman's bosom. was she my mother, or eleanor, or lillian? or was she neither, and yet all--some ideal of the great arian tribe, containing in herself all future types of european women? so i slept and woke, and slept again, day after day, week after week, in the lazy bullock-waggon, among herds of grey cattle, guarded by huge lop-eared mastiffs; among shaggy white horses, heavy-horned sheep, and silky goats; among tall, bare-limbed men, with stone axes on their shoulders, and horn bows at their backs. westward, through the boundless steppes, whither or why we knew not; but that the all-father had sent us forth. and behind us the rosy snow-peaks died into ghastly grey, lower and lower as every evening came; and before us the plains spread infinite, with gleaming salt-lakes, and ever fresh tribes of gaudy flowers. behind us dark lines of living beings streamed down the mountain slopes; around us dark lines crawled along the plains--all westward, westward ever.--the tribes of the holy mountain poured out like water to replenish the earth and subdue it--lava-streams from the crater of that great soul-volcano--titan babies, dumb angels of god, bearing with them in their unconscious pregnancy the law, the freedom, the science, the poetry, the christianity of europe and the world. westward ever--who could stand against us? we met the wild asses on the steppe, and tamed them, and made them our slaves. we slew the bison herds, and swam broad rivers on their skins. the python snake lay across our path; the wolves and the wild dogs snarled at us out of their coverts; we slew them and went on. the forest rose in black tangled barriers: we hewed our way through them and went on. strange giant tribes met us, and eagle-visaged hordes, fierce and foolish; we smote them hip and thigh, and went on, westward ever. days and weeks and months rolled on, and our wheels rolled on with them. new alps rose up before us; we climbed and climbed them, till, in lonely glens, the mountain walls stood up, and barred our path. then one arose and said, "rocks are strong, but the all-father is stronger. let us pray to him to send the earthquakes, and blast the mountains asunder." so we sat down and prayed, but the earthquake did not come. then another arose and said, "rocks are strong, but the all-father is stronger. if we are the children of the all-father, we, too, are stronger than the rocks. let us portion out the valley, to every man an equal plot of ground; and bring out the sacred seeds, and sow, and build, and come up with me and bore the mountain." and all said, "it is the voice of god. we will go up with thee, and bore the mountain; and thou shalt be our king, for thou art wisest, and the spirit of the all-father is on thee; and whosoever will not go up with thee shall die as a coward and an idler." so we went up; and in the morning we bored the mountain, and at night we came down and tilled the ground, and sowed wheat and barley, and planted orchards. and in the upper glens we met the mining dwarfs, and saw their tools of iron and copper, and their rock-houses and forges, and envied them. but they would give us none of them: then our king said-- "the all-father has given all things and all wisdom. woe to him who keeps them to himself: we will teach you to sow the sacred seeds; and do you teach us your smith-work or you die." then the dwarf's taught us smith-work; and we loved them, for they were wise; and they married our sons and daughters; and we went on boring the mountain. then some of us arose and said, "we are stronger than our brethren, and can till more ground than they. give us a greater portion of land, to each according to his power." but the king said, "wherefore? that ye may eat and drink more than your brethren? have you larger stomachs, as well as stronger arms? as much as a man needs for himself, that he may do for himself. the rest is the gift of the all-father, and we must do his work therewith. for the sake of the women and the children, for the sake of the sick and the aged, let him that is stronger go up and work the harder at the mountain." and all men said, "it is well spoken." so we were all equal--for none took more than he needed; and we were all free, because we loved to obey the king by whom the spirit spoke; and we were all brothers, because we had one work, and one hope, and one all-father. but i grew up to be a man; and twenty years were past, and the mountain was not bored through; and the king grew old, and men began to love their flocks and herds better than quarrying, and they gave up boring through the mountain. and the strong and the cunning said, "what can we do with all this might of ours?" so, because they had no other way of employing it, they turned it against each other, and swallowed up the heritage of the weak: and a few grew rich, and many poor; and the valley was filled with sorrow, for the land became too narrow for them. then i arose and said, "how is this?" and they said, "we must make provision for our children." and i answered, "the all-father meant neither you nor your children to devour your brethren. why do you not break up more waste ground? why do you not try to grow more corn in your fields?" and they answered, "we till the ground as our forefathers did: we will keep to the old traditions." and i answered, "oh ye hypocrites! have ye not forgotten the old traditions, that each man should have his equal share of ground, and that we should go on working at the mountain, for the sake of the weak and the children, the fatherless and the widow?" and they answered nought for a while. then one said, "are we not better off as we are? we buy the poor man's ground for a price, and we pay him his wages for tilling it for us--and we know better how to manage it than he." and i said, "oh ye hypocrites! see how your lie works! those who were free are now slaves. those who had peace of mind are now anxious from day to day for their daily bread. and the multitude gets poorer and poorer, while ye grow fatter and fatter. if ye had gone on boring the mountain, ye would have had no time to eat up your brethren." then they laughed and said, "thou art a singer of songs, and a dreamer of dreams. let those who want to get through the mountain go up and bore it; we are well enough here. come now, sing us pleasant songs, and talk no more foolish dreams, and we will reward thee." then they brought out a veiled maiden, and said, "look! her feet are like ivory, and her hair like threads of gold; and she is the sweetest singer in the whole valley. and she shall be thine, if thou wilt be like other people, and prophesy smooth things unto us, and torment us no more with talk about liberty, equality, and brotherhood; for they never were, and never will be, on this earth. living is too hard work to give in to such fancies." and when the maiden's veil was lifted, it was lillian. and she clasped me round the neck, and cried, "come! i will be your bride, and you shall be rich and powerful; and all men shall speak well of you, and you shall write songs; and we will sing them together, and feast and play from dawn to dawn." and i wept; and turned me about, and cried, "wife and child, song and wealth, are pleasant; but blessed is the work which the all-father has given the people to do. let the maimed and the halt and the blind, the needy and the fatherless, come up after me, and we will bore the mountain." but the rich drove me out, and drove back those who would have followed me. so i went up by myself, and bored the mountain seven years, weeping; and every year lillian came to me, and said, "come, and be my husband, for my beauty is fading, and youth passes fast away." but i set my heart steadfastly to the work. and when seven years were over, the poor were so multiplied, that the rich had not wherewith to pay their labour. and there came a famine in the land, and many of the poor died. then the rich said, "if we let these men starve, they will turn on us, and kill us, for hunger has no conscience, and they are all but like the beasts that perish." so they all brought, one a bullock, another a sack of meal, each according to his substance, and fed the poor therewith; and said to them, "behold our love and mercy towards you!" but the more they gave, the less they had wherewithal to pay their labourers; and the more they gave, the less the poor liked to work; so that at last they had not wherewithal to pay for tilling the ground, and each man had to go and till his own, and knew not how; so the land lay waste, and there was great perplexity. then i went down to them and said, "if you had hearkened to me, and not robbed your brethren of their land, you would never have come into this strait; for by this time the mountain would have been bored through." then they cursed the mountain, and me, and him who made them, and came down to my cottage at night, and cried, "one-sided and left-handed! father of confusion, and disciple of dead donkeys, see to what thou hast brought the land, with thy blasphemous doctrines! here we are starving, and not only we, but the poor misguided victims of thy abominable notions!" "you have become wondrous pitiful to the poor," said i, "since you found that they would not starve that you might wanton." then once more lillian came to me, thin and pale, and worn. "see, i, too, am starving! and you have been the cause of it; but i will forgive all if you will help us but this once." "how shall i help you?" "you are a poet and an orator, and win over all hearts with your talk and your songs. go down to the tribes of the plain, and persuade them to send us up warriors, that we may put down these riotous and idle wretches; and you shall be king of all the land, and i will be your slave, by day and night." but i went out, and quarried steadfastly at the mountain. and when i came back the next evening, the poor had risen against the rich, one and all, crying, "as you have done to us, so will we do to you;" and they hunted them down like wild beasts, and slew many of them, and threw their carcases on the dunghill, and took possession of their land and houses, and cried, "we will be all free and equal as our forefathers were, and live here, and eat and drink, and take our pleasure." then i ran out, and cried to them, "fools i will you do as these rich did, and neglect the work of god? if you do to them as they have done to you, you will sin as they sinned, and devour each other at the last, as they devoured you. the old paths are best. let each man, rich or poor, have his equal share of the land, as it was at first, and go up and dig through the mountain, and possess the good land beyond, where no man need jostle his neighbour, or rob him, when the land becomes too small for you. were the rich only in fault? did not you, too, neglect the work which the all-father had given you, and run every man after his own comfort? so you entered into a lie, and by your own sin raised up the rich man to be your punishment. for the last time, who will go up with me to the mountain?" then they all cried with one voice, "we have sinned! we will go up and pierce the mountain, and fulfil the work which god set to our forefathers." we went up, and the first stroke that i struck a crag fell out; and behold, the light of day! and far below us the good land and large, stretching away boundless towards the western sun. * * * * * i sat by the cave's mouth at the dawning of the day. past me the tribe poured down, young and old, with their waggons, and their cattle, their seeds, and their arms, as of old--yet not as of old--wiser and stronger, taught by long labour and sore affliction. downward they streamed from the cave's mouth into the glens, following the guidance of the silver water-courses; and as they passed me, each kissed my hands and feet, and cried, "thou hast saved us--thou hast given up all for us. come and be our king!" "nay," i said, "i have been your king this many a year; for i have been the servant of you all." i went down with them into the plain, and called them round me. many times they besought me to go with them and lead them. "no," i said, "i am old and grey-headed, and i am not as i have been. choose out the wisest and most righteous among you, and let him lead you. but bind him to yourselves with an oath, that whenever he shall say to you, 'stay here, and let us sit down and build, and dwell here for ever,' you shall cast him out of his office, and make him a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, and choose one who will lead you forwards in the spirit of god." the crowd opened, and a woman came forward into the circle. her face was veiled, but we all knew her for a prophetess. slowly she stepped into the midst, chanting a mystic song. whether it spoke of past, present, or future, we knew not; but it sank deep into all our hearts. "true freedom stands in meekness-- true strength in utter weakness-- justice in forgiveness lies-- riches in self-sacrifice-- own no rank but god's own spirit-- wisdom rule!--and worth inherit! work for all, and all employ-- share with all, and all enjoy-- god alike to all has given, heaven as earth, and earth as heaven, when the laud shall find her king again, and the reign of god is come." we all listened, awe-struck. she turned to us and continued: "hearken to me, children of japhet, the unresting! "on the holy mountain of paradise, in the asgard of the hindoo-koh, in the cup of the four rivers, in the womb of the mother of nations, in brotherhood, equality, and freedom, the sons of men were begotten, at the wedding of the heaven and the earth. mighty infants, you did the right you knew not of, and sinned not, because there was no temptation. by selfishness you fell, and became beasts of prey. each man coveted the universe for his own lusts, and not that he might fulfil in it god's command to people and subdue it. long have you wandered--and long will you wander still. for here you have no abiding city. you shall build cities, and they shall crumble; you shall invent forms of society and religion, and they shall fail in the hour of need. you shall call the lands by your own names, and fresh waves of men shall sweep you forth, westward, westward ever, till you have travelled round the path of the sun, to the place from whence you came. for out of paradise you went, and unto paradise you shall return; you shall become once more as little children, and renew your youth like the eagle's. feature by feature, and limb by limb, ye shall renew it; age after age, gradually and painfully, by hunger and pestilence, by superstitions and tyrannies, by need and blank despair, shall you be driven back to the all-father's home, till you become as you were before you fell, and left the likeness of your father for the likeness of the beasts. out of paradise you came, from liberty, equality, and brotherhood, and unto them you shall return again. you went forth in unconscious infancy--you shall return in thoughtful manhood.--you went forth in ignorance and need--you shall return in science and wealth, philosophy and art. you went forth with the world a wilderness before you--you shall return when it is a garden behind you. you went forth selfish-savages--you shall return as the brothers of the son of god. "and for you," she said, looking on me, "your penance is accomplished. you have learned what it is to be a man. you have lost your life and saved it. he that gives up house, or land, or wife, or child, for god's sake, it shall be repaid him an hundred-fold. awake!" surely i knew that voice. she lifted her veil. the face was lillian's? no!--eleanor's! gently she touched my hand--i sank down into soft, weary happy sleep. the spell was snapped. my fever and my dreams faded away together, and i woke to the twittering of the sparrows, and the scent of the poplar leaves, and the sights and sounds of childhood, and found eleanor and her uncle sitting by my bed, and with them crossthwaite's little wife. i would have spoken, but eleanor laid her finger on her lips, and taking her uncle's arm, glided from the room. katie kept stubbornly a smiling silence, and i was fain to obey my new-found guardian angels. what need of many words? slowly, and with relapses into insensibility, i passed, like one who recovers from drowning, through the painful gate of birth into another life. the fury of passion had been replaced by a delicious weakness. the thunder-clouds had passed roaring down the wind, and the calm bright holy evening was come. my heart, like a fretful child, had stamped and wept itself to sleep. i was past even gratitude; infinite submission and humility, feelings too long forgotten, absorbed my whole being. only i never dared meet eleanor's eye. her voice was like an angel's when she spoke to me--friend, mother, sister, all in one. but i had a dim recollection of being unjust to her--of some bar between us. katie and crossthwaite, as they sat by me, tender and careful nurses both, told me, in time, that to eleanor i owed all my comforts. i could not thank her--the debt was infinite, inexplicable. i felt as if i must speak all my heart or none; and i watched her lavish kindness with a sort of sleepy, passive wonder, like a new-born babe. at last, one day, my kind nurses allowed me to speak a little. i broached to crossthwaite the subject which filled my thoughts. "how came i here? how came you here? and lady ellerton? what is the meaning of it all?" "the meaning is, that lady ellerton, as they call her, is an angel out of heaven. ah, alton! she was your true friend, after all, if you had but known it, and not that other one at all." i turned my head away. "whisht--howld then, johnny darlint! and don't go tormenting the poor dear sowl, just when he's comin' round again." "no, no! tell me all. i must--i ought--i deserve to bear it. how did she come here?" "why then, it's my belief, she had her eye on you ever since you came out of that bastille, and before that, too; and she found you out at mackaye's, and me with you, for i was there looking after you. if it hadn't been for your illness, i'd have been in texas now, with our friends, for all's up with the charter, and the country's too hot, at least for me. i'm sick of the whole thing together, patriots, aristocrats, and everybody else, except this blessed angel. and i've got a couple of hundred to emigrate with; and what's more, so have you." "how's that?" "why, when poor dear old mackaye's will was read, and you raving mad in the next room, he had left all his stock-in-trade, that was, the books, to some of our friends, to form a workmen's library with, and £ he'd saved, to be parted between you and me, on condition that we'd g.t.t., and cool down across the atlantic, for seven years come the tenth of april." so, then, by the lasting love of my adopted father, i was at present at least out of the reach of want! my heart was ready to overflow at my eyes; but i could not rest till i had heard more of lady ellerton. what brought her here, to nurse me as if she had been a sister? "why, then, she lives not far off by. when her husband died, his cousin got the estate and title, and so she came, katie tells me, and lived for one year down somewhere in the east-end among the needlewomen; and spent her whole fortune on the poor, and never kept a servant, so they say, but made her own bed and cooked her own dinner, and got her bread with her own needle, to see what it was really like. and she learnt a lesson there, i can tell you, and god bless her for it. for now she's got a large house here by, with fifty or more in it, all at work together, sharing the earnings among themselves, and putting into their own pockets the profits which would have gone to their tyrants; and she keeps the accounts for them, and gets the goods sold, and manages everything, and reads to them while they work, and teaches them every day." "and takes her victuals with them," said katie, "share and share alike. she that was so grand a lady, to demane herself to the poor unfortunate young things! she's as blessed a saint as any a one in the calendar, if they'll forgive me for saying so." "ay! demeaning, indeed! for the best of it is, they're not the respectable ones only, though she spends hundreds on them--" "and sure, haven't i seen it with my own eyes, when i've been there charing?" "ay, but those she lives with are the fallen and the lost ones--those that the rich would not set up in business, or help them to emigrate, or lift them out of the gutter with a pair of tongs, for fear they should stain their own whitewash in handling them." "and sure they're as dacent as meself now, the poor darlints! it was misery druv 'em to it, every one; perhaps it might hav' druv me the same way, if i'd a lot o' childer, and johnny gone to glory--and the blessed saints save him from that same at all at all!" "what! from going to glory?" said john. "och, thin, and wouldn't i just go mad if ever such ill luck happened to yees as to be taken to heaven in the prime of your days, asthore?" and she began sobbing and hugging and kissing the little man; and then suddenly recollecting herself, scolded him heartily for making such a "whillybaloo," and thrust him out of my room, to recommence kissing him in the next, leaving me to many meditations. chapter xxxvii. the true demagogue. i used to try to arrange my thoughts, but could not; the past seemed swept away and buried, like the wreck of some drowned land after a flood. ploughed by affliction to the core, my heart lay fallow for every seed that fell. eleanor understood me, and gently and gradually, beneath her skilful hand, the chaos began again to bloom with verdure. she and crossthwaite used to sit and read to me--from the bible, from poets, from every book which could suggest soothing, graceful, or hopeful fancies. now out of the stillness of the darkened chamber, one or two priceless sentences of à kempis, or a spirit-stirring hebrew psalm, would fall upon my ear: and then there was silence again; and i was left to brood over the words in vacancy, till they became a fibre of my own soul's core. again and again the stories of lazarus and the magdalene alternated with milton's penseroso, or with wordsworth's tenderest and most solemn strains. exquisite prints from the history of our lord's life and death were hung one by one, each for a few days, opposite my bed, where they might catch my eye the moment that i woke, the moment before i fell asleep. i heard one day the good dean remonstrating with her on the "sentimentalism" of her mode of treatment. "poor drowned butterfly!" she answered, smiling, "he must be fed with honey-dew. have i not surely had practice enough already?" "yes, angel that you are!" answered the old man. "you have indeed had practice enough!" and lifting her hand reverentially to his lips, he turned and left the room. she sat down by me as i lay, and began to read from tennyson's lotus-eaters. but it was not reading--it was rather a soft dreamy chant, which rose and fell like the waves of sound on an Æolian harp. "there is sweet music here that softer falls than petals from blown roses on the grass, or night dews on still waters between wails of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; music that gentler on the spirit lies than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. here are cool mosses deep, and through the moss the ivies creep, and in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, and from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. "why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, and utterly consumed with sharp distress, while all things else have rest from weariness? all things have rest: why should we toil alone? we only toil, who are the first of things, and make perpetual moan, still from one sorrow to another thrown: nor ever fold our wings. and cease from wanderings; nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm, nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 'there is no joy but calm!' why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?" she paused-- my soul was an enchanted boat which, like a sleeping swan, did float upon the silver waves of her sweet singing. half-unconscious, i looked up. before me hung a copy of raffaelle's cartoon of the miraculous draught of fishes. as my eye wandered over it, it seemed to blend into harmony with the feelings which the poem had stirred. i seemed to float upon the glassy lake. i watched the vista of the waters and mountains, receding into the dreamy infinite of the still summer sky. softly from distant shores came the hum of eager multitudes; towers and palaces slept quietly beneath the eastern sun. in front, fantastic fishes, and the birds of the mountain and the lake, confessed his power, who sat there in his calm godlike beauty, his eye ranging over all that still infinity of his own works, over all that wondrous line of figures, which seemed to express every gradation of spiritual consciousness, from the dark self-condemned dislike of judas's averted and wily face, through mere animal greediness to the first dawnings of surprise, and on to the manly awe and gratitude of andrew's majestic figure, and the self-abhorrent humility of peter, as he shrank down into the bottom of the skiff, and with convulsive palms and bursting brow seemed to press out from his inmost heart the words, "depart from me, for i am a sinful man, o lord!" truly, pictures are the books of the unlearned, and of the mis-learned too. glorious raffaelle! shakspeare of the south! mighty preacher, to whose blessed intuition it was given to know all human hearts, to embody in form and colour all spiritual truths, common alike to protestant and papist, to workman and to sage--oh that i may meet thee before the throne of god, if it be but to thank thee for that one picture, in which thou didst reveal to me, in a single glance, every step of my own spiritual history! she seemed to follow my eyes, and guess from them the workings of my heart; for now, in a low, half-abstracted voice, as diotima may have talked of old, she began to speak of rest and labour, of death and life; of a labour which is perfect rest--of a daily death, which is but daily birth--of weakness, which is the strength of god; and so she wandered on in her speech to him who died for us. and gradually she turned to me. she laid one finger solemnly on my listless palm, as her words and voice became more intense, more personal. she talked of him, as mary may have talked just risen from his feet. she spoke of him as i had never heard him spoken of before--with a tender passionate loyalty, kept down and softened by the deepest awe. the sense of her intense belief, shining out in every lineament of her face, carried conviction to my heart more than ten thousand arguments could do. it must be true!--was not the power of it around her like a glory? she spoke of him as near us--watching us--in words of such vivid eloquence that i turned half-startled to her, as if i expected to see him standing by her side. she spoke of him as the great reformer; and yet as the true conservative; the inspirer of all new truths, revealing in his bible to every age abysses of new wisdom, as the times require; and yet the vindicator of all which is ancient and eternal--the justifier of his own dealings with man from the beginning. she spoke of him as the true demagogue--the champion of the poor; and yet as the true king, above and below all earthly rank; on whose will alone all real superiority of man to man, all the time-justified and time-honoured usages of the family, the society, the nation, stand and shall stand for ever. * * * * * and then she changed her tone; and in a voice of infinite tenderness she spoke of him as the creator, the word, the inspirer, the only perfect artist, the fountain of all genius. she made me feel--would that his ministers had made me feel it before, since they say that they believe it--that he had passed victorious through my vilest temptations, that he sympathized with my every struggle. she told me how he, in the first dawn of manhood, full of the dim consciousness of his own power, full of strange yearning presentiments about his own sad and glorious destiny, went up into the wilderness, as every youth, above all every genius, must, there to be tempted of the devil. she told how alone with the wild beasts, and the brute powers of nature, he saw into the open secret--the mystery of man's twofold life, his kingship over earth, his sonship under god: and conquered in the might of his knowledge. how he was tempted, like every genius, to use his creative powers for selfish ends--to yield to the lust of display and singularity, and break through those laws which he came to reveal and to fulfil--to do one little act of evil, that he might secure thereby the harvest of good which was the object of his life: and how he had conquered in the faith that he was the son of god. she told me how he had borne the sorrows of genius; how the slightest pang that i had ever felt was but a dim faint pattern of his; how he, above all men, had felt the agony of calumny, misconception, misinterpretation; how he had fought with bigotry and stupidity, casting his pearls before swine, knowing full well what it was to speak to the deaf and the blind; how he had wept over jerusalem, in the bitterness of disappointed patriotism, when he had tried in vain to awaken within a nation of slavish and yet rebellious bigots the consciousness of their glorious calling.... it was too much--i hid my face in the coverlet, and burst out into long, low, and yet most happy weeping. she rose and went to the window, and beckoned katie from the room within. "i am afraid," she said, "my conversation has been too much for him." "showers sweeten the air," said katie; and truly enough, as my own lightened brain told me. eleanor--for so i must call her now--stood watching me for a few minutes, and then glided back to the bedside, and sat down again. "you find the room quiet?" "wonderfully quiet. the roar of the city outside is almost soothing, and the noise of every carriage seems to cease suddenly just as it becomes painfully near." "we have had straw laid down," she answered, "all along this part of the street." this last drop of kindness filled the cup to overflowing: a veil fell from before my eyes--it was she who had been my friend, my guardian angel, from the beginning! "you--you--idiot that i have been! i see it all now. it was you who laid that paper to catch my eye on that first evening at d * * *!--you paid my debt to my cousin!--you visited mackaye in his last illness!" she made a sign of assent. "you saw from the beginning my danger, my weakness!--you tried to turn me from my frantic and fruitless passion!--you tried to save me from the very gulf into which i forced myself!--and i--i have hated you in return--cherished suspicions too ridiculous to confess, only equalled by the absurdity of that other dream!" "would that other dream have ever given you peace, even if it had ever become reality?" she spoke gently, slowly, seriously; waiting between each question for the answer which i dared not give. "what was it that you adored? a soul or a face? the inward reality or the outward symbol, which is only valuable as a sacrament of the loveliness within?" "ay!" thought i, "and was that loveliness within? what was that beauty but a hollow mask?" how barren, borrowed, trivial, every thought and word of hers seemed now, as i looked back upon them, in comparison with the rich luxuriance, the startling originality, of thought, and deed, and sympathy, in her who now sat by me, wan and faded, beautiful no more as men call beauty, but with the spirit of an archangel gazing from those clear, fiery eyes! and as i looked at her, an emotion utterly new to me arose; utter trust, delight, submission, gratitude, awe--if it was love, it was love as of a dog towards his master.... "ay," i murmured, half unconscious that i spoke aloud, "her i loved, and love no longer; but you, you i worship, and for ever!" "worship god," she answered. "if it shall please you hereafter to call me friend, i shall refuse neither the name nor its duties. but remember always, that whatsoever interest i feel in you, and, indeed, have felt from the first time i saw your poems, i cannot give or accept friendship upon any ground so shallow and changeable as personal preference. the time was when i thought it a mark of superior intellect and refinement to be as exclusive in my friendships as in my theories. now i have learnt that that is most spiritual and noble which is also most universal. if we are to call each other friends, it must be for a reason which equally includes the outcast and the profligate, the felon, and the slave." "what do you mean?" i asked, half disappointed. "only for the sake of him who died for all alike." why did she rise and call crossthwaite from the next room where he was writing? was it from the womanly tact and delicacy which feared lest my excited feelings might lead me on to some too daring expression, and give me the pain of a rebuff, however gentle; or was it that she wished him, as well as me, to hear the memorable words which followed, to which she seemed to have been all along alluring me, and calling up in my mind, one by one, the very questions to which she had prepared the answers? "that name!" i answered. "alas! has it not been in every age the watchword, not of an all-embracing charity, but of self-conceit and bigotry, excommunication and persecution?" "that is what men have made it; not god, or he who bears it, the son of god. yes, men have separated from each other, slandered each other, murdered each other in that name, and blasphemed it by that very act. but when did they unite in any name but that? look all history through--from the early churches, unconscious and infantile ideas of god's kingdom, as eden was of the human race, when love alone was law, and none said that aught that he possessed was his own, but they had all things in common--whose name was the, bond of unity for that brotherhood, such as the earth had never seen--when the roman lady and the negro slave partook together at the table of the same bread and wine, and sat together at the feet of the syrian tent-maker?--'one is our master, even christ, who sits at the right hand of god, and in him we are all brothers.' not self-chosen preference for his precepts, but the overwhelming faith in his presence, his rule, his love, bound those rich hearts together. look onward, too, at the first followers of st. bennet and st. francis, at the cameronians among their scottish hills, or the little persecuted flock who in a dark and godless time gathered around wesley by pit mouths and on cornish cliffs--look, too, at the great societies of our own days, which, however imperfectly, still lovingly and earnestly do their measure of god's work at home and abroad; and say, when was there ever real union, co-operation, philanthropy, equality, brotherhood, among men, save in loyalty to him--jesus, who died upon the cross?" and she bowed her head reverently before that unseen majesty; and then looked up at us again--those eyes, now brimming full of earnest tears, would have melted stonier hearts than ours that day. "do you not believe me? then i must quote against you one of your own prophets--a ruined angel--even as you might have been. "when camille desmoulins, the revolutionary, about to die, as is the fate of such, by the hands of revolutionaries, was asked his age, he answered, they say, that it was the same as that of the 'bon sans-culotte jesus.' i do not blame those who shrink from that speech as blasphemous. i, too, have spoken hasty words and hard, and prided myself on breaking the bruised reed, and quenching the smoking flax. time was when i should have been the loudest in denouncing poor camille; but i have long since seemed to see in those words the distortion of an almighty truth--a truth that shall shake thrones, and principalities, and powers, and fill the earth with its sound, as with the trump of god; a prophecy like balaam's of old--'i shall see him, but not nigh; i shall behold him, but not near.'... take all the heroes, prophets, poets, philosophers--where will you find the true demagogue--the speaker to man simply as man--the friend of publicans and sinners, the stern foe of the scribe and the pharisee--with whom was no respect of persons--where is he? socrates and plato were noble; zerdusht and confutzee, for aught we know, were nobler still; but what were they but the exclusive mystagogues of an enlightened few, like our own emersons and strausses, to compare great with small? what gospel have they, or strauss, or emerson, for the poor, the suffering, the oppressed? the people's friend? where will you find him, but in jesus of nazareth?" "we feel that; i assure you, we feel that," said crossthwaite. "there are thousands of us who delight in his moral teaching, as the perfection of human excellence." "and what gospel is there in a moral teaching? what good news is it to the savage of st. giles, to the artizan, crushed by the competition of others and his own evil habits, to tell him that he can be free--if he can make himself free?--that all men are his equals--if he can rise to their level, or pull them down to his?--all men his brothers--if he can only stop them from devouring him, or making it necessary for him to devour them? liberty, equality, and brotherhood? let the history of every nation, of every revolution--let your own sad experience speak--have they been aught as yet but delusive phantoms--angels that turned to fiends the moment you seemed about to clasp them? remember the tenth of april, and the plots thereof, and answer your own hearts!" crossthwaite buried his face in his hands. "what!" i answered, passionately, "will you rob us poor creatures of our only faith, our only hope on earth? let us be deceived, and deceived again, yet we will believe! we will hope on in spite of hope. we may die, but the idea lives for ever. liberty, equality, and fraternity must come. we know, we know, that they must come; and woe to those who seek to rob us of our faith!" "keep, keep your faith," she cried; "for it is not yours, but god's, who gave it! but do not seek to realize that idea for yourselves." "why, then, in the name of reason and mercy?" "because it is realized already for you. you are free; god has made you free. you are equals--you are brothers; for he is your king who is no respecter of persons. he is your king, who has bought for you the rights of sons of god. he is your king, to whom all power is given in heaven and earth; who reigns, and will reign, till he has put all enemies under his feet. that was luther's charter,--with that alone he freed half europe. that is your charter, and mine; the everlasting ground of our rights, our mights, our duties, of ever-gathering storm for the oppressor, of ever-brightening sunshine for the oppressed. own no other. claim your investiture as free men from none but god. his will, his love, is a stronger ground, surely, than abstract rights and ethnological opinions. abstract rights? what ground, what root have they, but the ever-changing opinions of men, born anew and dying anew with each fresh generation?--while the word of god stands sure--'you are mine, and i am yours, bound to you in an everlasting covenant.' "abstract rights? they are sure to end, in practice, only in the tyranny of their father--opinion. in favoured england here, the notions of abstract right among the many are not so incorrect, thanks to three centuries of protestant civilization; but only because the right notions suit the many at this moment. but in america, even now, the same ideas of abstract right do not interfere with the tyranny of the white man over the black. why should they? the white man is handsomer, stronger, cunninger, worthier than the black. the black is more like an ape than the white man--he is--the fact is there; and no notions of an abstract right will put that down: nothing but another fact--a mightier, more universal fact--jesus of nazareth died for the negro as well as for the white. looked at apart from him, each race, each individual of mankind, stands separate and alone, owing no more brotherhood to each other than wolf to wolf, or pike to pike--himself a mightier beast of prey--even as he has proved himself in every age. looked at as he is, as joined into one family in christ, his archetype and head, even the most frantic declamations of the french democrat, about the majesty of the people, the divinity of mankind, become rational, reverent, and literal. god's grace outrivals all man's boasting--'i have said, ye are gods, and ye are all the children of the most highest:'--'children of god, members of christ, of his body, of his flesh, and of his bones,'--'kings and priests to god,'--free inheritors of the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of prudence and courage, of reverence and love, the spirit of him who has said, 'behold, the days come, when i will pour out my spirit upon all flesh, and no one shall teach his brother, saying, know the lord, for all shall know him, from the least even unto the greatest. ay, even on the slaves and on the handmaidens in those days will i pour out my spirit, saith the lord!'" "and that is really in the bible?" asked crossthwaite. "ay"--she went on, her figure dilating, and her eyes flashing, like an inspired prophetess--"that is in the bible! what would you more than that? that is your charter; the only ground of all charters. you, like all mankind, have had dim inspirations, confused yearnings after your future destiny, and, like all the world from the beginning, you have tried to realize, by self-willed methods of your own, what you can only do by god's inspiration, by god's method. like the builders of babel in old time, you have said, 'go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top shall reach to heaven'--and god has confounded you as he did them. by mistrust, division, passion, and folly, you are scattered abroad. even in these last few days, the last dregs of your late plot have exploded miserably and ludicrously--your late companions are in prison, and the name of chartist is a laughing-stock as well as an abomination." "good heavens! is this true?" asked i, looking at crossthwaite for confirmation. "too true, dear boy, too true: and if it had not been for these two angels here, i should have been in newgate now!" "yes," she went on. "the charter seems dead, and liberty further off than ever." "that seems true enough, indeed," said i, bitterly. "yes. but it is because liberty is god's beloved child, that he will not have her purity sullied by the touch of the profane. because he loves the people, he will allow none but himself to lead the people. because he loves the people, he will teach the people by afflictions. and even now, while all this madness has been destroying itself, he has been hiding you in his secret place from the strife of tongues, that you may have to look for a state founded on better things than acts of parliament, social contracts, and abstract rights--a city whose foundations are in the eternal promises, whose builder and maker is god." she paused.--"go on, go on," cried crossthwaite and i in the same breath. "that state, that city, jesus said, was come--was now within us, had we eyes to see. and it is come. call it the church, the gospel, civilization, freedom, democracy, association, what you will--i shall call it by the name by which my master spoke of it--the name which includes all these, and more than these--the kingdom of god. 'without observation,' as he promised, secretly, but mightily, it has been growing, spreading, since that first whitsuntide; civilizing, humanizing, uniting this distracted earth. men have fancied they found it in this system or in that, and in them only. they have cursed it in its own name, when they found it too wide for their own narrow notions. they have cried, 'lo here!' and 'lo there!' 'to this communion!' or 'to that set of opinions.' but it has gone its way--the way of him who made all things, and redeemed all things to himself. in every age it has been a gospel to the poor, in every age it has, sooner or later, claimed the steps of civilization, the discoveries of science, as god's inspirations, not man's inventions. in every age, it has taught men to do that by god which they had failed in doing without him. it is now ready, if we may judge by the signs of the times, once again to penetrate, to convert, to reorganize, the political and social life of england, perhaps of the world; to vindicate democracy as the will and gift of god. take it for the ground of your rights. if, henceforth, you claim political enfranchisement, claim it not as mere men, who may be villains, savages, animals, slaves of their own prejudices and passions; but as members of christ, children of god, inheritors of the kingdom of heaven, and therefore bound to realize it on earth. all other rights are mere mights--mere selfish demands to become tyrants in your turn. if you wish to justify your charter, do it on that ground. claim your share in national life, only because the nation is a spiritual body, whose king is the son of god; whose work, whose national character and powers, are allotted to it by the spirit of christ. claim universal suffrage, only on the ground of the universal redemption of mankind--the universal priesthood of christians. that argument will conquer, when all have failed; for god will make it conquer. claim the disenfranchisement of every man, rich or poor, who breaks the laws of god and man, not merely because he is an obstacle to you, but because he is a traitor to your common king in heaven, and to the spiritual kingdom of which he is a citizen. denounce the effete idol of property-qualification, not because it happens to strengthen class interests against you, but because, as your mystic dream reminded you, and, therefore, as you knew long ago, there is no real rank, no real power, but worth; and worth consists not in property, but in the grace of god. claim, if you will, annual parliaments, as a means of enforcing the responsibility of rulers to the christian community, of which they are to be, not the lords, but the ministers--the servants of all. but claim these, and all else for which you long, not from man, but from god, the king of men. and therefore, before you attempt to obtain them, make yourselves worthy of them--perhaps by that process you will find some of them have become less needful. at all events, do not ask, do not hope, that he will give them to you before you are able to profit by them. believe that he has kept them from you hitherto, because they would have been curses, and not blessings. oh! look back, look back, at the history of english radicalism for the last half century, and judge by your own deeds, your own words; were you fit for those privileges which you so frantically demanded? do not answer me, that those who had them were equally unfit; but thank god, if the case be indeed so, that your incapacity was not added to theirs, to make confusion worse confounded! learn a new lesson. believe at last that you are in christ, and become new creatures. with those miserable, awful farce tragedies of april and june, let old things pass away, and all things become new. believe that your kingdom is not of this world, but of one whose servants must not fight. he that believeth, as the prophet says, will not make haste. beloved suffering brothers! are not your times in the hand of one who loved you to the death, who conquered, as you must do, not by wrath, but by martyrdom? try no more to meet mammon with his own weapons, but commit your cause to him who judges righteously, who is even now coming out of his place to judge the earth, and to help the fatherless and poor unto their right, that the man of the world may be no more exalted against them--the poor man of nazareth, crucified for you!" she ceased, and there was silence for a few moments, as if angels were waiting, hushed, to carry our repentance to the throne of him we had forgotten. crossthwaite had kept his face fast buried in his hands; now he looked up with brimming eyes-- "i see it--i see it all now. oh, my god! my god! what infidels we have been!" chapter xxxviii. miracles and science. sunrise, they say, often at first draws up and deepens the very mists which it is about to scatter: and even so, as the excitement of my first conviction cooled, dark doubts arose to dim the new-born light of hope and trust within me. the question of miracles had been ever since i had read strauss my greatest stumbling-block--perhaps not unwillingly, for my doubts pampered my sense of intellectual acuteness and scientific knowledge; and "a little knowledge is a dangerous thing." but now that they interfered with nobler, more important, more immediately practical ideas, i longed to have them removed--i longed even to swallow them down on trust--to take the miracles "into the bargain" as it were, for the sake of that mighty gospel of deliverance for the people which accompanied them. mean subterfuge! which would not, could not, satisfy me. the thing was too precious, too all-important, to take one tittle of it on trust. i could not bear the consciousness of one hollow spot--the nether fires of doubt glaring through, even at one little crevice. i took my doubts to lady ellerton--eleanor, as i must now call her, for she never allowed herself to be addressed by her title--and she referred me to her uncle-- "i could say somewhat on that point myself. but since your doubts are scientific ones, i had rather that you should discuss them with one whose knowledge of such subjects you, and all england with you, must revere." "ah, but--pardon me; he is a clergyman." "and therefore bound to prove, whether he believes in his own proof or not. unworthy suspicion!" she cried, with a touch of her old manner. "if you had known that man's literary history for the last thirty years, you would not suspect him, at least, of sacrificing truth and conscience to interest, or to fear of the world's insults." i was rebuked; and not without hope and confidence, i broached the question to the good dean when he came in--as he happened to do that very day. "i hardly like to state my difficulties," i began--"for i am afraid that i must hurt myself in your eyes by offending your--prejudices, if you will pardon so plain-spoken an expression." "if," he replied, in his bland courtly way, "i am so unfortunate as to have any prejudices left, you cannot do me a greater kindness than by offending them--or by any other means, however severe--to make me conscious of the locality of such a secret canker." "but i am afraid that your own teaching has created, or at least corroborated, these doubts of mine." "how so?" "you first taught me to revere science. you first taught me to admire and trust the immutable order, the perfect harmony of the laws of nature." "ah! i comprehend now!" he answered, in a somewhat mournful tone--"how much we have to answer for! how often, in our carelessness, we offend those little ones, whose souls are precious in the sight of god! i have thought long and earnestly on the very subject which now distresses you; perhaps every doubt which has passed through your mind, has exercised my own; and, strange to say, you first set me on that new path of thought. a conversation which passed between us years ago at d * * * * on the antithesis of natural and revealed religion--perhaps you recollect it?" yes, i recollected it better than he fancied, and recollected too--i thrust the thought behind me--it was even yet intolerable. "that conversation first awoke in me the sense of an hitherto unconscious inconsistency--a desire to reconcile two lines of thought--which i had hitherto considered as parallel, and impossible to unite. to you, and to my beloved niece here, i owe gratitude for that evening's talk; and you are freely welcome to all my conclusions, for you have been, indirectly, the originator of them all." "then, i must confess, that miracles seem to me impossible, just because they break the laws of nature. pardon me--but there seems something blasphemous in supposing that god can mar his own order: his power i do not call in question, but the very thought of his so doing is abhorrent to me." "it is as abhorrent to me as it can be to you, to goethe, or to strauss; and yet i believe firmly in our lord's miracles." "how so, if they break the laws of nature?" "who told you, my dear young friend, that to break the customs of nature, is to break her laws? a phenomenon, an appearance, whether it be a miracle or a comet, need not contradict them because it is rare, because it is as yet not referable to them. nature's deepest laws, her only true laws, are her invisible ones. all analyses (i think you know enough to understand my terms), whether of appearances, of causes, or of elements, only lead us down to fresh appearances--we cannot see a law, let the power of our lens be ever so immense. the true causes remain just as impalpable, as unfathomable as ever, eluding equally our microscope and our induction--ever tending towards some great primal law, as mr. grove has well shown lately in his most valuable pamphlet--some great primal law, i say, manifesting itself, according to circumstances, in countless diverse and unexpected forms--till all that the philosopher as well as the divine can say, is--the spirit of life, impalpable, transcendental, direct from god, is the only real cause. 'it bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, or whither it goeth.' what, if miracles should be the orderly result of some such deep, most orderly, and yet most spiritual law?" "i feel the force of your argument, but--" "but you will confess, at least, that you, after the fashion of the crowd, have begun your argument by begging the very question in dispute, and may have, after all, created the very difficulty which torments you." "i confess it; but i cannot see how the miracles of jesus--of our lord--have anything of order in them." "tell me, then--to try the socratic method--is disease, or health, the order and law of nature?" "health, surely; we all confess that by calling diseases disorders." "then, would one who healed diseases be a restorer, or a breaker of order?" "a restorer, doubtless; but--" "like a patient scholar, and a scholarly patient, allow me to 'exhibit' my own medicines according to my own notion of the various crises of your distemper. i assure you i will not play you false, or entrap you by quips and special pleading. you are aware that our lord's miracles were almost exclusively miracles of healing--restorations of that order of health which disease was breaking--that when the scribes and pharisees, superstitious and sense-bound, asked him for a sign from heaven, a contra-natural prodigy, he refused them as peremptorily as he did the fiend's 'command these stones that they be made bread.' you will quote against me the water turned into wine, as an exception to this rule. st. augustine answered that objection centuries ago, by the same argument as i am now using. allow jesus to have been the lord of creation, and what was he doing then, but what he does in the maturing of every grape--transformed from air and water even as that wine in cana? goethe, himself, unwittingly, has made mephistopheles even say as much as that-- "wine is sap, and grapes are wood, the wooden board yields wine as good." "but the time?--so infinitely shorter than that which nature usually occupies in the process?" "time and space are no gods, as a wise german says; and as the electric telegraph ought already to have taught you. they are customs, but who has proved them to be laws of nature? no; analyse these miracles one by one, fairly, carefully, scientifically, and you will find that if you want prodigies really blasphemous and absurd, infractions of the laws of nature, amputated limbs growing again, and dead men walking away with their heads under their arms, you must go to the popish legends, but not to the miracles of the gospels. and now for your 'but'--" "the raising of the dead to life? surely death is the appointed end of every animal--ay, of every species, and of man among the rest." "who denies it? but is premature death?--the death of jairus's daughter, of the widow's son at nain, the death of jesus himself, in the prime of youth and vigour--or rather that gradual decay of ripe old age, through which i now, thank god, so fast am travelling? what nobler restoration of order, what clearer vindication of the laws of nature from the disorder of diseases, than to recall the dead to their natural and normal period of life?" i was silent a few moments, having nothing to answer; then-- "after all, these may have been restorations of the law of nature. but why was the law broken in order to restore it? the tenth of april has taught me, at least, that disorder cannot cast disorder out." "again i ask, why do you assume the very point in question? again i ask, who knows what really are the laws of nature? you have heard bacon's golden rule--'nature is conquered by obeying her?'" "i have." "then who more likely, who more certain, to fulfil that law to hitherto unattained perfection, than he who came to obey, not outward nature merely, but, as bacon meant, the inner ideas, the spirit of nature, which is the will of god?--he who came to do utterly, not his own will, but the will of the father who sent him? who is so presumptuous as to limit the future triumphs of science? surely no one who has watched her giant strides during the last century. shall stephenson and faraday, and the inventors of the calculating machine, and the electric telegraph, have fulfilled such wonders by their weak and partial obedience to the 'will of god expressed in things'--and he who obeyed, even unto the death, have possessed no higher power than theirs?" "indeed," i said, "your words stagger me. but there is another old objection which they have reawakened in my mind. you will say i am shifting my ground sadly. but you must pardon me" "let us hear. they need not be irrelevant. the unconscious logic of association is often deeper and truer than any syllogism." "these modern discoveries in medicine seem to show that christ's miracles may be attributed to natural causes." "and thereby justify them. for what else have i been arguing. the difficulty lies only in the rationalist's shallow and sensuous view of nature, and in his ambiguous, slip-slop trick of using the word natural to mean, in one sentence, 'material,' and in the next, as i use it, only 'normal and orderly.' every new wonder in medicine which this great age discovers--what does it prove, but that christ need have broken no natural laws to do that of old, which can be done now without breaking them--if you will but believe that these gifts of healing are all inspired and revealed by him who is the great physician, the life, the lord of that vital energy by whom all cures are wrought. "the surgeons of st. george's make the boy walk who has been lame from his mother's womb. but have they given life to a single bone or muscle of his limbs? they have only put them into that position--those circumstances in which the god-given life in them can have its free and normal play, and produce the cure which they only assist. i claim that miracle of science, as i do all future ones, as the inspiration of him who made the lame to walk in judea, not by producing new organs, but by his creative will--quickening and liberating those which already existed. "the mesmerist, again, says that he can cure a spirit of infirmity, an hysteric or paralytic patient, by shedding forth on them his own vital energy; and, therefore he will have it, that christ's miracles were but mesmeric feats. i grant, for the sake of argument, that he possesses the power which he claims; though i may think his facts too new, too undigested, often too exaggerated, to claim my certain assent. but, i say, i take you on your own ground; and, indeed, if man be the image of god, his vital energy may, for aught i know, be able, like god's, to communicate some spark of life--but then, what must have been the vital energy of him who was the life itself; who was filled without measure with the spirit, not only of humanity, but with that of god the lord and giver of life? do but let the bible tell its own story; grant, for the sake of argument, the truth of the dogmas which it asserts throughout, and it becomes a consistent whole. when a man begins, as strauss does, by assuming the falsity of its conclusions, no wonder if he finds its premises a fragmentary chaos of contradictions." "and what else?" asked eleanor, passionately--"what else is the meaning of that highest human honour, the sacrament of the lord's supper, but a perennial token that the same life-giving spirit is the free right of all?" and thereon followed happy, peaceful, hopeful words, which the reader, if he call himself a christian, ought to be able to imagine for himself. i am afraid that writing from memory, i should do as little justice to them as i have to the dean's arguments in this chapter. of the consequences which they produced in me, i will speak anon. chapter xxxix. nemesis. it was a month or more before i summoned courage to ask after my cousin. eleanor looked solemnly at me. "did you not know it? he is dead." "dead!" i was almost stunned by the announcement. "of typhus fever. he died three weeks ago; and not only he, but the servant who brushed his clothes, and the shopman, who had a few days before, brought him a new coat home." "how did you learn all this?" "from mr. crossthwaite. but the strangest part of the sad story is to come. crossthwaite's suspicions were aroused by some incidental circumstance, and knowing of downes's death, and the fact that you most probably caught your fever in that miserable being's house, he made such inquiries as satisfied him that it was no other than your cousin's coat--" "which covered the corpses in that fearful chamber?" "it was indeed." just, awful god. and this was the consistent nemesis of all poor george's thrift and cunning, of his determination to carry the buy-cheap-and-sell-dear commercialism, in which he had been brought up, into every act of life! did i rejoice? no; all revenge, all spite had been scourged out of me. i mourned for him as for a brother, till the thought flashed across me--lillian was free. half unconscious, i stammered her name inquiringly. "judge for yourself," answered eleanor, mildly, yet with a deep, severe meaning in her tone. i was silent. * * * * * the tempest in my heart was ready to burst forth again; but she, my guardian angel, soothed it for me. "she is much changed; sorrow and sickness--for she, too, has had the fever, and, alas! less resignation or peace within, than those who love her would have wished to see--have worn her down. little remains now of that loveliness--" "which i idolized in my folly!" "thank god, thank god! that you see that at last: i knew it all along. i knew that there was nothing there for your heart to rest upon--nothing to satisfy your intellect--and, therefore, i tried to turn you from your dream. i did it harshly, angrily, too sharply, yet not explicitly enough. i ought to have made allowances for you. i should have known how enchanting, intoxicating, mere outward perfections must have been to one of your perceptions, shut out so long as you had been from the beautiful in art and nature. but i was cruel. alas! i had not then learnt to sympathize; and i have often since felt with terror that i, too, may have many of your sins to answer for; that i, even i, helped to drive you on to bitterness and despair." "oh, do not say so! you have done to me, meant to me, nothing but good." "be not too sure of that. you little know me. you little know the pride which i have fostered--even the mean anger against you, for being the protégé of any one but myself. that exclusiveness, and shyness, and proud reserve, is the bane of our english character--it has been the bane of mine--daily i strive to root it out. come--i will do so now. you wonder why i am here. you shall hear somewhat of my story; and do not fancy that i am showing you a peculiar mark of honour or confidence. if the history of my life can be of use to the meanest, they are welcome to the secrets of my inmost heart. "i was my parents' only child, an heiress, highly born, and highly educated. every circumstance of humanity which could pamper pride was mine, and i battened on the poison. i painted, i sang, i wrote in prose and verse--they told me, not without success. men said that i was beautiful--i knew that myself, and revelled and gloried in the thought. accustomed to see myself the centre of all my parents' hopes and fears, to be surrounded by flatterers, to indulge in secret the still more fatal triumph of contempt for those i thought less gifted than myself, self became the centre of my thoughts. pleasure was all i thought of. but not what the vulgar call pleasure. that i disdained, while, like you, i worshipped all that was pleasurable to the intellect and the taste. the beautiful was my god. i lived, in deliberate intoxication, on poetry, music, painting, and every anti-type of them which i could find in the world around. at last i met with--one whom you once saw. he first awoke in me the sense of the vast duties and responsibilities of my station--his example first taught me to care for the many rather than for the few. it was a blessed lesson: yet even that i turned to poison, by making self, still self, the object of my very benevolence. to be a philanthropist, a philosopher, a feudal queen, amid the blessings and the praise of dependent hundreds--that was my new ideal; for that i turned the whole force of my intellect to the study of history, of social and economic questions. from bentham and malthus to fourier and proudhon, i read them all. i made them all fit into that idol-temple of self which i was rearing, and fancied that i did my duty, by becoming one of the great ones of the earth. my ideal was not the crucified nazarene, but some hairoun alraschid, in luxurious splendour, pampering his pride by bestowing as a favour those mercies which god commands as the right of all. i thought to serve god, forsooth, by serving mammon and myself. fool that i was! i could not see god's handwriting on the wall against me. 'how hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of heaven!'... "you gave me, unintentionally, a warning hint. the capabilities which i saw in you made me suspect that those below might be more nearly my equals than i had yet fancied. your vivid descriptions of the misery among whole classes of workmen--misery caused and ever increased by the very system of society itself--gave a momentary shock to my fairy palace. they drove me back upon the simple old question, which has been asked by every honest heart, age after age, 'what right have i to revel in luxury while thousands are starving? why do i pride myself on doling out to them small fractions of that wealth, which, if sacrificed utterly and at once, might help to raise hundreds to a civilization as high as my own?' i could not face the thought; and angry with you for having awakened it, however unintentionally, i shrank back behind the pitiable, worn-out fallacy, that luxury was necessary to give employment. i knew that it was a fallacy; i knew that the labour spent in producing unnecessary things for one rich man may just as well have gone in producing necessaries for a hundred poor, or employ the architect and the painter for public bodies as well as private individuals. that even for the production of luxuries, the monopolizing demand of the rich was not required--that the appliances of real civilization, the landscapes, gardens, stately rooms, baths, books, pictures, works of art, collections of curiosities, which now went to pamper me alone--me, one single human soul--might be helping, in an associate society, to civilize a hundred families, now debarred from them by isolated poverty, without robbing me of an atom of the real enjoyment or benefit of them. i knew it, i say, to be a fallacy, and yet i hid behind it from the eye of god. besides, 'it always had been so--the few rich, and the many poor. i was but one more among millions.'" she paused a moment as if to gather strength, and then continued: "the blow came. my idol--for he, too, was an idol--to please him i had begun--to please myself in pleasing him, i was trying to become great--and with him went from me that sphere of labour which was to witness the triumph of my pride. i saw the estate pass into other hands; a mighty change passed over me, as impossible, perhaps, as unfitting, for me to analyse. i was considered mad. perhaps i was so: there is a divine insanity, a celestial folly, which conquers worlds. at least, when that period was past, i had done, and suffered so strangely, that nothing henceforth could seem strange to me. i had broken the yoke of custom and opinion. my only ground was now the bare realities of human life and duty. in poverty and loneliness i thought out the problems of society, and seemed to myself to have found the one solution--self-sacrifice. following my first impulse, i had given largely to every charitable institution i could hear of--god forbid that i should regret those gifts--yet the money, i soon found, might have been better spent. one by one, every institution disappointed me; they seemed, after all, only means for keeping the poor in their degradation, by making it just not intolerable to them--means for enabling mammon to draw fresh victims into his den, by taking off his hands those whom he had already worn out into uselessness. then i tried association among my own sex--among the most miserable and degraded of them. i simply tried to put them into a position in which they might work for each other, and not for a single tyrant; in which that tyrant's profits might be divided among the slaves themselves. experienced men warned me that i should fail; that such a plan would be destroyed by the innate selfishness and rivalry of human nature; that it demanded what was impossible to find, good faith, fraternal love, overruling moral influence. i answered, that i knew that already; that nothing but christianity alone could supply that want, but that it could and should supply it; that i would teach them to live as sisters, by living with them as their sister myself. to become the teacher, the minister, the slave of those whom i was trying to rescue, was now my one idea; to lead them on, not by machinery, but by precept, by example, by the influence of every gift and talent which god had bestowed upon me; to devote to them my enthusiasm, my eloquence, my poetry, my art, my science; to tell them who had bestowed their gifts on me, and would bestow, to each according to her measure, the same on them; to make my workrooms, in one word, not a machinery, but a family. and i have succeeded--as others will succeed, long after my name, my small endeavours, are forgotten amid the great new world--new church i should have said--of enfranchised and fraternal labour." and this was the suspected aristocrat! oh, my brothers, my brothers! little you know how many a noble soul, among those ranks which you consider only as your foes, is yearning to love, to help, to live and die for you, did they but know the way! is it their fault if god has placed them where they are? is it their fault, if they refuse to part with their wealth, before they are sure that such a sacrifice would really be a mercy to you? show yourselves worthy of association. show that you can do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your god, as brothers before one father, subjects of one crucified king--and see then whether the spirit of self-sacrifice is dead among the rich! see whether there are not left in england yet seven thousand who have not bowed the knee to mammon, who will not fear to "give their substance to the free," if they find that the son has made you free--free from your own sins, as well as from the sins of others! chapter xl. priests and people. "but after all," i said one day, "the great practical objection still remains unanswered--the clergy? are we to throw ourselves into their hands after all? are we, who have been declaiming all our lives against priestcraft, voluntarily to forge again the chains of our slavery to a class whom we neither trust nor honour?" she smiled. "if you will examine the prayer-book, you will not find, as far as i am aware, anything which binds a man to become the slave of the priesthood, voluntarily or otherwise. whether the people become priest-ridden or not, hereafter, will depend, as it always has done, utterly on themselves. as long as the people act upon their spiritual liberty, and live with eyes undimmed by superstitious fear, fixed in loving boldness on their father in heaven, and their king, the first-born among many brethren, the priesthood will remain, as god intended them, only the interpreters and witnesses of his will and his kingdom. but let them turn their eyes from him to aught in earth or heaven beside, and there will be no lack of priestcraft, of veils to hide him from them, tyrants to keep them from him, idols to ape his likeness. a sinful people will be sure to be a priest-ridden people; in reality, though not in name; by journalists and demagogues, if not by class-leaders and popes: and of the two, i confess i should prefer a hildebrand to an o'flynn." "but," i replied, "we do not love, we do not trust, we do not respect the clergy. has their conduct to the masses for the last century deserved that we should do so? will you ask us to obey the men whom we despise?" "god forbid!" she answered. "but you must surely be aware of the miraculous, ever-increasing improvement in the clergy." "in morals," i said, "and in industry, doubtless; but not upon those points which are to us just now dearer than their morals or their industry, because they involve the very existence of our own industry and our own morals--i mean, social and political subjects. on them the clergy seem to me as ignorant, as bigoted, as aristocratic as ever." "but, suppose that there were a rapidly-increasing class among the clergy, who were willing to help you to the uttermost--and you must feel that their help would be worth having--towards the attainment of social reform, if you would waive for a time merely political reform?" "what?" i said, "give up the very ideas for which we have struggled, and sinned, and all but died? and will struggle, and, if need be, die for still, or confess ourselves traitors to the common weal?" "the charter, like its supporters, must die to itself before it lives to god. is it not even now farther off than ever?" "it seems so indeed--but what do you mean?" "you regarded the charter as an absolute end. you made a selfish and a self-willed idol of it. and therefore god's blessing did not rest on it or you." "we want it as a means as well as an end--as a means for the highest and widest social reform, as well as a right dependent on eternal justice." "let the working classes prove that, then," she replied, "in their actions now. if it be true, as i would fain believe it to be, let them show that they are willing to give up their will to god's will; to compass those social reforms by the means which god puts in their way, and wait for his own good time to give them, or not to give them, those means which they in their own minds prefer. this is what i meant by saying that chartism must die to itself before it has a chance of living to god. you must feel, too, that chartism has sinned--has defiled itself in the eyes of the wise, the good, the gentle. your only way now to soften the prejudice against it is to show that you can live like men and brothers and christians without it. you cannot wonder if the clergy shall object awhile to help you towards that charter, which the majority of you demanded for the express purpose of destroying the creed which the clergy do believe, however badly they may have acted upon it." "it is all true enough--bitterly true. but yet, why do we need the help of the clergy?" "because you need the help of the whole nation; because there are other classes to be considered beside yourselves; because the nation is neither the few nor the many, but the all; because it is only by the co-operation of all the members of a body, that any one member can fulfil its calling in health and freedom; because, as long as you stand aloof from the clergy, or from any other class, through pride, self-interest, or wilful ignorance, you are keeping up those very class distinctions of which you and i too complain, as 'hateful equally to god and to his enemies;' and, finally, because the clergy are the class which god has appointed to unite all others; which, in as far as it fulfils its calling, and is indeed a priesthood, is above and below all rank, and knows no man after the flesh, but only on the ground of his spiritual worth, and his birthright in that kingdom which is the heritage of all." "truly," i answered, "the idea is a noble one--but look at the reality! has not priestly pandering to tyrants made the church, in every age, a scoff and a byword among free men?" "may it ever do so," she replied, "whenever such a sin exists! but yet, look at the other side of the picture. did not the priesthood, in the first ages, glory not in the name, but, what is better, in the office, of democrats? did not the roman tyrants hunt them down as wild beasts, because they were democrats, proclaiming to the slave and to the barbarian a spiritual freedom and a heavenly citizenship, before which the roman well knew his power must vanish into naught? who, during the invasion of the barbarians, protected the poor against their conquerors? who, in the middle age, stood between the baron and his serfs? who, in their monasteries, realized spiritual democracy,--the nothingness of rank and wealth, the practical might of co-operation and self-sacrifice? who delivered england from the pope? who spread throughout every cottage in the land the bible and protestantism, the book and the religion which declares that a man's soul is free in the sight of god? who, at the martyr's stake in oxford, 'lighted the candle in england that shall never be put out?' who, by suffering, and not by rebellion, drove the last perjured stuart from his throne, and united every sect and class in one of the noblest steps in england's progress? you will say these are the exceptions; i say nay; they are rather a few great and striking manifestations of an influence which has been, unseen though not unfelt, at work for ages, converting, consecrating, organizing, every fresh invention of mankind, and which is now on the eve of christianizing democracy, as it did mediæval feudalism, tudor nationalism, whig constitutionalism; and which will succeed in christianizing it, and so alone making it rational, human, possible; because the priesthood alone, of all human institutions, testifies of christ the king of men, the lord of all things, the inspirer of all discoveries; who reigns, and will reign, till he has put all things under his feet, and the kingdoms of the world have become the kingdoms of god and of his christ. be sure, as it always has been, so will it be now. without the priesthood there is no freedom for the people. statesmen know it; and, therefore, those who would keep the people fettered, find it necessary to keep the priesthood fettered also. the people never can be themselves without co-operation with the priesthood; and the priesthood never can be themselves without co-operation with the people. they may help to make a sect-church for the rich, as they have been doing, or a sect-church for paupers (which is also the most subtle form of a sect-church for the rich), as a party in england are trying now to do--as i once gladly would have done myself: but if they would be truly priests of god, and priests of the universal church, they must be priests of the people, priests of the masses, priests after the likeness of him who died on the cross." "and are there any men," i said, "who believe this? and, what is more, have courage to act upon it, now in the very hour of mammon's triumph?" "there are those who are willing, who are determined, whatever it may cost them, to fraternize with those whom they take shame to themselves for having neglected; to preach and to organize, in concert with them, a holy war against the social abuses which are england's shame; and, first and foremost, against the fiend of competition. they do not want to be dictators to the working men. they know that they have a message to the artizan, but they know, too, that the artizan has a message to them; and they are not afraid to hear it. they do not wish to make him a puppet for any system of their own; they only are willing, if he will take the hand they offer him, to devote themselves, body and soul, to the great end of enabling the artizan to govern himself; to produce in the capacity of a free man, and not of a slave; to eat the food he earns, and wear the clothes he makes. will your working brothers co-operate with these men? are they, do you think, such bigots as to let political differences stand between them and those who fain would treat them as their brothers; or will they fight manfully side by side with them in the battle against mammon, trusting to god, that if in anything they are otherwise minded, he will, in his own good time, reveal even that unto them? do you think, to take one instance, the men of your own trade would heartily join a handful of these men in an experiment of associate labour, even though there should be a clergyman or two among them?" "join them?" i said. "can you ask the question? i, for one, would devote myself, body and soul, to any enterprise so noble. crossthwaite would ask for nothing higher, than to be a hewer of wood and a drawer of water to an establishment of associate workmen. but, alas! his fate is fixed for the new world; and mine, i verily believe, for sickness and the grave. and yet i will answer for it, that, in the hopes of helping such a project, he would give up mackaye's bequest, for the mere sake of remaining in england; and for me, if i have but a month of life, it is at the service of such men as you describe." "oh!" she said, musingly, "if poor mackaye had but had somewhat more faith in the future, that fatal condition would perhaps never have been attached to his bequest. and yet, perhaps, it is better as it is. crossthwaite's mind may want quite, as much as yours does, a few years of a simpler and brighter atmosphere to soften and refresh it again. besides, your health is too weak, your life, i know, too valuable to your class, for us to trust you on such a voyage alone. he must go with you." "with me?" i said. "you must be misinformed; i have no thought of leaving england." "you know the opinion of the physicians?" "i know that my life is not likely to be a long one; that immediate removal to a southern, if possible to a tropical climate, is considered the only means of preserving it. for the former i care little; _non est tanti vivere_. and, indeed, the latter, even if it would succeed, is impossible. crossthwaite will live and thrive by the labour of his hands; while, for such a helpless invalid as i to travel, would be to dissipate the little capital which mackaye has left me. "the day will come, when society will find it profitable, as well as just, to put the means of preserving life by travel within the reach of the poorest. but individuals must always begin by setting the examples, which the state too slowly, though surely (for the world is god's world after all), will learn to copy. all is arranged for you. crossthwaite, you know, would have sailed ere now, had it not been for your fever. next week you start with him for texas, no; make no objections. all expenses are defrayed--no matter by whom." "by you! by you! who else?" "do you think that i monopolize the generosity of england? do you think warm hearts beat only in the breasts of working men? but, if it were i, would not that be only another reason for submitting? you must go. you will have, for the next three years, such an allowance as will support you in comfort, whether you choose to remain stationary, or, as i hope, to travel southward into mexico. your passage-money is already paid." why should i attempt to describe my feelings? i gasped for breath, and looked stupidly at her for a minute or two.--the second darling hope of my life within my reach, just as the first had been snatched from me! at last i found words. "no, no, noble lady! do not tempt me! who am i, the slave of impulse, useless, worn out in mind and body, that you should waste such generosity upon me? i do not refuse from the honest pride of independence; i have not man enough left in me even for that. but will you, of all people, ask me to desert the starving suffering thousands, to whom my heart, my honour are engaged; to give up the purpose of my life, and pamper my fancy in a luxurious paradise, while they are slaving here?" "what? cannot god find champions for them when you are gone? has he not found them already? believe me, that tenth of april, which you fancied the death-day of liberty, has awakened a spirit in high as well as in low life, which children yet unborn will bless." "oh, do not mistake me! have i not confessed my own weakness? but if i have one healthy nerve left in me, soul or body, it will retain its strength only as long as it thrills with devotion to the people's cause. if i live, i must live among them, for them. if i die, i must die at my post. i could not rest, except in labour. i dare not fly, like jonah, from the call of god. in the deepest shade of the virgin forests, on the loneliest peak of the cordilleras, he would find me out; and i should hear his still small voice reproving me, as it reproved the fugitive patriot-seer of old--what doest thou here, elijah?" i was excited, and spoke, i am afraid, after my custom, somewhat too magniloquently. but she answered only with a quiet smile: "so you are a chartist still?" "if by a chartist you mean one who fancies that a change in mere political circumstances will bring about a millennium, i am no longer one. that dream is gone--with others. but if to be a chartist is to love my brothers with every faculty of my soul--to wish to live and die struggling for their rights, endeavouring to make them, not electors merely, but fit to be electors, senators, kings, and priests to god and to his christ--if that be the chartism of the future, then am i sevenfold a chartist, and ready to confess it before men, though i were thrust forth from every door in england." she was silent a moment. "'the stone which the builders rejected is become the head of the corner.' surely the old english spirit has cast its madness, and begins to speak once more as it spoke in naseby fights and smithfield fires!" "and yet you would quench it in me amid the enervating climate of the tropics." "need it be quenched there? was it quenched in drake, in hawkins, in the conquerors of hindostan? weakness, like strength, is from within, of the spirit, and not of sunshine. i would send you thither, that you may gain new strength, new knowledge to carry out your dream and mine. do not refuse me the honour of preserving you. do not forbid me to employ my wealth in the only way which reconciles my conscience to the possession of it. i have saved many a woman already; and this one thing remained--the highest of all my hopes and longings--that god would allow me, ere i die, to save a man. i have longed to find some noble soul, as carlyle says, fallen down by the wayside, and lift it up, and heal its wounds, and teach it the secret of its heavenly birthright, and consecrate it to its king in heaven. i have longed to find a man of the people, whom i could train to be the poet of the people." "me, at least, you have saved, have taught, have trained! oh that your care had been bestowed on some more worthy object!" "let me, at least, then, perfect my own work. you do not--it is a sign of your humility that you do not--appreciate the value of this rest. you underrate at once your own powers, and the shock which they have received." "if i must go, then, why so far? why put you to so great expense? if you must be generous, send me to some place nearer home--to italy, to the coast of devon, or the isle of wight, where invalids like me are said to find all the advantages which are so often, perhaps too hastily, sought in foreign lands." "no," she said, smiling; "you are my servant now, by the laws of chivalry, and you must fulfil my quest. i have long hoped for a tropic poet; one who should leave the routine imagery of european civilization, its meagre scenery, and physically decrepit races, for the grandeur, the luxuriance, the infinite and strongly-marked variety of tropic nature, the paradisiac beauty and simplicity of tropic humanity. i am tired of the old images; of the barren alternations between italy and the highlands. i had once dreamt of going to the tropics myself; but my work lay elsewhere. go for me, and for the people. see if you cannot help to infuse some new blood into the aged veins of english literature; see if you cannot, by observing man in his mere simple and primeval state, bring home fresh conceptions of beauty, fresh spiritual and physical laws of his existence, that you may realize them here at home--(how, i see as yet but dimly; but he who teaches the facts will surely teach their application)--in the cottages, in the play-grounds, the reading-rooms, the churches of working men." "but i know so little--i have seen so little!" "that very fact, i flatter myself, gives you an especial vocation for my scheme. your ignorance of cultivated english scenery, and of italian art, will enable you to approach with a more reverend, simple, and unprejudiced eye the primeval forms of beauty--god's work, not man's. sin you will see there, and anarchy, and tyranny, but i do not send you to look for society, but for nature. i do not send you to become a barbarian settler, but to bring home to the realms of civilization those ideas of physical perfection, which as yet, alas! barbarism, rather than civilization, has preserved. do not despise your old love for the beautiful. do not fancy that because you have let it become an idol and a tyrant, it was not therefore the gift of god. cherish it, develop it to the last; steep your whole soul in beauty; watch it in its most vast and complex harmonies, and not less in its most faint and fragmentary traces. only, hitherto you have blindly worshipped it; now you must learn to comprehend, to master, to embody it; to show it forth to men as the sacrament of heaven, the finger-mark of god!" who could resist such pleading from those lips? i at least could not. chapter xli. freedom, equality, and brotherhood. before the same father, the same king, crucified for all alike, we had partaken of the same bread and wine, we had prayed for the same spirit. side by side, around the chair on which i lay propped up with pillows, coughing my span of life away, had knelt the high-born countess, the cultivated philosopher, the repentant rebel, the wild irish girl, her slavish and exclusive creed exchanged for one more free and all-embracing; and that no extremest type of human condition might be wanting, the reclaimed magdalene was there--two pale worn girls from eleanor's asylum, in whom i recognized the needlewomen to whom mackaye had taken me, on a memorable night, seven years before. thus--and how better?--had god rewarded their loving care of that poor dying fellow-slave. yes--we had knelt together: and i had felt that we were one--that there was a bond between us, real, eternal, independent of ourselves, knit not by man, but god; and the peace of god, which passes understanding, came over me like the clear sunshine after weary rain. one by one they shook me by the hand, and quitted the room; and eleanor and i were left alone. "see!" she said, "freedom, equality, and brotherhood are come; but not as you expected." blissful, repentant tears blinded my eyes, as i replied, not to her, but to him who spoke by her-- "lord! not as i will, but as thou wilt!" "yes," she continued, "freedom, equality, and brotherhood are here. realize them in thine own self, and so alone thou helpest to make them realities for all. not from without, from charters and republics, but from within, from the spirit working in each; not by wrath and haste, but by patience made perfect through suffering, canst thou proclaim their good news to the groaning masses, and deliver them, as thy master did before thee, by the cross, and not the sword. divine paradox!--folly to the rich and mighty--the watchword of the weak, in whose weakness is god's strength made perfect. 'in your patience possess ye your souls, for the coming of the lord draweth nigh.' yes--he came then, and the babel-tyranny of rome fell, even as the more fearful, more subtle, and more diabolic tyranny of mammon shall fall ere long--suicidal, even now crumbling by its innate decay. yes--babylon the great--the commercial world of selfish competition, drunken with the blood of god's people, whose merchandise is the bodies and souls of men--her doom is gone forth. and then--then--when they, the tyrants of the earth, who lived delicately with her, rejoicing in her sins, the plutocrats and bureaucrats, the money-changers and devourers of labour, are crying to the rocks to hide them, and to the hills to cover them, from the wrath of him that sitteth on the throne--then labour shall be free at last, and the poor shall eat and be satisfied, with things that eye hath not seen nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, but which god has prepared for those who love him. then the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the lord, as the waters cover the sea, and mankind at last shall own their king--him. in whom they are all redeemed into the glorious liberty of the sons of god, and he shall reign indeed on earth, and none but his saints shall rule beside him. and then shall this sacrament be an everlasting sign to all the nations of the world, as it has been to you this day, of freedom, equality, brotherhood, of glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace and good-will toward men. do you believe?" again i answered, not her, but him who sent her-- "lord, i believe! help thou mine unbelief!" "and now farewell. i shall not see you again before you start--and ere you return--my health has been fast declining lately." i started--i had not dared to confess to myself how thin her features had become of late. i had tried not to hear the dry and hectic cough, or see the burning spot on either cheek--but it was too true; and with a broken voice i cried: "oh that i might die, and join you!" "not so--i trust that you have still a work to do. but if not, promise me that, whatever be the event of your voyage, you will publish, in good time, an honest history of your life; extenuating nothing, exaggerating nothing, ashamed to confess or too proclaim nothing. it may perhaps awaken some rich man to look down and take pity on the brains and hearts more noble than his own, which lie struggling in poverty and misguidance among these foul sties, which civilization rears--and calls them cities. now, once again, farewell!" she held out her hand--i would have fallen at her feet, but the thought of that common sacrament withheld me. i seized her hand, covered it with adoring kisses--slowly she withdrew it, and glided from the room-- what need of more words? i obeyed her--sailed--and here i am. * * * * * yes! i have seen the land! like a purple fringe upon the golden sea, "while parting day dies like the dolphin," there it lay upon the fair horizon--the great young free new world! and every tree, and flower, and insect on it new!--a wonder and a joy--which i shall never see.... no,--i shall never reach the land. i felt it all along. weaker and weaker, day by day, with bleeding lungs and failing limbs, i have travelled the ocean paths. the iron has entered too deeply into my soul.... hark! merry voices on deck are welcoming their future home. laugh on, happy ones!--come out of egypt and the house of bondage, and the waste and howling wilderness of slavery and competition, workhouses and prisons, into a good land and large, a land flowing with milk and honey, where you will sit every one under his own vine and his own fig-tree, and look into the faces of your rosy children--and see in them a blessing and not a curse! oh, england! stern mother-land, when wilt thou renew thy youth?--thou wilderness of man's making, not god's!... is it not written, that the days shall come when the forest shall break forth into singing, and the wilderness shall blossom like the rose? hark! again, sweet and clear, across the still night sea, ring out the notes of crossthwaite's bugle--the first luxury, poor fellow, he ever allowed himself; and yet not a selfish one, for music, like mercy, is twice blessed-- "it blesseth him that gives and him that takes." there is the spirit-stirring marching air of the german workmen students thou, thou, thou, and thou, sir master, fare thee well.-- perhaps a half reproachful hint to the poor old england he is leaving. what a glorious metre! warming one's whole heart into life and energy! if i could but write in such a metre one true people's song, that should embody all my sorrow, indignation, hope--fitting last words for a poet of the people--for they will be my last words--well--thank god! at least i shall not be buried in a london churchyard! it may be a foolish fancy--but i have made them promise to lay me up among the virgin woods, where, if the soul ever visits the place of its body's rest, i may snatch glimpses of that natural beauty from which i was barred out in life, and watch the gorgeous flowers that bloom above my dust, and hear the forest birds sing around the poet's grave. hark to the grand lilt of the "good time coming!"--song which has cheered ten thousand hearts; which has already taken root, that it may live and grow for ever--fitting melody to soothe my dying ears! ah! how should there not be a good time coming?--hope, and trust, and infinite deliverance!--a time such as eye hath not seen nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive!--coming surely, soon or late, to those for whom a god did not disdain to die! * * * * * our only remaining duty is to give an extract from a letter written by john crossthwaite, and dated "galveston, texas, _october, _. ... "i am happy. katie is happy, there is peace among us here, like 'the clear downshining after rain.' but i thirst and long already for the expiration of my seven years' exile, wholesome as i believe it to be. my only wish is to return and assist in the emancipation of labour, and give my small aid in that fraternal union of all classes which i hear is surely, though slowly, spreading in my mother-land. "and now for my poor friend, whose papers, according to my promise to him, i transmit to you. on the very night on which he seems to have concluded them--an hour after we had made the land--we found him in his cabin, dead, his head resting on the table as peacefully as if he had slumbered. on a sheet of paper by him were written the following verses; the ink was not yet dry: "'my last words. "'i. "'weep, weep, weep, and weep, for pauper, dolt, and slave; hark! from wasted moor and fen, feverous alley, workhouse den, swells the wail of englishmen: "work! or the grave!" "'ii. "'down, down, down, and down, with idler, knave, and tyrant; why for sluggards stint and moil he that will not live by toil has no right on english soil; god's word's our warrant! "'iii. "'up, up, up, and up, face your game, and play it! the night is past--behold the sun!-- the cup is full, the web is spun, the judge is set, the doom begun; who shall stay it?'" the ragged trousered philanthropists by robert tressell contents an imperial banquet. a philosophical discussion. the mysterious stranger. britons never shall be slaves nimrod: a mighty hunter before the lord the financiers the placard the clock-case it is not my crime the exterminating machines the cap on the stairs who is to pay? the long hill hands and brains the letting of the room penal servitude and death three children. the wages of intelligence the undeserving persons and the upper and nether millstones true freedom the rev. john starr the lodger the filling of the tank the forty thieves. the battle: brigands versus bandits the reign of terror. the great money trick the phrenologist the 'open-air' ruth the oblong the slaughter the march of the imperialists the week before christmas the pandorama the brigands hold a council of war the deserter the veteran the soldier's children the beginning of the end facing the 'problem' the obs a brilliant epigram the brigands' cave the brigands at work vive la system! the easter offering. the beano meeting june the good old summer-time the beano the great oration the 'sixty-five' the ghouls the wise men of the east the undesired sundered the widow's son 'it's a far, far better thing that i do, than i have ever done' barrington finds a situation the end preface in writing this book my intention was to present, in the form of an interesting story, a faithful picture of working-class life--more especially of those engaged in the building trades--in a small town in the south of england. i wished to describe the relations existing between the workmen and their employers, the attitude and feelings of these two classes towards each other; their circumstances when at work and when out of employment; their pleasures, their intellectual outlook, their religious and political opinions and ideals. the action of the story covers a period of only a little over twelve months, but in order that the picture might be complete it was necessary to describe how the workers are circumstanced at all periods of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. therefore the characters include women and children, a young boy--the apprentice--some improvers, journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out old men. i designed to show the conditions relating from poverty and unemployment: to expose the futility of the measures taken to deal with them and to indicate what i believe to be the only real remedy, namely--socialism. i intended to explain what socialists understand by the word 'poverty': to define the socialist theory of the causes of poverty, and to explain how socialists propose to abolish poverty. it may be objected that, considering the number of books dealing with these subjects already existing, such a work as this was uncalled for. the answer is that not only are the majority of people opposed to socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average anti-socialist is sufficient to show that he does not know what socialism means. the same is true of all the anti-socialist writers and the 'great statesmen' who make anti-socialist speeches: unless we believe that they are deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve their own interests labour to mislead other people, we must conclude that they do not understand socialism. there is no other possible explanation of the extraordinary things they write and say. the thing they cry out against is not socialism but a phantom of their own imagining. another answer is that 'the philanthropists' is not a treatise or essay, but a novel. my main object was to write a readable story full of human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, the subject of socialism being treated incidentally. this was the task i set myself. to what extent i have succeeded is for others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses at least one merit--that of being true. i have invented nothing. there are no scenes or incidents in the story that i have not either witnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. as far as i dared i let the characters express themselves in their own sort of language and consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. at the same time i believe that--because it is true--the book is not without its humorous side. the scenes and characters are typical of every town in the south of england and they will be readily recognized by those concerned. if the book is published i think it will appeal to a very large number of readers. because it is true it will probably be denounced as a libel on the working classes and their employers, and upon the religious-professing section of the community. but i believe it will be acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend their lives amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident that no attack is made upon sincere religion. chapter an imperial banquet. a philosophical discussion. the mysterious stranger. britons never shall be slaves the house was named 'the cave'. it was a large old-fashioned three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, and situated about a mile outside the town of mugsborough. it stood back nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by means of a by-road or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of hawthorn trees and blackberry bushes. this house had been unoccupied for many years and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by the firm of rushton & co., builders and decorators. there were, altogether, about twenty-five men working there, carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides several unskilled labourers. new floors were being put in where the old ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made into one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder. some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were being replaced. some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked and broken that they had to be replastered. openings were cut through walls and doors were being put where no doors had been before. old broken chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being taken up and fixed in their places. all the old whitewash had to be washed off the ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. the air was full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the scraping of the stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper. besides being full of these the air was heavily laden with dust and disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had been accumulating within the old house for years. in brief, those employed there might be said to be living in a tariff reform paradise--they had plenty of work. at twelve o'clock bob crass--the painters' foreman--blew a blast upon a whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where bert the apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. by the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. each man on the 'job' paid bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar--they did not have milk--and although they had tea at breakfast-time as well as at dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune. two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser, formed the seating accommodation. the floor of the room was covered with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and plaster. a sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls, and a bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner. as each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. most of them brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their laps or placed on the floor beside them. at first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater which easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed stick at the fire. 'i don't think much of this bloody tea,' suddenly remarked sawkins, one of the labourers. 'well it oughter be all right,' retorted bert; 'it's been bilin' ever since 'arf past eleven.' bert white was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. his trousers were part of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that they had become too small for him, fitting rather tightly and scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots. the knees and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric, and these patches were now all in rags. his coat was several sizes too large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. he was a pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt. 'well then, you can't have put enough tea in, or else you've bin usin' up wot was left yesterday,' continued sawkins. 'why the bloody 'ell don't you leave the boy alone?' said harlow, another painter. 'if you don't like the tea you needn't drink it. for my part, i'm sick of listening to you about it every damn day.' 'it's all very well for you to say i needn't drink it,' answered sawkins, 'but i've paid my share an' i've got a right to express an opinion. it's my belief that 'arf the money we gives 'him is spent on penny 'orribles: 'e's always got one in 'is hand, an' to make wot tea 'e does buy last, 'e collects all the slops wot's left and biles it up day after day.' 'no, i don't!' said bert, who was on the verge of tears. 'it's not me wot buys the things at all. i gives the money i gets to crass, and 'e buys them 'imself, so there!' at this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant glances, and crass, the foreman, became very red. 'you'd better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after this week,' he said, addressing sawkins, 'and then p'raps we'll 'ave a little peace at meal-times.' 'an' you needn't ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,' added bert, tearfully, 'cos i won't do it.' sawkins was not popular with any of the others. when, about twelve months previously, he first came to work for rushton & co., he was a simple labourer, but since then he had 'picked up' a slight knowledge of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. the others did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition, but his wages--fivepence an hour--were twopence an hour less than the standard rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workman was 'stood off' when sawkins was kept on. moreover, he was generally regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and the 'bloke'. every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by his new mates 'not to let the b--r sawkins see anything.' the unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten. 'how did you get on yesterday?' asked crass, addressing bundy, the plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the daily obscurer. 'no luck,' replied bundy, gloomily. 'i had a bob each way on stockwell, in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.' this gave rise to a conversation between crass, bundy, and one or two others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow's races. it was friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion of bundy, a syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned captain kiddem of the obscurer. one of those who did not join the syndicate was frank owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper. he was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that there must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in racing or football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion and politics. if it had not been for the fact that he was generally admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. this man was about thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built that he appeared taller. there was a suggestion of refinement in his clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an unnatural colour flushed the think cheeks. there was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his fellow workmen, for owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions on the subjects mentioned. the affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox opinions. if anyone did not think in accordance with these he soon discovered this fact for himself. owen saw that in the world a small class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of the things that are produced by work. he saw also that a very great number--in fact the majority of the people--lived on the verge of want; and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a period to their misery. and strangest of all--in his opinion--he saw that people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were the people who did nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or died of hunger, were the people who worked. and seeing all this he thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such results was rotten and should be altered. and he had sought out and eagerly read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done. it was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably something wrong with his mind. when all the members of the syndicate had handed over their contributions, bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and when he had gone easton annexed the copy of the obscurer that bundy had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some carefully cooked statistics relating to free trade and protection. bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was devouring the contents of a paper called the chronicles of crime. ned dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate or labourer to bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. sawkins, with the same intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. another who took no part in the syndicate was barrington, a labourer, who, having finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back into his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled, and proceeded to smoke in silence. some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside mugsborough. this gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was commonly reported that he had used his influence with rushton to induce the latter to give barrington employment. it was whispered amongst the hands that the young man was a distant relative of the gentleman's, and that he had disgraced himself in some way and been disowned by his people. rushton was supposed to have given him a job in the hope of currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain more work. whatever the explanation of the mystery may have been, the fact remained that barrington, who knew nothing of the work except what he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a painter's labourer at the usual wages--fivepence per hour. he was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and slenderly though well and strongly built. he seemed very anxious to learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his workmates. he seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it was difficult to draw him into conversation. at meal-times, as on the present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and unconscious of his surroundings. most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation ensued. 'is the gent what's bought this 'ouse any relation to sweater the draper?' asked payne, the carpenter's foreman. 'it's the same bloke,' replied crass. 'didn't he used to be on the town council or something?' ''e's bin on the council for years,' returned crass. ''e's on it now. 'e's mayor this year. 'e's bin mayor several times before.' 'let's see,' said payne, reflectively, ''e married old grinder's sister, didn't 'e? you know who i mean, grinder the greengrocer.' 'yes, i believe he did,' said crass. 'it wasn't grinder's sister,' chimed in old jack linden. 'it was 'is niece. i know, because i remember working in their 'ouse just after they was married, about ten year ago.' 'oh yes, i remember now,' said payne. 'she used to manage one of grinder's branch shops didn't she?' 'yes,' replied linden. 'i remember it very well because there was a lot of talk about it at the time. by all accounts, ole sweater used to be a regler 'ot un: no one never thought as he'd ever git married at all: there was some funny yarns about several young women what used to work for him.' this important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief silence, which was presently broken by harlow. 'funny name to call a 'ouse, ain't it?' he said. '"the cave." i wonder what made 'em give it a name like that.' 'they calls 'em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,' said old jack linden. 'there's generally some sort of meaning to it, though,' observed payne. 'for instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, 'e might call 'is 'ouse, "epsom lodge" or "newmarket villa".' 'or sometimes there's a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,' said another man; 'then they calls it "hoak lodge" or "cherry cottage".' 'well, there's a cave up at the end of this garden,' said harlow with a grin, 'you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the 'ouse runs into; praps they called it after that.' 'talking about the drains,' said old jack linden when the laughter produced by this elegant joke had ceased. 'talking about the drains, i wonder what they're going to do about them; the 'ouse ain't fit to live in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done away with.' 'so it is going to be,' replied crass. 'there's going to be a new set of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with the main.' crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this matter than did linden, but he felt certain that this course would be adopted. he never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm. 'that's goin' to cost a good bit,' said linden. 'yes, i suppose it will,' replied crass, 'but money ain't no object to old sweater. 'e's got tons of it; you know 'e's got a large wholesale business in london and shops all over the bloody country, besides the one 'e's got 'ere.' easton was still reading the obscurer; he was not about to understand exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at--probably the latter never intended that anyone should understand--but he was conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he began to think that it was about time we did something to protect ourselves. still, it was a very difficult question: to tell the truth, he himself could not make head or tail of it. at length he said aloud, addressing himself to crass: 'wot do you think of this 'ere fissical policy, bob?' 'ain't thought much about it,' replied crass. 'i don't never worry my 'ed about politics.' 'much better left alone,' chimed in old jack linden sagely, 'argyfying about politics generally ends up with a bloody row an' does no good to nobody.' at this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others. most of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. if two or three men of similar opinions happened to be together they might discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed company it was better left alone. the 'fissical policy' emanated from the tory party. that was the reason why some of them were strongly in favour of it, and for the same reason others were opposed to it. some of them were under the delusion that they were conservatives: similarly, others imagined themselves to be liberals. as a matter of fact, most of them were nothing. they knew as much about the public affairs of their own country as they did of the condition of affairs in the planet of jupiter. easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a subject, when, looking up from his paper, owen said: 'does the fact that you never "trouble your heads about politics" prevent you from voting at election times?' no one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. easton however, in spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking. 'well, i don't go in for politics much, either, but if what's in this 'ere paper is true, it seems to me as we oughter take some interest in it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.' 'if you're going to believe all that's in that bloody rag you'll want some salt,' said harlow. the obscurer was a tory paper and harlow was a member of the local liberal club. harlow's remark roused crass. 'wot's the use of talkin' like that?' he said; 'you know very well that the country is being ruined by foreigners. just go to a shop to buy something; look round the place an' you'll see that more than 'arf the damn stuff comes from abroad. they're able to sell their goods 'ere because they don't 'ave to pay no dooty, but they takes care to put 'eavy dooties on our goods to keep 'em out of their countries; and i say it's about time it was stopped.' ''ear, 'ear,' said linden, who always agreed with crass, because the latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power to put in a good--or a bad--word for a man to the boss. ''ear, 'ear! now that's wot i call common sense.' several other men, for the same reason as linden, echoed crass's sentiments, but owen laughed contemptuously. 'yes, it's quite true that we gets a lot of stuff from foreign countries,' said harlow, 'but they buys more from us than we do from them.' 'now you think you know a 'ell of a lot,' said crass. ''ow much more did they buy from us last year, than we did from them?' harlow looked foolish: as a matter of fact his knowledge of the subject was not much wider than crass's. he mumbled something about not having no 'ed for figures, and offered to bring full particulars next day. 'you're wot i call a bloody windbag,' continued crass; 'you've got a 'ell of a lot to say, but wen it comes to the point you don't know nothin'.' 'why, even 'ere in mugsborough,' chimed in sawkins--who though still lying on the dresser had been awakened by the shouting--'we're overrun with 'em! nearly all the waiters and the cook at the grand hotel where we was working last month is foreigners.' 'yes,' said old joe philpot, tragically, 'and then thers all them hitalian horgin grinders, an' the blokes wot sells 'ot chestnuts; an' wen i was goin' 'ome last night i see a lot of them frenchies sellin' hunions, an' a little wile afterwards i met two more of 'em comin' up the street with a bear.' notwithstanding the disquieting nature of this intelligence, owen again laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who thought it was a very serious state of affairs. it was a dam' shame that these people were allowed to take the bread out of english people's mouths: they ought to be driven into the bloody sea. and so the talk continued, principally carried on by crass and those who agreed with him. none of them really understood the subject: not one of them had ever devoted fifteen consecutive minutes to the earnest investigation of it. the papers they read were filled with vague and alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported into this country, the enormous number of aliens constantly arriving, and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they committed, and the injury they did to british trade. these were the seeds which, cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up within them a bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners. to them the mysterious thing they variously called the 'friscal policy', the 'fistical policy', or the 'fissical question' was a great anti-foreign crusade. the country was in a hell of a state, poverty, hunger and misery in a hundred forms had already invaded thousands of homes and stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. how came these things to be? it was the bloody foreigner! therefore, down with the foreigners and all their works. out with them. drive them b--s into the bloody sea! the country would be ruined if not protected in some way. this friscal, fistical, fissical or whatever the hell policy it was called, was protection, therefore no one but a bloody fool could hesitate to support it. it was all quite plain--quite simple. one did not need to think twice about it. it was scarcely necessary to think about it at all. this was the conclusion reached by crass and such of his mates who thought they were conservatives--the majority of them could not have read a dozen sentences aloud without stumbling--it was not necessary to think or study or investigate anything. it was all as clear as daylight. the foreigner was the enemy, and the cause of poverty and bad trade. when the storm had in some degree subsided, 'some of you seem to think,' said owen, sneeringly, 'that it was a great mistake on god's part to make so many foreigners. you ought to hold a mass meeting about it: pass a resolution something like this: "this meeting of british christians hereby indignantly protests against the action of the supreme being in having created so many foreigners, and calls upon him to forthwith rain down fire, brimstone and mighty rocks upon the heads of all those philistines, so that they may be utterly exterminated from the face of the earth, which rightly belongs to the british people".' crass looked very indignant, but could think of nothing to say in answer to owen, who continued: 'a little while ago you made the remark that you never trouble yourself about what you call politics, and some of the rest agreed with you that to do so is not worth while. well, since you never "worry" yourself about these things, it follows that you know nothing about them; yet you do not hesitate to express the most decided opinions concerning matters of which you admittedly know nothing. presently, when there is an election, you will go and vote in favour of a policy of which you know nothing. i say that since you never take the trouble to find out which side is right or wrong you have no right to express any opinion. you are not fit to vote. you should not be allowed to vote.' crass was by this time very angry. 'i pays my rates and taxes,' he shouted, 'an' i've got as much right to express an opinion as you 'ave. i votes for who the bloody 'ell i likes. i shan't arst your leave nor nobody else's! wot the 'ell's it got do with you who i votes for?' 'it has a great deal to do with me. if you vote for protection you will be helping to bring it about, and if you succeed, and if protection is the evil that some people say is is, i shall be one of those who will suffer. i say you have no right to vote for a policy which may bring suffering upon other people, without taking the trouble to find out whether you are helping to make things better or worse.' owen had risen from his seat and was walking up and down the room emphasizing his words with excited gestures. 'as for not trying to find out wot side is right,' said crass, somewhat overawed by owen's manner and by what he thought was the glare of madness in the latter's eyes, 'i reads the ananias every week, and i generally takes the daily chloroform, or the hobscurer, so i ought to know summat about it.' 'just listen to this,' interrupted easton, wishing to create a diversion and beginning to read from the copy of the obscurer which he still held in his hand: 'great distress in mugsborough. hundreds out of employment. work of the charity society. cases on the books. 'great as was the distress among the working classes last year, unfortunately there seems every prospect that before the winter which has just commenced is over the distress will be even more acute. already the charity society and kindred associations are relieving more cases than they did at the corresponding time last year. applications to the board of guardians have also been much more numerous, and the soup kitchen has had to open its doors on nov. th a fortnight earlier than usual. the number of men, women and children provided with meals is three or four times greater than last year.' easton stopped: reading was hard work to him. 'there's a lot more,' he said, 'about starting relief works: two shillings a day for married men and one shilling for single and something about there's been , quarts of soup given to poor families wot was not even able to pay a penny, and a lot more. and 'ere's another thing, an advertisement: 'the suffering poor sir: distress among the poor is so acute that i earnestly ask you for aid for the salvation army's great social work on their behalf. some are being sheltered nightly. hundreds are found work daily. soup and bread are distributed in the midnight hours to homeless wanderers in london. additional workshops for the unemployed have been established. our social work for men, women and children, for the characterless and the outcast, is the largest and oldest organized effort of its kind in the country, and greatly needs help. £ , is required before christmas day. gifts may be made to any specific section or home, if desired. can you please send us something to keep the work going? please address cheques, crossed bank of england (law courts branch), to me at , queen victoria street, ec. balance sheets and reports upon application. 'bramwell booth.' 'oh, that's part of the great 'appiness an' prosperity wot owen makes out free trade brings,' said crass with a jeering laugh. 'i never said free trade brought happiness or prosperity,' said owen. 'well, praps you didn't say exactly them words, but that's wot it amounts to.' 'i never said anything of the kind. we've had free trade for the last fifty years and today most people are living in a condition of more or less abject poverty, and thousands are literally starving. when we had protection things were worse still. other countries have protection and yet many of their people are glad to come here and work for starvation wages. the only difference between free trade and protection is that under certain circumstances one might be a little worse that the other, but as remedies for poverty, neither of them are of any real use whatever, for the simple reason that they do not deal with the real causes of poverty.' 'the greatest cause of poverty is hover-population,' remarked harlow. 'yes,' said old joe philpot. 'if a boss wants two men, twenty goes after the job: ther's too many people and not enough work.' 'over-population!' cried owen, 'when there's thousands of acres of uncultivated land in england without a house or human being to be seen. is over-population the cause of poverty in france? is over-population the cause of poverty in ireland? within the last fifty years the population of ireland has been reduced by more than half. four millions of people have been exterminated by famine or got rid of by emigration, but they haven't got rid of poverty. p'raps you think that half the people in this country ought to be exterminated as well.' here owen was seized with a violent fit of coughing, and resumed his seat. when the cough had ceased he sat wiping his mouth with his handkerchief and listening to the talk that ensued. 'drink is the cause of most of the poverty,' said slyme. this young man had been through some strange process that he called 'conversion'. he had had a 'change of 'art' and looked down with pious pity upon those he called 'worldly' people. he was not 'worldly', he did not smoke or drink and never went to the theatre. he had an extraordinary notion that total abstinence was one of the fundamental principles of the christian religion. it never occurred to what he called his mind, that this doctrine is an insult to the founder of christianity. 'yes,' said crass, agreeing with slyme, 'an' thers plenty of 'em wot's too lazy to work when they can get it. some of the b--s who go about pleading poverty 'ave never done a fair day's work in all their bloody lives. then thers all this new-fangled machinery,' continued crass. 'that's wot's ruinin' everything. even in our trade ther's them machines for trimmin' wallpaper, an' now they've brought out a paintin' machine. ther's a pump an' a 'ose pipe, an' they reckon two men can do as much with this 'ere machine as twenty could without it.' 'another thing is women,' said harlow, 'there's thousands of 'em nowadays doin' work wot oughter be done by men.' 'in my opinion ther's too much of this 'ere eddication, nowadays,' remarked old linden. 'wot the 'ell's the good of eddication to the likes of us?' 'none whatever,' said crass, 'it just puts foolish idears into people's 'eds and makes 'em too lazy to work.' barrington, who took no part in the conversation, still sat silently smoking. owen was listening to this pitiable farrago with feelings of contempt and wonder. were they all hopelessly stupid? had their intelligence never developed beyond the childhood stage? or was he mad himself? 'early marriages is another thing,' said slyme: 'no man oughtn't to be allowed to get married unless he's in a position to keep a family.' 'how can marriage be a cause of poverty?' said owen, contemptuously. 'a man who is not married is living an unnatural life. why don't you continue your argument a little further and say that the practice of eating and drinking is the cause of poverty or that if people were to go barefoot and naked there would be no poverty? the man who is so poor that he cannot marry is in a condition of poverty already.' 'wot i mean,' said slyme, 'is that no man oughtn't to marry till he's saved up enough so as to 'ave some money in the bank; an' another thing, i reckon a man oughtn't to get married till 'e's got an 'ouse of 'is own. it's easy enough to buy one in a building society if you're in reg'lar work.' at this there was a general laugh. 'why, you bloody fool,' said harlow, scornfully, 'most of us is walkin' about 'arf our time. it's all very well for you to talk; you've got almost a constant job on this firm. if they're doin' anything at all you're one of the few gets a show in. and another thing,' he added with a sneer, 'we don't all go to the same chapel as old misery,' 'old misery' was ruston & co.'s manager or walking foreman. 'misery' was only one of the nicknames bestowed upon him by the hands: he was also known as 'nimrod' and 'pontius pilate'. 'and even if it's not possible,' harlow continued, winking at the others, 'what's a man to do during the years he's savin' up?' 'well, he must conquer hisself,' said slyme, getting red. 'conquer hisself is right!' said harlow and the others laughed again. 'of course if a man tried to conquer hisself by his own strength,' replied slyme, ''e would be sure to fail, but when you've got the grace of god in you it's different.' 'chuck it, fer christ's sake!' said harlow in a tone of disgust. 'we've only just 'ad our dinner!' 'and wot about drink?' demanded old joe philpot, suddenly. ''ear, 'ear,' cried harlow. 'that's the bleedin' talk. i wouldn't mind 'avin 'arf a pint now, if somebody else will pay for it.' joe philpot--or as he was usually called, 'old joe'--was in the habit of indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. he was not very old, being only a little over fifty, but he looked much older. he had lost his wife some five years ago and was now alone in the world, for his three children had died in their infancy. slyme's reference to drink had roused philpot's indignation; he felt that it was directed against himself. the muddled condition of his brain did not permit him to take up the cudgels in his own behalf, but he knew that although owen was a tee-totaller himself, he disliked slyme. 'there's no need for us to talk about drink or laziness,' returned owen, impatiently, 'because they have nothing to do with the matter. the question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of the majority of those who are not drunkards and who do work? why, if all the drunkards and won't-works and unskilled or inefficient workers could be by some miracle transformed into sober, industrious and skilled workers tomorrow, it would, under the present conditions, be so much the worse for us, because there isn't enough work for all now and those people by increasing the competition for what work there is, would inevitably cause a reduction of wages and a greater scarcity of employment. the theories that drunkenness, laziness or inefficiency are the causes of poverty are so many devices invented and fostered by those who are selfishly interested in maintaining the present states of affairs, for the purpose of preventing us from discovering the real causes of our present condition.' 'well, if we're all wrong,' said crass, with a sneer, 'praps you can tell us what the real cause is?' 'an' praps you think you know how it's to be altered,' remarked harlow, winking at the others. 'yes; i do think i know the cause,' declared owen, 'and i do think i know how it could be altered--' 'it can't never be haltered,' interrupted old linden. 'i don't see no sense in all this 'ere talk. there's always been rich and poor in the world, and there always will be.' 'wot i always say is there 'ere,' remarked philpot, whose principal characteristic--apart from thirst--was a desire to see everyone comfortable, and who hated rows of any kind. 'there ain't no use in the likes of us trubblin our 'eds or quarrelin about politics. it don't make a dam bit of difference who you votes for or who gets in. they're hall the same; workin the horicle for their own benefit. you can talk till you're black in the face, but you won't never be able to alter it. it's no use worrying. the sensible thing is to try and make the best of things as we find 'em: enjoy ourselves, and do the best we can for each other. life's too short to quarrel and we'll hall soon be dead!' at the end of this lengthy speech, the philosophic philpot abstractedly grasped a jam-jar and raised it to his lips; but suddenly remembering that it contained stewed tea and not beer, set it down again without drinking. 'let us begin at the beginning,' continued owen, taking no notice of these interruptions. 'first of all, what do you mean by poverty?' 'why, if you've got no money, of course,' said crass impatiently. the others laughed disdainfully. it seemed to them such a foolish question. 'well, that's true enough as far as it goes,' returned owen, 'that is, as things are arranged in the world at present. but money itself is not wealth: it's of no use whatever.' at this there was another outburst of jeering laughter. 'supposing for example that you and harlow were shipwrecked on a desolate island, and you had saved nothing from the wreck but a bag containing a thousand sovereigns, and he had a tin of biscuits and a bottle of water.' 'make it beer!' cried harlow appealingly. 'who would be the richer man, you or harlow?' 'but then you see we ain't shipwrecked on no dissolute island at all,' sneered crass. 'that's the worst of your arguments. you can't never get very far without supposing some bloody ridclus thing or other. never mind about supposing things wot ain't true; let's 'ave facts and common sense.' ''ear, 'ear,' said old linden. 'that's wot we want--a little common sense.' 'what do you mean by poverty, then?' asked easton. 'what i call poverty is when people are not able to secure for themselves all the benefits of civilization; the necessaries, comforts, pleasures and refinements of life, leisure, books, theatres, pictures, music, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, good and pleasant food.' everybody laughed. it was so ridiculous. the idea of the likes of them wanting or having such things! any doubts that any of them had entertained as to owen's sanity disappeared. the man was as mad as a march hare. 'if a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare necessaries of existence, that man's family is living in poverty. since he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization he might just as well be a savage: better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is deprived. what we call civilization--the accumulation of knowledge which has come down to us from our forefathers--is the fruit of thousands of years of human thought and toil. it is not the result of the labour of the ancestors of any separate class of people who exist today, and therefore it is by right the common heritage of all. every little child that is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or full, whether he is physically perfect or lame, or blind; no matter how much he may excel or fall short of his fellows in other respects, in one thing at least he is their equal--he is one of the heirs of all the ages that have gone before.' some of them began to wonder whether owen was not sane after all. he certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this. it sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could not understand one half of it. 'why is it,' continued owen, 'that we are not only deprived of our inheritance--we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of civilization, but we and our children are also often unable to obtain even the bare necessaries of existence?' no one answered. 'all these things,' owen proceeded, 'are produced by those who work. we do our full share of the work, therefore we should have a full share of the things that are made by work.' the others continued silent. harlow thought of the over-population theory, but decided not to mention it. crass, who could not have given an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense to remain silent. he did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping machine and bringing the hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned the idea; after all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such a fool as owen? sawkins pretended to be asleep. philpot, however, had suddenly grown very serious. 'as things are now,' went on owen, 'instead of enjoying the advantages of civilization we are really worse off than slaves, for if we were slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always had food and--' 'oh, i don't see that,' roughly interrupted old linden, who had been listening with evident anger and impatience. 'you can speak for yourself, but i can tell yer i don't put myself down as a slave.' 'nor me neither,' said crass sturdily. 'let them call their selves slaves as wants to.' at this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the kitchen. old misery! or perhaps the bloke himself! crass hurriedly pulled out his watch. 'jesus christ!' he gasped. 'it's four minutes past one!' linden frantically seized hold of a pair of steps and began wandering about the room with them. sawkins scrambled hastily to his feet and, snatching a piece of sandpaper from the pocket of his apron, began furiously rubbing down the scullery door. easton threw down the copy of the obscurer and scrambled hastily to his feet. the boy crammed the chronicles of crime into his trousers pocket. crass rushed over to the bucket and began stirring up the stale whitewash it contained, and the stench which it gave forth was simply appalling. consternation reigned. they looked like a gang of malefactors suddenly interrupted in the commission of a crime. the door opened. it was only bundy returning from his mission to the bookie. chapter nimrod: a mighty hunter before the lord mr hunter, as he was called to his face and as he was known to his brethren at the shining light chapel, where he was superintendant of the sunday school, or 'misery' or 'nimrod'; as he was named behind his back by the workmen over whom he tyrannized, was the general or walking foreman or 'manager' of the firm whose card is herewith presented to the reader: rushton & co. mugsborough ------- builders, decorators, and general contractors funerals furnished estimates given for general repairs to house property first-class work only at moderate charges there were a number of sub-foremen or 'coddies', but hunter was the foreman. he was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his round-shouldered, bony form. his long, thin legs, about which the baggy trousers draped in ungraceful folds, were slightly knock-kneed and terminated in large, flat feet. his arms were very long even for such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted. when he removed his bowler hat, as he frequently did to wipe away with a red handkerchief the sweat occasioned by furious bicycle riding, it was seen that his forehead was high, flat and narrow. his nose was a large, fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the dropping moustache that concealed his mouth, the vast extent of which was perceived only when he opened it to bellow at the workmen his exhortations to greater exertions. his chin was large and extraordinarily long. the eyes were pale blue, very small and close together, surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible eyebrows, with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. his head, covered with thick, coarse brown hair, was very large at the back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. if one were to make a full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage it would be found that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin. this man had been with rushton--no one had ever seen the 'co.'--for fifteen years, in fact almost from the time when the latter commenced business. rushton had at that period realized the necessity of having a deputy who could be used to do all the drudgery and running about so that he himself might be free to attend to the more pleasant or profitable matters. hunter was then a journeyman, but was on the point of starting on his own account, when rushton offered him a constant job as foreman, two pounds a week, and two and a half per cent of the profits of all work done. on the face of it this appeared a generous offer. hunter closed with it, gave up the idea of starting for himself, and threw himself heart and mind into the business. when an estimate was to be prepared it was hunter who measured up the work and laboriously figured out the probably cost. when their tenders were accepted it was he who superintended the work and schemed how to scamp it, where possible, using mud where mortar was specified, mortar where there ought to have been cement, sheet zinc where they were supposed to put sheet lead, boiled oil instead of varnish, and three coats of paint where five were paid for. in fact, scamping the work was with this man a kind of mania. it grieved him to see anything done properly. even when it was more economical to do a thing well, he insisted from force of habit on having it scamped. then he was almost happy, because he felt that he was doing someone down. if there were an architect superintending the work, misery would square him or bluff him. if it were not possible to do either, at least he had a try; and in the intervals of watching, driving and bullying the hands, his vulture eye was ever on the look out for fresh jobs. his long red nose was thrust into every estate agent's office in the town in the endeavour to smell out what properties had recently changed hands or been let, in order that he might interview the new owners and secure the order for whatever alterations or repairs might be required. he it was who entered into unholy compacts with numerous charwomen and nurses of the sick, who in return for a small commission would let him know when some poor sufferer was passing away and would recommend rushton & co. to the bereaved and distracted relatives. by these means often--after first carefully inquiring into the financial position of the stricken family--misery would contrive to wriggle his unsavoury carcass into the house of sorrow, seeking, even in the chamber of death, to further the interests of rushton & co. and to earn his miserable two and a half per cent. it was to make possible the attainment of this object that misery slaved and drove and schemed and cheated. it was for this that the workers' wages were cut down to the lowest possible point and their offspring went ill clad, ill shod and ill fed, and were driven forth to labour while they were yet children, because their fathers were unable to earn enough to support their homes. fifteen years! hunter realized now that rushton had had considerably the best of the bargain. in the first place, it will be seen that the latter had bought over one who might have proved a dangerous competitor, and now, after fifteen years, the business that had been so laboriously built up, mainly by hunter's energy, industry and unscrupulous cunning, belonged to rushton & co. hunter was but an employee, liable to dismissal like any other workman, the only difference being that he was entitled to a week's notice instead of an hour's notice, and was but little better off financially than when he started for the firm. fifteen years! hunter knew now that he had been used, but he also knew that it was too late to turn back. he had not saved enough to make a successful start on his own account even if he had felt mentally and physically capable of beginning all over again, and if rushton were to discharge him right now he was too old to get a job as a journeyman. further, in his zeal for rushton & co. and his anxiety to earn his commission, he had often done things that had roused the animosity of rival firms to such an extent that it was highly improbable that any of them would employ him, and even if they would, misery's heart failed him at the thought of having to meet on an equal footing those workmen whom he had tyrannized over and oppressed. it was for these reasons that hunter was as terrified of rushton as the hands were of himself. over the men stood misery, ever threatening them with dismissal and their wives and children with hunger. behind misery was rushton, ever bullying and goading him on to greater excesses and efforts for the furtherance of the good cause--which was to enable the head of the firm to accumulate money. mr hunter, at the moment when the reader first makes his acquaintance on the afternoon of the day when the incidents recorded in the first chapter took place, was executing a kind of strategic movement in the direction of the house where crass and his mates were working. he kept to one side of the road because by so doing he could not be perceived by those within the house until the instant of his arrival. when he was within about a hundred yards of the gate he dismounted from his bicycle, there being a sharp rise in the road just there, and as he toiled up, pushing the bicycle in front, his breath showing in white clouds in the frosty air, he observed a number of men hanging about. some of them he knew; they had worked for him at various times, but were now out of a job. there were five men altogether; three of them were standing in a group, the other two stood each by himself, being apparently strangers to each other and the first three. the three men who stood together were nearest to hunter and as the latter approached, one of them advanced to meet him. 'good afternoon, sir.' hunter replied by an inarticulate grunt, without stopping; the man followed. 'any chance of a job, sir?' 'full up,' replied hunter, still without stopping. the man still followed, like a beggar soliciting charity. 'be any use calling in a day or so, sir?' 'don't think so,' hunter replied. 'can if you like; but we're full up.' 'thank you, sir,' said the man, and turned back to his friends. by this time hunter was within a few yards of one of the other two men, who also came to speak to him. this man felt there was no hope of getting a job; still, there was no harm in asking. besides, he was getting desperate. it was over a month now since he had finished up for his last employer. it had been a very slow summer altogether. sometimes a fortnight for one firm; then perhaps a week doing nothing; then three weeks or a month for another firm, then out again, and so on. and now it was november. last winter they had got into debt; that was nothing unusual, but owing to the bad summer they had not been able, as in other years, to pay off the debts accumulated in winter. it was doubtful, too, whether they would be able to get credit again this winter. in fact this morning when his wife sent their little girl to the grocer's for some butter the latter had refused to let the child have it without the money. so although he felt it to be useless he accosted hunter. this time hunter stopped: he was winded by his climb up the hill. 'good afternoon, sir.' hunter did not return the salutation; he had not the breath to spare, but the man was not hurt; he was used to being treated like that. 'any chance of a job, sir?' hunter did not reply at once. he was short of breath and he was thinking of a plan that was ever recurring to his mind, and which he had lately been hankering to put into execution. it seemed to him that the long waited for opportunity had come. just now rushton & co. were almost the only firm in mugsborough who had any work. there were dozens of good workmen out. yes, this was the time. if this man agreed he would give him a start. hunter knew the man was a good workman, he had worked for rushton & co. before. to make room for him old linden and some other full-price man could be got rid of; it would not be difficult to find some excuse. 'well,' hunter said at last in a doubtful, hesitating kind of way, 'i'm afraid not, newman. we're about full up.' he ceased speaking and remained waiting for the other to say something more. he did not look at the man, but stooped down, fidgeting with the mechanism of the bicycle as if adjusting it. 'things have been so bad this summer,' newman went on. 'i've had rather a rough time of it. i would be very glad of a job even if it was only for a week or so.' there was a pause. after a while, hunter raised his eyes to the other's face, but immediately let them fall again. 'well,' said he, 'i might--perhaps--be able to let you have a day or two. you can come here to this job,' and he nodded his head in the direction of the house where the men were working. 'tomorrow at seven. of course you know the figure?' he added as newman was about to thank him. 'six and a half.' hunter spoke as if the reduction were already an accomplished fact. the man was more likely to agree, if he thought that others were already working at the reduced rate. newman was taken by surprise and hesitated. he had never worked under price; indeed, he had sometimes gone hungry rather than do so; but now it seemed that others were doing it. and then he was so awfully hard up. if he refused this job he was not likely to get another in a hurry. he thought of his home and his family. already they owed five weeks' rent, and last monday the collector had hinted pretty plainly that the landlord would not wait much longer. not only that, but if he did not get a job how were they to live? this morning he himself had had no breakfast to speak of, only a cup of tea and some dry bread. these thoughts crowded upon each other in his mind, but still he hesitated. hunter began to move off. 'well,' he said, 'if you like to start you can come here at seven in the morning.' then as newman still hesitated he added impatiently, 'are you coming or not?' 'yes, sir,' said newman. 'all right,' said hunter, affably. 'i'll tell crass to have a kit ready for you.' he nodded in a friendly way to the man, who went off feeling like a criminal. as hunter resumed his march, well pleased with himself, the fifth man, who had been waiting all this time, came to meet him. as he approached, hunter recognized him as one who had started work for rushton & co early in the summer, but who had left suddenly of his own accord, having taken offence at some bullying remark of hunter's. hunter was glad to see this man. he guessed that the fellow must be very hard pressed to come again and ask for work after what had happened. 'any chance of a job, sir?' hunter appeared to reflect. 'i believe i have room for one,' he said at length. 'but you're such an uncertain kind of chap. you don't seem to care much whether you work or not. you're too independent, you know; one can't say two words to you but you must needs clear off.' the man made no answer. 'we can't tolerate that kind of thing, you know,' hunter added. 'if we were to encourage men of your stamp we should never know where we are.' so saying, hunter moved away and again proceeded on his journey. when he arrived within about three yards of the gate he noiselessly laid his machine against the garden fence. the high evergreens that grew inside still concealed him from the observation of anyone who might be looking out of the windows of the house. then he carefully crept along till he came to the gate post, and bending down, he cautiously peeped round to see if he could detect anyone idling, or talking, or smoking. there was no one in sight except old jack linden, who was rubbing down the lobby doors with pumice-stone and water. hunter noiselessly opened the gate and crept quietly along the grass border of the garden path. his idea was to reach the front door without being seen, so that linden could not give notice of his approach to those within. in this he succeeded and passed silently into the house. he did not speak to linden; to do so would have proclaimed his presence to the rest. he crawled stealthily over the house but was disappointed in his quest, for everyone he saw was hard at work. upstairs he noticed that the door of one of the rooms was closed. old joe philpot had been working in this room all day, washing off the old whitewash from the ceiling and removing the old papers from the walls with a broad bladed, square topped knife called a stripper. although it was only a small room, joe had had to tear into the work pretty hard all the time, for the ceiling seemed to have had two or three coats of whitewash without ever having been washed off, and there were several thicknesses of paper on the walls. the difficulty of removing these papers was increased by the fact that there was a dado which had been varnished. in order to get this off it had been necessary to soak it several times with strong soda water, and although joe was as careful as possible he had not been able to avoid getting some of this stuff on his fingers. the result was that his nails were all burnt and discoloured and the flesh round them cracked and bleeding. however, he had got it all off at last, and he was not sorry, for his right arm and shoulder were aching from the prolonged strain and in the palm of the right hand there was a blister as large as a shilling, caused by the handle of the stripping knife. all the old paper being off, joe washed down the walls with water, and having swept the paper into a heap in the middle of the floor, he mixed with a small trowel some cement on a small board and proceeded to stop up the cracks and holes in the walls and ceiling. after a while, feeling very tired, it occurred to him that he deserved a spell and a smoke for five minutes. he closed the door and placed a pair of steps against it. there were two windows in the room almost opposite each other; these he opened wide in order that the smoke and smell of his pipe might be carried away. having taken these precautions against surprise, he ascended to the top of the step ladder that he had laid against the door and sat down at ease. within easy reach was the top of a cupboard where he had concealed a pint of beer in a bottle. to this he now applied himself. having taken a long pull at the bottle, he tenderly replaced it on the top of the cupboard and proceeded to 'hinjoy' a quiet smoke, remarking to himself: 'this is where we get some of our own back.' he held, however, his trowel in one hand, ready for immediate action in case of interruption. philpot was about fifty-five years old. he wore no white jacket, only an old patched apron; his trousers were old, very soiled with paint and ragged at the bottoms of the legs where they fell over the much-patched, broken and down-at-heel boots. the part of his waistcoat not protected by his apron was covered with spots of dried paint. he wore a coloured shirt and a 'dickey' which was very soiled and covered with splashes of paint, and one side of it was projecting from the opening of the waistcoat. his head was covered with an old cap, heavy and shining with paint. he was very thin and stooped slightly. although he was really only fifty-five, he looked much older, for he was prematurely aged. he had not been getting his own back for quite five minutes when hunter softly turned the handle of the lock. philpot immediately put out his pipe and descending from his perch opened the door. when hunter entered philpot closed it again and, mounting the steps, went on stripping the wall just above. nimrod looked at him suspiciously, wondering why the door had been closed. he looked all round the room but could see nothing to complain of. he sniffed the air to try if he could detect the odour of tobacco, and if he had not been suffering a cold in the head there is no doubt that he would have perceived it. however, as it was he could smell nothing but all the same he was not quite satisfied, although he remembered that crass always gave philpot a good character. 'i don't like to have men working on a job like this with the door shut,' he said at length. 'it always gives me the idear that the man's 'avin a mike. you can do what you're doin' just as well with the door open.' philpot, muttering something about it being all the same to him--shut or open--got down from the steps and opened the door. hunter went out again without making any further remark and once more began crawling over the house. owen was working by himself in a room on the same floor as philpot. he was at the window, burning off with a paraffin torch-lamp those parts of the old paintwork that were blistered and cracked. in this work the flame of the lamp is directed against the old paint, which becomes soft and is removed with a chisel knife, or a scraper called a shavehook. the door was ajar and he had opened the top sash of the window for the purpose of letting in some fresh air, because the atmosphere of the room was foul with the fumes of the lamp and the smell of the burning paint, besides being heavy with moisture. the ceiling had only just been water washed and the walls had just been stripped. the old paper, saturated with water, was piled up in a heap in the middle of the floor. presently, as he was working he began to feel conscious of some other presence in the room; he looked round. the door was open about six inches and in the opening appeared a long, pale face with a huge chin, surmounted by a bowler hat and ornamented with a large red nose, a drooping moustache and two small, glittering eyes set very close together. for some seconds this apparition regarded owen intently, then it was silently withdrawn, and he was again alone. he had been so surprised and startled that he had nearly dropped the lamp, and now that the ghastly countenance was gone, owen felt the blood surge into his own cheeks. he trembled with suppressed fury and longed to be able to go out there on the landing and hurl the lamp into hunter's face. meanwhile, on the landing outside owen's door, hunter stood thinking. someone must be got rid of to make room for the cheap man tomorrow. he had hoped to catch somebody doing something that would have served as an excuse for instant dismissal, but there was now no hope of that happening. what was to be done? he would like to get rid of linden, who was now really too old to be of much use, but as the old man had worked for rushton on and off for many years, hunter felt that he could scarcely sack him off hand without some reasonable pretext. still, the fellow was really not worth the money he was getting. sevenpence an hour was an absurdly large wage for an old man like him. it was preposterous: he would have to go, excuse or no excuse. hunter crawled downstairs again. jack linden was about sixty-seven years old, but like philpot, and as is usual with working men, he appeared older, because he had had to work very hard all his life, frequently without proper food and clothing. his life had been passed in the midst of a civilization which he had never been permitted to enjoy the benefits of. but of course he knew nothing about all this. he had never expected or wished to be allowed to enjoy such things; he had always been of opinion that they were never intended for the likes of him. he called himself a conservative and was very patriotic. at the time when the boer war commenced, linden was an enthusiastic jingo: his enthusiasm had been somewhat damped when his youngest son, a reservist, had to go to the front, where he died of fever and exposure. when this soldier son went away, he left his wife and two children, aged respectively four and five years at that time, in his father's care. after he died they stayed on with the old people. the young woman earned a little occasionally by doing needlework, but was really dependent on her father-in-law. notwithstanding his poverty, he was glad to have them in the house, because of late years his wife had been getting very feeble, and, since the shock occasioned by the news of the death of her son, needed someone constantly with her. linden was still working at the vestibule doors when the manager came downstairs. misery stood watching him for some minutes without speaking. at last he said loudly: 'how much longer are you going to be messing about those doors? why don't you get them under colour? you were fooling about there when i was here this morning. do you think it'll pay to have you playing about there hour after hour with a bit of pumice stone? get the work done! or if you don't want to, i'll very soon find someone else who does! i've been noticing your style of doing things for some time past and i want you to understand that you can't play the fool with me. there's plenty of better men than you walking about. if you can't do more than you've been doing lately you can clear out; we can do without you even when we're busy.' old jack trembled. he tried to answer, but was unable to speak. if he had been a slave and had failed to satisfy his master, the latter might have tied him up somewhere and thrashed him. hunter could not do that; he could only take his food away. old jack was frightened--it was not only his food that might be taken away. at last, with a great effort, for the words seemed to stick in his throat, he said: 'i must clean the work down, sir, before i go on painting.' 'i'm not talking about what you're doing, but the time it takes you to do it!' shouted hunter. 'and i don't want any back answers or argument about it. you must move yourself a bit quicker or leave it alone altogether.' linden did not answer: he went on with his work, his hand trembling to such an extent that he was scarcely able to hold the pumice stone. hunter shouted so loud that his voice filled all the house. everyone heard and was afraid. who would be the next? they thought. finding that linden made no further answer, misery again began walking about the house. as he looked at them the men did their work in a nervous, clumsy, hasty sort of way. they made all sorts of mistakes and messes. payne, the foreman carpenter, was putting some new boards on a part of the drawing-room floor: he was in such a state of panic that, while driving a nail, he accidentally struck the thumb of his left hand a severe blow with his hammer. bundy was also working in the drawing-room putting some white-glazed tiles in the fireplace. whilst cutting one of these in half in order to fit it into its place, he inflicted a deep gash on one of his fingers. he was afraid to leave off to bind it up while hunter was there, and consequently as he worked the white tiles became all smeared and spattered with blood. easton, who was working with harlow on a plank, washing off the old distemper from the hall ceiling, was so upset that he was scarcely able to stand on the plank, and presently the brush fell from his trembling hand with a crash upon the floor. everyone was afraid. they knew that it was impossible to get a job for any other firm. they knew that this man had the power to deprive them of the means of earning a living; that he possessed the power to deprive their children of bread. owen, listening to hunter over the banisters upstairs, felt that he would like to take him by the throat with one hand and smash his face in with the other. and then? why then he would be sent to gaol, or at the best he would lose his employment: his food and that of his family would be taken away. that was why he only ground his teeth and cursed and beat the wall with his clenched fist. so! and so! and so! if it were not for them! owen's imagination ran riot. first he would seize him by the collar with his left hand, dig his knuckles into his throat, force him up against the wall and then, with his right fist, smash! smash! smash! until hunter's face was all cut and covered with blood. but then, what about those at home? was it not braver and more manly to endure in silence? owen leaned against the wall, white-faced, panting and exhausted. downstairs, misery was still going to and fro in the house and walking up and down in it. presently he stopped to look at sawkins' work. this man was painting the woodwork of the back staircase. although the old paintwork here was very dirty and greasy, misery had given orders that it was not to be cleaned before being painted. 'just dust it down and slobber the colour on,' he had said. consequently, when crass made the paint, he had put into it an extra large quantity of dryers. to a certain extent this destroyed the 'body' of the colour: it did not cover well; it would require two coats. when hunter perceived this he was furious. he was sure it could be made to do with one coat with a little care; he believed sawkins was doing it like this on purpose. really, these men seemed to have no conscience. two coats! and he had estimated for only three. 'crass!' 'yes, sir.' 'come here!' 'yes, sir.' crass came hurrying along. 'what's the meaning of this? didn't i tell you to make this do with one coat? look at it!' 'it's like this, sir,' said crass. 'if it had been washed down--' 'washed down be damned,' shouted hunter. 'the reason is that the colour ain't thick enough. take the paint and put a little more body in it and we'll soon see whether it can be done or not. i can make it cover if you can't.' crass took the paint, and, superintended by hunter, made it thicker. misery then seized the brush and prepared to demonstrate the possibility of finishing the work with one coat. crass and sawkins looked on in silence. just as misery was about to commence he fancied he heard someone whispering somewhere. he laid down the brush and crawled stealthily upstairs to see who it was. directly his back was turned crass seized a bottle of oil that was standing near and, tipping about half a pint of it into the paint, stirred it up quickly. misery returned almost immediately: he had not caught anyone; it must have been fancy. he took up the brush and began to paint. the result was worse than sawkins! he messed and fooled about for some time, but could not make it come right. at last he gave it up. 'i suppose it'll have to have two coats after all,' he said, mournfully. 'but it's a thousand pities.' he almost wept. the firm would be ruined if things went on like this. 'you'd better go on with it,' he said as he laid down the brush. he began to walk about the house again. he wanted to go away now, but he did not want them to know that he was gone, so he sneaked out of the back door, crept around the house and out of the gate, mounted his bicycle and rode away. no one saw him go. for some time the only sounds that broke the silence were the noises made by the hands as they worked. the musical ringing of bundy's trowel, the noise of the carpenters' hammers and saws and the occasional moving of a pair of steps. no one dared to speak. at last philpot could stand it no longer. he was very thirsty. he had kept the door of his room open since hunter arrived. he listened intently. he felt certain that hunter must be gone: he looked across the landing and could see owen working in the front room. philpot made a little ball of paper and threw it at him to attract his attention. owen looked round and philpot began to make signals: he pointed downwards with one hand and jerked the thumb of the other over his shoulder in the direction of the town, winking grotesquely the while. this owen interpreted to be an inquiry as to whether hunter had departed. he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders to intimate that he did not know. philpot cautiously crossed the landing and peeped furtively over the banisters, listening breathlessly. 'was it gorn or not?' he wondered. he crept along on tiptoe towards owen's room, glancing left and right, the trowel in his hand, and looking like a stage murderer. 'do you think it's gorn?' he asked in a hoarse whisper when he reached owen's door. 'i don't know,' replied owen in a low tone. philpot wondered. he must have a drink, but it would never do for hunter to see him with the bottle: he must find out somehow whether he was gone or not. at last an idea came. he would go downstairs to get some more cement. having confided this plan to owen, he crept quietly back to the room in which he had been working, then he walked noisily across the landing again. 'got a bit of stopping to spare, frank?' he asked in a loud voice. 'no,' replied owen. 'i'm not using it.' 'then i suppose i'll have to go down and get some. is there anything i can bring up for you?' 'no, thanks,' replied owen. philpot marched boldly down to the scullery, which crass had utilized as a paint-shop. crass was there mixing some colour. 'i want a bit of stopping,' philpot said as he helped himself to some. 'is the b--r gorn?' whispered crass. 'i don't know,' replied philpot. 'where's his bike?' ''e always leaves it outside the gate, so's we can't see it,' replied crass. 'tell you what,' whispered philpot, after a pause. 'give the boy a hempty bottle and let 'im go to the gate and look to the bikes there. if misery sees him 'e can pretend to be goin' to the shop for some hoil.' this was done. bert went to the gate and returned almost immediately: the bike was gone. as the good news spread through the house a chorus of thanksgiving burst forth. 'thank gord!' said one. 'hope the b--r falls orf and breaks 'is bloody neck,' said another. 'these bible-thumpers are all the same; no one ever knew one to be any good yet,' cried a third. directly they knew for certain that he was gone, nearly everyone left off work for a few minutes to curse him. then they again went on working and now that they were relieved of the embarrassment that misery's presence inspired, they made better progress. a few of them lit their pipes and smoked as they worked. one of these was old jack linden. he was upset by the bullying he had received, and when he noticed some of the others smoking he thought he would have a pipe; it might steady his nerves. as a rule he did not smoke when working; it was contrary to orders. as philpot was returning to work again he paused for a moment to whisper to linden, with the result that the latter accompanied him upstairs. on reaching philpot's room the latter placed the step-ladder near the cupboard and, taking down the bottle of beer, handed it to linden with the remark, 'get some of that acrost yer, matey; it'll put yer right.' while linden was taking a hasty drink, joe kept watch on the landing outside in case hunter should suddenly and unexpectedly reappear. when linden was gone downstairs again, philpot, having finished what remained of the beer and hidden the bottle up the chimney, resumed the work of stopping up the holes and cracks in the ceiling and walls. he must make a bit of a show tonight or there would be a hell of a row when misery came in the morning. owen worked on in a disheartened, sullen way. he felt like a beaten dog. he was more indignant on poor old linden's account than on his own, and was oppressed by a sense of impotence and shameful degradation. all his life it had been the same: incessant work under similar more or less humiliating conditions, and with no more result than being just able to avoid starvation. and the future, as far as he could see, was as hopeless as the past; darker, for there would surely come a time, if he lived long enough, when he would be unable to work any more. he thought of his child. was he to be a slave and a drudge all his life also? it would be better for the boy to die now. as owen thought of his child's future there sprung up within him a feeling of hatred and fury against the majority of his fellow workmen. they were the enemy. those who not only quietly submitted like so many cattle to the existing state of things, but defended it, and opposed and ridiculed any suggestion to alter it. they were the real oppressors--the men who spoke of themselves as 'the likes of us,' who, having lived in poverty and degradation all their lives considered that what had been good enough for them was good enough for the children they had been the cause of bringing into existence. he hated and despised them because they calmly saw their children condemned to hard labour and poverty for life, and deliberately refused to make any effort to secure for them better conditions than those they had themselves. it was because they were indifferent to the fate of their children that he would be unable to secure a natural and human life for his. it was their apathy or active opposition that made it impossible to establish a better system of society under which those who did their fair share of the world's work would be honoured and rewarded. instead of helping to do this, they abased themselves, and grovelled before their oppressors, and compelled and taught their children to do the same. they were the people who were really responsible for the continuance of the present system. owen laughed bitterly to himself. what a very comical system it was. those who worked were looked upon with contempt, and subjected to every possible indignity. nearly everything they produced was taken away from them and enjoyed by the people who did nothing. and then the workers bowed down and grovelled before those who had robbed them of the fruits of their labour and were childishly grateful to them for leaving anything at all. no wonder the rich despised them and looked upon them as dirt. they were despicable. they were dirt. they admitted it and gloried in it. while these thoughts were seething in owen's mind, his fellow workmen were still patiently toiling on downstairs. most of them had by this time dismissed hunter from their thoughts. they did not take things so seriously as owen. they flattered themselves that they had more sense than that. it could not be altered. grin and bear it. after all, it was only for life! make the best of things, and get your own back whenever you get a chance. presently harlow began to sing. he had a good voice and it was a good song, but his mates just then did not appreciate either one of the other. his singing was the signal for an outburst of exclamations and catcalls. 'shut it, for christ's sake!' 'that's enough of that bloody row!' and so on. harlow stopped. 'how's the enemy?' asked easton presently, addressing no one in particular. 'don't know,' replied bundy. 'it must be about half past four. ask slyme; he's got a watch.' it was a quarter past four. 'it gets dark very early now,' said easton. 'yes,' replied bundy. 'it's been very dull all day. i think it's goin' to rain. listen to the wind.' 'i 'ope not,' replied easton. 'that means a wet shirt goin' 'ome.' he called out to old jack linden, who was still working at the front doors: 'is it raining, jack?' old jack, his pipe still in his mouth, turned to look at the weather. it was raining, but linden did not see the large drops which splashed heavily upon the ground. he saw only hunter, who was standing at the gate, watching him. for a few seconds the two men looked at each other in silence. linden was paralysed with fear. recovering himself, he hastily removed his pipe, but it was too late. misery strode up. 'i don't pay you for smoking,' he said, loudly. 'make out your time sheet, take it to the office and get your money. i've had enough of you!' jack made no attempt to defend himself: he knew it was of no use. he silently put aside the things he had been using, went into the room where he had left his tool-bag and coat, removed his apron and white jacket, folded them up and put them into his tool-bag along with the tools he had been using--a chisel-knife and a shavehook--put on his coat, and, with the tool-bag slung over his shoulder, went away from the house. without speaking to anyone else, hunter then hastily walked over the place, noting what progress had been made by each man during his absence. he then rode away, as he wanted to get to the office in time to give linden his money. it was now very cold and dark within the house, and as the gas was not yet laid on, crass distributed a number of candles to the men, who worked silently, each occupied with his own gloomy thoughts. who would be the next? outside, sombre masses of lead-coloured clouds gathered ominously in the tempestuous sky. the gale roared loudly round the old-fashioned house and the windows rattled discordantly. rain fell in torrents. they said it meant getting wet through going home, but all the same, thank god it was nearly five o'clock! chapter the financiers that night as easton walked home through the rain he felt very depressed. it had been a very bad summer for most people and he had not fared better than the rest. a few weeks with one firm, a few days with another, then out of a job, then on again for a month perhaps, and so on. william easton was a man of medium height, about twenty-three years old, with fair hair and moustache and blue eyes. he wore a stand-up collar with a coloured tie and his clothes, though shabby, were clean and neat. he was married: his wife was a young woman whose acquaintance he had made when he happened to be employed with others painting the outside of the house where she was a general servant. they had 'walked out' for about fifteen months. easton had been in no hurry to marry, for he knew that, taking good times with bad, his wages did no average a pound a week. at the end of that time, however, he found that he could not honourably delay longer, so they were married. that was twelve months ago. as a single man he had never troubled much if he happened to be out of work; he always had enough to live on and pocket money besides; but now that he was married it was different; the fear of being 'out' haunted him all the time. he had started for rushton & co. on the previous monday after having been idle for three weeks, and as the house where he was working had to be done right through he had congratulated himself on having secured a job that would last till christmas; but he now began to fear that what had befallen jack linden might also happen to himself at any time. he would have to be very careful not to offend crass in any way. he was afraid the latter did not like him very much as it was. easton knew that crass could get him the sack at any time, and would not scruple to do so if he wanted to make room for some crony of his own. crass was the 'coddy' or foreman of the job. considered as a workman he had no very unusual abilities; he was if anything inferior to the majority of his fellow workmen. but although he had but little real ability he pretended to know everything, and the vague references he was in the habit of making to 'tones', and 'shades', and 'harmony', had so impressed hunter that the latter had a high opinion of him as a workman. it was by pushing himself forward in this way and by judicious toadying to hunter that crass managed to get himself put in charge of work. although crass did as little work as possible himself he took care that the others worked hard. any man who failed to satisfy him in this respect he reported to hunter as being 'no good', or 'too slow for a funeral'. the result was that this man was dispensed with at the end of the week. the men knew this, and most of them feared the wily crass accordingly, though there were a few whose known abilities placed them to a certain extent above the reach of his malice. frank owen was one of these. there were others who by the judicious administration of pipefuls of tobacco and pints of beer, managed to keep in crass's good graces and often retained their employment when better workmen were 'stood off'. as he walked home through the rain thinking of these things, easton realized that it was not possible to foresee what a day or even an hour might bring forth. by this time he had arrived at his home; it was a small house, one of a long row of similar ones, and it contained altogether four rooms. the front door opened into a passage about two feet six inches wide and ten feet in length, covered with oilcloth. at the end of the passage was a flight of stairs leading to the upper part of the house. the first door on the left led into the front sitting-room, an apartment about nine feet square, with a bay window. this room was very rarely used and was always very tidy and clean. the mantelpiece was of wood painted black and ornamented with jagged streaks of red and yellow, which were supposed to give it the appearance of marble. on the walls was a paper with a pale terra-cotta ground and a pattern consisting of large white roses with chocolate coloured leaves and stalks. there was a small iron fender with fire-irons to match, and on the mantelshelf stood a clock in a polished wood case, a pair of blue glass vases, and some photographs in frames. the floor was covered with oilcloth of a tile pattern in yellow and red. on the walls were two or three framed coloured prints such as are presented with christmas numbers of illustrated papers. there was also a photograph of a group of sunday school girls with their teachers with the church for the background. in the centre of the room was a round deal table about three feet six inches across, with the legs stained red to look like mahogany. against one wall was an old couch covered with faded cretonne, four chairs to match standing backs to wall in different parts of the room. the table was covered with a red cloth with a yellow crewel work design in the centre and in each of the four corners, the edges being overcast in the same material. on the table were a lamp and a number of brightly bound books. some of these things, as the couch and the chairs, easton had bought second-hand and had done up himself. the table, oilcloth, fender, hearthrug, etc, had been obtained on the hire system and were not yet paid for. the windows were draped with white lace curtains and in the bay was a small bamboo table on which reposed a large holy bible, cheaply but showily bound. if anyone had ever opened this book they would have found that its pages were as clean as the other things in the room, and on the flyleaf might have been read the following inscription: 'to dear ruth, from her loving friend mrs starvem with the prayer that god's word may be her guide and that jesus may be her very own saviour. oct. . --' mrs starvem was ruth's former mistress, and this had been her parting gift when ruth left to get married. it was supposed to be a keepsake, but as ruth never opened the book and never willingly allowed her thoughts to dwell upon the scenes of which it reminded her, she had forgotten the existence of mrs starvem almost as completely as that well-to-do and pious lady had forgotten hers. for ruth, the memory of the time she spent in the house of 'her loving friend' was the reverse of pleasant. it comprised a series of recollections of petty tyrannies, insults and indignities. six years of cruelly excessive work, beginning every morning two or three hours before the rest of the household were awake and ceasing only when she went exhausted to bed, late at night. she had been what is called a 'slavey' but if she had been really a slave her owner would have had some regard for her health and welfare: her 'loving friend' had had none. mrs starvem's only thought had been to get out of ruth the greatest possible amount of labour and to give her as little as possible in return. when ruth looked back upon that dreadful time she saw it, as one might say, surrounded by a halo of religion. she never passed by a chapel or heard the name of god, or the singing of a hymn, without thinking of her former mistress. to have looked into this bible would have reminded her of mrs starvem; that was one of the reasons why the book reposed, unopened and unread, a mere ornament on the table in the bay window. the second door in the passage near the foot of the stairs led into the kitchen or living-room: from here another door led into the scullery. upstairs were two bedrooms. as easton entered the house, his wife met him in the passage and asked him not to make a noise as the child had just gone to sleep. they kissed each other and she helped him to remove his wet overcoat. then they both went softly into the kitchen. this room was about the same size as the sitting-room. at one end was a small range with an oven and a boiler, and a high mantelpiece painted black. on the mantelshelf was a small round alarm clock and some brightly polished tin canisters. at the other end of the room, facing the fireplace, was a small dresser on the shelves of which were neatly arranged a number of plates and dishes. the walls were papered with oak paper. on one wall, between two coloured almanacks, hung a tin lamp with a reflector behind the light. in the middle of the room was an oblong deal table with a white tablecloth upon which the tea things were set ready. there were four kitchen chairs, two of which were placed close to the table. overhead, across the room, about eighteen inches down from the ceiling, were stretched several cords upon which were drying a number of linen or calico undergarments, a coloured shirt, and easton's white apron and jacket. on the back of a chair at one side of the fire more clothes were drying. at the other side on the floor was a wicker cradle in which a baby was sleeping. nearby stood a chair with a towel hung on the back, arranged so as to shade the infant's face from the light of the lamp. an air of homely comfort pervaded the room; the atmosphere was warm, and the fire blazed cheerfully over the whitened hearth. they walked softly over and stood by the cradle side looking at the child; as they looked the baby kept moving uneasily in its sleep. its face was very flushed and its eyes were moving under the half-closed lids. every now and again its lips were drawn back slightly, showing part of the gums; presently it began to whimper, drawing up its knees as if in pain. 'he seems to have something wrong with him,' said easton. 'i think it's his teeth,' replied the mother. 'he's been very restless all day and he was awake nearly all last night.' 'p'r'aps he's hungry.' 'no, it can't be that. he had the best part of an egg this morning and i've nursed him several times today. and then at dinner-time he had a whole saucer full of fried potatoes with little bits of bacon in it.' again the infant whimpered and twisted in its sleep, its lips drawn back showing the gums: its knees pressed closely to its body, the little fists clenched, and face flushed. then after a few seconds it became placid: the mouth resumed its usual shape; the limbs relaxed and the child slumbered peacefully. 'don't you think he's getting thin?' asked easton. 'it may be fancy, but he don't seem to me to be as big now as he was three months ago.' 'no, he's not quite so fat,' admitted ruth. 'it's his teeth what's wearing him out; he don't hardly get no rest at all with them.' they continued looking at him a little longer. ruth thought he was a very beautiful child: he would be eight months old on sunday. they were sorry they could do nothing to ease his pain, but consoled themselves with the reflection that he would be all right once those teeth were through. 'well, let's have some tea,' said easton at last. whilst he removed his wet boots and socks and placed them in front of the fire to dry and put on dry socks and a pair of slippers in their stead, ruth half filled a tin basin with hot water from the boiler and gave it to him, and he then went to the scullery, added some cold water and began to wash the paint off his hands. this done he returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table. 'i couldn't think what to give you to eat tonight,' said ruth as she poured out the tea. 'i hadn't got no money left and there wasn't nothing in the house except bread and butter and that piece of cheese, so i cut some bread and butter and put some thin slices of cheese on it and toasted it on a place in front of the fire. i hope you'll like it: it was the best i could do.' 'that's all right: it smells very nice anyway, and i'm very hungry.' as they were taking their tea easton told his wife about linden's affair and his apprehensions as to what might befall himself. they were both very indignant, and sorry for poor old linden, but their sympathy for him was soon forgotten in their fears for their own immediate future. they remained at the table in silence for some time: then, 'how much rent do we owe now?' asked easton. 'four weeks, and i promised the collector the last time he called that we'd pay two weeks next monday. he was quite nasty about it.' 'well, i suppose you'll have to pay it, that's all,' said easton. 'how much money will you have tomorrow?' asked ruth. he began to reckon up his time: he started on monday and today was friday: five days, from seven to five, less half an hour for breakfast and an hour for dinner, eight and a half hours a day--forty-two hours and a half. at sevenpence an hour that came to one pound four and ninepence halfpenny. 'you know i only started on monday,' he said, 'so there's no back day to come. tomorrow goes into next week.' 'yes, i know,' replied ruth. 'if we pay the two week's rent that'll leave us twelve shillings to live on.' 'but we won't be able to keep all of that,' said ruth, 'because there's other things to pay.' 'what other things?' 'we owe the baker eight shillings for the bread he let us have while you were not working, and there's about twelve shillings owing for groceries. we'll have to pay them something on account. then we want some more coal; there's only about a shovelful left, and--' 'wait a minnit,' said easton. 'the best way is to write out a list of everything we owe; then we shall know exactly where we are. you get me a piece of paper and tell me what to write. then we'll see what it all comes to.' 'do you mean everything we owe, or everything we must pay tomorrow.' 'i think we'd better make a list of all we owe first.' while they were talking the baby was sleeping restlessly, occasionally uttering plaintive little cries. the mother now went and knelt at the side of the cradle, which she gently rocked with one hand, patting the infant with the other. 'except the furniture people, the biggest thing we owe is the rent,' she said when easton was ready to begin. 'it seems to me,' said he, as, after having cleared a space on the table and arranged the paper, he began to sharpen his pencil with a table-knife, 'that you don't manage things as well as you might. if you was to make a list of just the things you must have before you went out of a saturday, you'd find the money would go much farther. instead of doing that you just take the money in your hand without knowing exactly what you're going to do with it, and when you come back it's all gone and next to nothing to show for it.' his wife made no reply: her head was bent over the child. 'now, let's see,' went on her husband. 'first of all there's the rent. how much did you say we owe?' 'four weeks. that's the three weeks you were out and this week.' 'four sixes is twenty-four; that's one pound four,' said easton as he wrote it down. 'next?' 'grocer, twelve shillings.' easton looked up in astonishment. 'twelve shillings. why, didn't you tell me only the other day that you'd paid up all we owed for groceries?' 'don't you remember we owed thirty-five shillings last spring? well, i've been paying that bit by bit all the summer. i paid the last of it the week you finished your last job. then you were out three weeks--up till last friday--and as we had nothing in hand i had to get what we wanted without paying for it.' 'but do you mean to say it cost us three shillings a week for tea and sugar and butter?' 'it's not only them. there's been bacon and eggs and cheese and other things.' the man was beginning to become impatient. 'well,' he said, 'what else?' 'we owe the baker eight shillings. we did owe nearly a pound, but i've been paying it off a little at a time.' this was added to the list. 'then there's the milkman. i've not paid him for four weeks. he hasn't sent a bill yet, but you can reckon it up; we have two penn'orth every day.' 'that's four and eight,' said easton, writing it down. 'anything else?' 'one and seven to the greengrocer for potatoes, cabbage, and paraffin oil.' 'anything else?' 'we owe the butcher two and sevenpence.' 'why, we haven't had any meat for a long time,' said easton. 'when was it?' 'three weeks ago; don't you remember? a small leg of mutton,' 'oh, yes,' and he added the item. 'then there's the instalments for the furniture and oilcloth--twelve shillings. a letter came from them today. and there's something else.' she took three letters from the pocket of her dress and handed them to him. 'they all came today. i didn't show them to you before as i didn't want to upset you before you had your tea.' easton drew the first letter from its envelope. corporation of mugsborough general district and special rates final notice mr w. easton, i have to remind you that the amount due from you as under, in respect of the above rates, has not been paid, and to request that you will forward the same within fourteen days from this date. you are hereby informed that after this notice no further call will be made, or intimation given, before legal proceedings are taken to enforce payment. by order of the council. james leah. collector, no. district. district rate .......................... £- special rate ........................... ________ £ the second communication was dated from the office of the assistant overseer of the poor. it was also a final notice and was worded in almost exactly the same way as the other, the principal difference being that it was 'by order of the overseers' instead of 'the council'. it demanded the sum of £ s - / d for poor rate within fourteen days, and threatened legal proceedings in default. easton laid this down and began to read the third letter-- j. didlum & co ltd. complete house furnishers quality street, mugsborough mr w. easton, sir: we have to remind you that three monthly payments of four shillings each ( /- in all) became due on the first of this month, and we must request you to let us have this amount by return of post. under the terms of your agreement you guaranteed that the money should be paid on the saturday of every fourth week. to prevent unpleasantness, we must request you for the future to forward the full amount punctually upon that day. yours truly, j. didlum & co. ltd he read these communications several times in silence and finally with an oath threw them down on the table. 'how much do we still owe for the oilcloth and the furniture?' he asked. 'i don't know exactly. it was seven pound odd, and we've had the things about six months. we paid one pound down and three or four instalments. i'll get the card if you like.' 'no; never mind. say we've paid one pound twelve; so we still owe about six pound.' he added this amount to the list. 'i think it's a great pity we ever had the things at all,' he said, peevishly. 'it would have been better to have gone without until we could pay cash for them: but you would have your way, of course. now we'll have this bloody debt dragging on us for years, and before the dam stuff is paid for it'll be worn out.' the woman did not reply at once. she was bending down over the cradle arranging the coverings which the restless movements of the child had disordered. she was crying silently, unnoticed by her husband. for months past--in fact ever since the child was born--she had been existing without sufficient food. if easton was unemployed they had to stint themselves so as to avoid getting further into debt than was absolutely necessary. when he was working they had to go short in order to pay what they owed; but of what there was easton himself, without knowing it, always had the greater share. if he was at work she would pack into his dinner basket overnight the best there was in the house. when he was out of work she often pretended, as she gave him his meals, that she had had hers while he was out. and all the time the baby was draining her life away and her work was never done. she felt very weak and weary as she crouched there, crying furtively and trying not to let him see. at last she said, without looking round: 'you know quite well that you were just as much in favour of getting them as i was. if we hadn't got the oilcloth there would have been illness in the house because of the way the wind used to come up between the floorboards. even now of a windy day the oilcloth moves up and down.' 'well, i'm sure i don't know,' said easton, as he looked alternatively at the list of debts and the three letters. 'i give you nearly every farthing i earn and i never interfere about anything, because i think it's your part to attend to the house, but it seems to me you don't manage things properly.' the woman suddenly burst into a passion of weeping, laying her head on the seat of the chair that was standing near the cradle. easton started up in surprise. 'why, what's the matter?' he said. then as he looked down upon the quivering form of the sobbing woman, he was ashamed. he knelt down by her, embracing her and apologizing, protesting that he had not meant to hurt her like that. 'i always do the best i can with the money,' ruth sobbed. 'i never spend a farthing on myself, but you don't seem to understand how hard it is. i don't care nothing about having to go without things myself, but i can't bear it when you speak to me like you do lately. you seem to blame me for everything. you usen't to speak to me like that before i--before--oh, i am so tired--i am so tired, i wish i could lie down somewhere and sleep and never wake up any more.' she turned away from him, half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, her arms folded on the seat of the chair, and her head resting upon them. she was crying in a heartbroken helpless way. 'i'm sorry i spoke to you like that,' said easton, awkwardly. 'i didn't mean what i said. it's all my fault. i leave things too much to you, and it's more than you can be expected to manage. i'll help you to think things out in future; only forgive me, i'm very sorry. i know you try your best.' she suffered him to draw her to him, laying her head on his shoulder as he kissed and fondled her, protesting that he would rather be poor and hungry with her than share riches with anyone else. the child in the cradle--who had been twisting and turning restlessly all this time--now began to cry loudly. the mother took it from the cradle and began to hush and soothe it, walking about the room and rocking it in her arms. the child, however, continued to scream, so she sat down to nurse it: for a little while the infant refused to drink, struggling and kicking in its mother's arms, then for a few minutes it was quite, taking the milk in a half-hearted, fretful way. then it began to scream and twist and struggle. they both looked at it in a helpless manner. whatever could be the matter with it? it must be those teeth. then suddenly as they were soothing and patting him, the child vomited all over its own and its mother's clothing a mass of undigested food. mingled with the curdled milk were fragments of egg, little bits of bacon, bread and particles of potato. having rid his stomach of this unnatural burden, the unfortunate baby began to cry afresh, his face very pale, his lips colourless, and his eyes red-rimmed and running with water. easton walked about with him while ruth cleaned up the mess and got ready some fresh clothing. they both agreed that it was the coming teeth that had upset the poor child's digestion. it would be a good job when they were through. this work finished, easton, who was still convinced in his own mind that with the aid of a little common sense and judicious management their affairs might be arranged more satisfactorily, said: 'we may as well make a list of all the things we must pay and buy tomorrow. the great thing is to think out exactly what you are going to do before you spend anything; that saves you from getting things you don't really need and prevents you forgetting the things you must have. now, first of all, the rent; two weeks, twelve shillings.' he took a fresh piece of paper and wrote this item down. 'what else is there that we must pay or buy tomorrow?' 'well, you know i promised the baker and the grocer that i would begin to pay them directly you got a job, and if i don't keep my word they won't let us have anything another time, so you'd better put down two shillings each for them. 'i've got that,' said easton. 'two and seven for the butcher. we must pay that. i'm ashamed to pass the shop, because when i got the meat i promised to pay him the next week, and it's nearly three weeks ago now.' 'i've put that down. what else?' 'a hundred of coal: one and six.' 'next?' 'the instalment for the furniture and floor-cloth, twelve shillings.' 'next?' 'we owe the milkman four weeks; we'd better pay one week on account; that's one and two.' 'next?' 'the greengrocer; one shilling on account.' 'anything else?' 'we shall want a piece of meat of some kind; we've had none for nearly three weeks. you'd better say one and six for that.' 'that's down.' 'one and nine for bread; that's one loaf a day.' 'but i've got two shillings down for bread already,' said easton. 'yes, i know, dear, but that's to go towards paying off what we owe, and what you have down for the grocer and milkman's the same.' 'well, go on, for christ's sake, and let's get it down,' said easton, irritably. 'we can't say less than three shillings for groceries.' easton looked carefully at his list. this time he felt sure that the item was already down; but finding he was mistaken he said nothing and added the amount. 'well, i've got that. what else?' 'milk, one and two.' 'next?' 'vegetables, eightpence.' 'yes.' 'paraffin oil and firewood, sixpence.' again the financier scrutinized the list. he was positive that it was down already. however, he could not find it, so the sixpence was added to the column of figures. 'then there's your boots; you can't go about with them old things in this weather much longer, and they won't stand mending again. you remember the old man said they were not worth it when you had that patch put on a few weeks ago.' 'yes. i was thinking of buying a new pair tomorrow. my socks was wet through tonight. if it's raining some morning when i'm going out and i have to work all day with wet feet i shall be laid up.' 'at that second-hand shop down in high street i saw when i was out this afternoon a very good pair just your size, for two shillings.' easton did not reply at once. he did not much fancy wearing the cast-off boots of some stranger, who for all he knew might have suffered from some disease, but then remembering that his old ones were literally falling off his feet he realized that he had practically no choice. 'if you're quite sure they'll fit you'd better get them. it's better to do that than for me to catch cold and be laid up for god knows how long.' so the two shillings were added to the list. 'is there anything else?' 'how much does it all come to now?' asked ruth. easton added it all up. when he had finished he remained staring at the figures in consternation for a long time without speaking. 'jesus christ!' he ejaculated at last. 'what's it come to?' asked ruth. 'forty-four and tenpence.' 'i knew we wouldn't have enough,' said ruth, wearily. 'now if you think i manage so badly, p'raps you can tell me which of these things we ought to leave out.' 'we'd be all right if it wasn't for the debts,' said easton, doggedly. 'when you're not working, we must either get into debt or starve.' easton made no answer. 'what'll we do about the rates?' asked ruth. 'i'm sure i don't know: there's nothing left to pawn except my black coat and vest. you might get something on that.' 'it'll have to be paid somehow,' said ruth, 'or you'll be taken off to jail for a month, the same as mrs newman's husband was last winter.' 'well, you'd better take the coat and vest and see what you can get on 'em tomorrow.' 'yes,' said ruth; 'and there's that brown silk dress of mine--you know, the one i wore when we was married--i might get something on that, because we won't get enough on the coat and vest. i don't like parting with the dress, although i never wear it; but we'll be sure to be able to get it out again, won't we?' 'of course,' said easton. they remained silent for some time, easton staring at the list of debts and the letters. she was wondering if he still thought she managed badly, and what he would do about it. she knew she had always done her best. at last she said, wistfully, trying to speak plainly for there seemed to be a lump in her throat: 'and what about tomorrow? would you like to spend the money yourself, or shall i manage as i've done before, or will you tell me what to do?' 'i don't know, dear,' said easton, sheepishly. 'i think you'd better do as you think best.' 'oh, i'll manage all right, dear, you'll see,' replied ruth, who seemed to think it a sort of honour to be allowed to starve herself and wear shabby clothes. the baby, who had been for some time quietly sitting upon his mother's lap, looking wonderingly at the fire--his teeth appeared to trouble him less since he got rid of the eggs and bacon and potatoes--now began to nod and doze, which easton perceiving, suggested that the infant should not be allowed to go to sleep with an empty stomach, because it would probably wake up hungry in the middle of the night. he therefore woke him up as much as possible and mashed a little of the bread and toasted cheese with a little warm milk. then taking the baby from ruth he began to try to induce it to eat. as soon, however, as the child understood his object, it began to scream at the top of its voice, closing its lips firmly and turning its head rapidly from side to side every time the spoon approached its mouth. it made such a dreadful noise that easton at last gave in. he began to walk about the room with it, and presently the child sobbed itself to sleep. after putting the baby into its cradle ruth set about preparing easton's breakfast and packing it into his basket. this did not take very long, there being only bread and butter--or, to be more correct, margarine. then she poured what tea was left in the tea-pot into a small saucepan and placed it on the top of the oven, but away from the fire, cut two more slices of bread and spread on them all the margarine that was left; then put them on a plate on the table, covering them with a saucer to prevent them getting hard and dry during the night. near the plate she placed a clean cup and saucer and the milk and sugar. in the morning easton would light the fire and warm up the tea in the saucepan so as to have a cup of tea before going out. if ruth was awake and he was not pressed for time, he generally took a cup of tea to her in bed. nothing now remained to be done but to put some coal and wood ready in the fender so that there would be no unnecessary delay in the morning. the baby was still sleeping and ruth did not like to wake him up yet to dress him for the night. easton was sitting by the fire smoking, so everything being done, ruth sat down at the table and began sewing. presently she spoke: 'i wish you'd let me try to let that back room upstairs: the woman next door has got hers let unfurnished to an elderly woman and her husband for two shillings a week. if we could get someone like that it would be better than having an empty room in the house.' 'and we'd always have them messing about down here, cooking and washing and one thing and another,' objected easton; 'they'd be more trouble than they way worth.' 'well, we might try and furnish it. there's mrs crass across the road has got two lodgers in one room. they pay her twelve shillings a week each; board, lodging and washing. that's one pound four she has coming in reglar every week. if we could do the same we'd very soon be out of debt.' 'what's the good of talking? you'd never be able to do the work even if we had the furniture.' 'oh, the work's nothing,' replied ruth, 'and as for the furniture, we've got plenty of spare bedclothes, and we could easily manage without a washstand in our room for a bit, so the only thing we really want is a small bedstead and mattress; we could get them very cheap second-hand.' 'there ought to be a chest of drawers,' said easton doubtfully. 'i don't think so,' replied ruth. 'there's a cupboard in the room and whoever took it would be sure to have a box.' 'well, if you think you can do the work i've no objection,' said easton. 'it'll be a nuisance having a stranger in the way all the time, but i suppose we must do something of the sort or else we'll have to give up the house and take a couple of rooms somewhere. that would be worse than having lodgers ourselves. 'let's go and have a look at the room,' he added, getting up and taking the lamp from the wall. they had to go up two flights of stairs before arriving at the top landing, where there were two doors, one leading into the front room--their bedroom--and the other into the empty back room. these two doors were at right angles to each other. the wallpaper in the back room was damaged and soiled in several places. 'there's nearly a whole roll of this paper on the top of the cupboard,' said ruth. 'you could easily mend all those places. we could hang up a few almanacks on the walls; our washstand could go there by the window; a chair just there, and the bed along that wall behind the door. it's only a small window, so i could easily manage to make a curtain out of something. i'm sure i could make the room look quite nice without spending hardly anything.' easton reached down the roll of paper. it was the same pattern as that on the wall. the latter was a good deal faded, of course, but it would not matter much if the patches showed a little. they returned to the kitchen. 'do you think you know anyone who would take it?' asked ruth. easton smoked thoughtfully. 'no,' he said at length. 'but i'll mention it to one or two of the chaps on the job; they might know of someone.' 'and i'll get mrs crass to ask her lodgers: p'raps they might have a friend what would like to live near them.' so it was settled; and as the fire was nearly out and it was getting late, they prepared to retire for the night. the baby was still sleeping so easton lifted it, cradle and all, and carried it up the narrow staircase into the front bedroom, ruth leading the way, carrying the lamp and some clothes for the child. so that the infant might be within easy reach of its mother during the night, two chairs were arranged close to her side of the bed and the cradle placed on them. 'now we've forgot the clock,' said easton, pausing. he was half undressed and had already removed his slippers. 'i'll slip down and get it,' said ruth. 'never mind, i'll go,' said easton, beginning to put his slippers on again. 'no, you get into bed. i've not started undressing yet. i'll get it,' replied ruth who was already on her way down. 'i don't know as it was worth the trouble of going down,' said ruth when she returned with the clock. 'it stopped three or four times today.' 'well, i hope it don't stop in the night,' easton said. 'it would be a bit of all right not knowing what time it was in the morning. i suppose the next thing will be that we'll have to buy a new clock.' he woke several times during the night and struck a match to see if it was yet time to get up. at half past two the clock was still going and he again fell asleep. the next time he work up the ticking had ceased. he wondered what time it was? it was still very dark, but that was nothing to go by, because it was always dark at six now. he was wide awake: it must be nearly time to get up. it would never do to be late; he might get the sack. he got up and dressed himself. ruth was asleep, so he crept quietly downstairs, lit the fire and heated the tea. when it was ready he went softly upstairs again. ruth was still sleeping, so he decided not to disturb her. returning to the kitchen, he poured out and drank a cup of tea, put on his boots, overcoat and hat and taking his basket went out of the house. the rain was still falling and it was very cold and dark. there was no one else in the street. easton shivered as he walked along wondering what time it could be. he remembered there was a clock over the front of a jeweller's shop a little way down the main road. when he arrived at this place he found that the clock being so high up he could not see the figures on the face distinctly, because it was still very dark. he stood staring for a few minutes vainly trying to see what time it was when suddenly the light of a bull's-eye lantern was flashed into his eyes. 'you're about very early,' said a voice, the owner of which easton could not see. the light blinded him. 'what time is it?' said easton. 'i've got to get to work at seven and our clock stopped during the night.' 'where are you working?' 'at "the cave" in elmore road. you know, near the old toll gate.' 'what are you doing there and who are you working for?' the policeman demanded. easton explained. 'well,' said the constable, 'it's very strange that you should be wandering about at this hour. it's only about three-quarters of an hour's walk from here to elmore road. you say you've got to get there at seven, and it's only a quarter to four now. where do you live? what's your name?' easton gave his name and address and began repeating the story about the clock having stopped. 'what you say may be all right or it may not,' interrupted the policeman. 'i'm not sure but that i ought to take you to the station. all i know about you is that i find you loitering outside this shop. what have you got in that basket?' 'only my breakfast,' easton said, opening the basket and displaying its contents. 'i'm inclined to believe what you say,' said the policeman, after a pause. 'but to make quite sure i'll go home with you. it's on my beat, and i don't want to run you in if you're what you say you are, but i should advise you to buy a decent clock, or you'll be getting yourself into trouble.' when they arrived at the house easton opened the door, and after making some entries in his note-book the officer went away, much to the relief of easton, who went upstairs, set the hands of the clock right and started it going again. he then removed his overcoat and lay down on the bed in his clothes, covering himself with the quilt. after a while he fell asleep, and when he awoke the clock was still ticking. the time was exactly seven o'clock. chapter the placard frank owen was the son of a journeyman carpenter who had died of consumption when the boy was only five years old. after that his mother earned a scanty living as a needle-woman. when frank was thirteen he went to work for a master decorator who was a man of a type that has now almost disappeared, being not merely an employer but a craftsman of a high order. he was an old man when frank owen went to work for him. at one time he had had a good business in the town, and used to boast that he had always done good work, had found pleasure in doing it and had been well paid for it. but of late years the number of his customers had dwindled considerably, for there had arisen a new generation which cared nothing about craftsmanship or art, and everything for cheapness and profit. from this man and by laborious study and practice in his spare time, aided by a certain measure of natural ability, the boy acquired a knowledge of decorative painting and design, and graining and signwriting. frank's mother died when he was twenty-four, and a year afterwards he married the daughter of a fellow workman. in those days trade was fairly good and although there was not much demand for the more artistic kinds of work, still the fact that he was capable of doing them, if required, made it comparatively easy for him to obtain employment. owen and his wife were very happy. they had one child--a boy--and for some years all went well. but gradually this state of things altered: broadly speaking, the change came slowly and imperceptibly, although there were occasional sudden fluctuations. even in summer he could not always find work: and in winter it was almost impossible to get a job of any sort. at last, about twelve months before the date that this story opens, he determined to leave his wife and child at home and go to try his fortune in london. when he got employment he would send for them. it was a vain hope. he found london, if anything, worse than his native town. wherever he went he was confronted with the legend: 'no hands wanted'. he walked the streets day after day; pawned or sold all his clothes save those he stood in, and stayed in london for six months, sometimes starving and only occasionally obtaining a few days or weeks work. at the end of that time he was forced to give in. the privations he had endured, the strain on his mind and the foul atmosphere of the city combined to defeat him. symptoms of the disease that had killed his father began to manifest themselves, and yielding to the repeated entreaties of his wife he returned to his native town, the shadow of his former self. that was six months ago, and since then he had worked for rushton & co. occasionally when they had no work in hand, he was 'stood off' until something came in. ever since his return from london, owen had been gradually abandoning himself to hopelessness. every day he felt that the disease he suffered from was obtaining a stronger grip on him. the doctor told him to 'take plenty of nourishing food', and prescribed costly medicines which owen had not the money to buy. then there was his wife. naturally delicate, she needed many things that he was unable to procure for her. and the boy--what hope was there for him? often as owen moodily thought of their circumstances and prospects he told himself that it would be far better if they could all three die now, together. he was tired of suffering himself, tired of impotently watching the sufferings of his wife, and appalled at the thought of what was in store for the child. of this nature were his reflections as he walked homewards on the evening of the day when old linden was dismissed. there was no reason to believe or hope that the existing state of things would be altered for a long time to come. thousands of people like himself dragged out a wretched existence on the very verge of starvation, and for the greater number of people life was one long struggle against poverty. yet practically none of these people knew or even troubled themselves to inquire why they were in that condition; and for anyone else to try to explain to them was a ridiculous waste of time, for they did not want to know. the remedy was so simple, the evil so great and so glaringly evident that the only possible explanation of its continued existence was that the majority of his fellow workers were devoid of the power of reasoning. if these people were not mentally deficient they would of their own accord have swept this silly system away long ago. it would not have been necessary for anyone to teach them that it was wrong. why, even those who were successful or wealthy could not be sure that they would not eventually die of want. in every workhouse might be found people who had at one time occupied good positions; and their downfall was not in every case their own fault. no matter how prosperous a man might be, he could not be certain that his children would never want for bread. there were thousands living in misery on starvation wages whose parents had been wealthy people. as owen strode rapidly along, his mind filled with these thoughts, he was almost unconscious of the fact that he was wet through to the skin. he was without an overcoat, it was pawned in london, and he had not yet been able to redeem it. his boots were leaky and sodden with mud and rain. he was nearly home now. at the corner of the street in which he lived there was a newsagent's shop and on a board outside the door was displayed a placard: terrible domestic tragedy double murder and suicide he went in to buy a copy of the paper. he was a frequent customer here, and as he entered the shopkeeper greeted him by name. 'dreadful weather,' he remarked as he handed owen the paper. 'it makes things pretty bad in your line, i suppose?' 'yes,' responded owen, 'there's a lot of men idle, but fortunately i happen to be working inside.' 'you're one of the lucky ones, then,' said the other. 'you know, there'll be a job here for some of 'em as soon as the weather gets a little better. all the outside of this block is going to be done up. that's a pretty big job, isn't it?' 'yes,' returned owen. 'who's going to do it?' 'makehaste and sloggit. you know, they've got a place over at windley.' 'yes, i know the firm,' said owen, grimly. he had worked for them once or twice himself. 'the foreman was in here today,' the shopkeeper went on. 'he said they're going to make a start monday morning if it's fine.' 'well, i hope it will be,' said owen, 'because things are very quiet just now.' wishing the other 'good night', owen again proceeded homewards. half-way down the street he paused irresolutely: he was thinking of the news he had just heard and of jack linden. as soon as it became generally known that this work was about to be started there was sure to be a rush for it, and it would be a case of first come, first served. if he saw jack tonight the old man might be in time to secure a job. owen hesitated: he was wet through: it was a long way to linden's place, nearly twenty minutes' walk. still, he would like to let him know, because unless he was one of the first to apply, linden would not stand such a good chance as a younger man. owen said to himself that if he walked very fast there was not much risk of catching cold. standing about in wet clothes might be dangerous, but so long as one kept moving it was all right. he turned back and set off in the direction of linden's house: although he was but a few yards from his own home, he decided not to go in because his wife would be sure to try to persuade him not to go out again. as he hurried along he presently noticed a small dark object on the doorstep of an untenanted house. he stopped to examine it more closely and perceived that it was a small black kitten. the tiny creature came towards him and began walking about his feet, looking into his face and crying piteously. he stooped down and stroked it, shuddering as his hands came in contact with its emaciated body. its fur was saturated with rain and every joint of its backbone was distinctly perceptible to the touch. as he caressed it, the starving creature mewed pathetically. owen decided to take it home to the boy, and as he picked it up and put it inside his coat the little outcast began to purr. this incident served to turn his thoughts into another channel. if, as so many people pretended to believe, there was an infinitely loving god, how was it that this helpless creature that he had made was condemned to suffer? it had never done any harm, and was in no sense responsible for the fact that it existed. was god unaware of the miseries of his creatures? if so, then he was not all-knowing. was god aware of their sufferings, but unable to help them? then he was not all-powerful. had he the power but not the will to make his creatures happy? then he was not good. no; it was impossible to believe in the existence of an individual, infinite god.. in fact, no one did so believe; and least of all those who pretended for various reasons to be the disciples and followers of christ. the anti-christs who went about singing hymns, making long prayers and crying lord, lord, but never doing the things which he said, who were known by their words to be unbelievers and infidels, unfaithful to the master they pretended to serve, their lives being passed in deliberate and systematic disregard of his teachings and commandments. it was not necessary to call in the evidence of science, or to refer to the supposed inconsistencies, impossibilities, contradictions and absurdities contained in the bible, in order to prove there was no truth in the christian religion. all that was necessary was to look at the conduct of the individuals who were its votaries. chapter the clock-case jack linden lived in a small cottage in windley. he had occupied this house ever since his marriage, over thirty years ago. his home and garden were his hobby: he was always doing something; painting, whitewashing, papering and so forth. the result was that although the house itself was not of much account he had managed to get it into very good order, and as a result it was very clean and comfortable. another result of his industry was that--seeing the improved appearance of the place--the landlord had on two occasions raised the rent. when linden first took the house the rent was six shillings a week. five years after, it was raised to seven shillings, and after the lapse of another five years it had been increased to eight shillings. during the thirty years of his tenancy he had paid altogether nearly six hundred pounds in rent, more than double the amount of the present value of the house. jack did not complain of this--in fact he was very well satisfied. he often said that mr sweater was a very good landlord, because on several occasions when, being out of work, he had been a few weeks behind with his rent the agent acting for the benevolent mr sweater had allowed linden to pay off the arrears by instalments. as old jack was in the habit of remarking, many a landlord would have sold up their furniture and turned them into the street. as the reader is already aware, linden's household consisted of his wife, his two grandchildren and his daughter-in-law, the widow and children of his youngest son, a reservist, who died while serving in the south african war. this man had been a plasterer, and just before the war he was working for rushton & co. they had just finished their tea when owen knocked at their front door. the young woman went to see who was there. 'is mr linden in?' 'yes. who is it?' 'my name's owen.' old jack, however, had already recognized owen's voice, and came to the door, wondering what he wanted. 'as i was going home i heard that makehaste and sloggit are going to start a large job on monday, so i thought i'd run over and let you know.' 'are they?' said linden. 'i'll go and see them in the morning. but i'm afraid i won't stand much chance, because a lot of their regular hands are waiting for a job; but i'll go and see 'em all the same.' 'well, you know, it's a big job. all the outside of that block at the corner of kerk street and lord street. they're almost sure to want a few extra hands.' 'yes, there's something in that,' said linden. 'anyhow, i'm much obliged to you for letting me know; but come in out of the rain. you must be wet through.' 'no; i won't stay,' responded owen. 'i don't want to stand about any longer than i can help in these wet clothes.' 'but it won't take you a minit to drink a cup of tea,' linden insisted. 'i won't ask you to stop longer than that.' owen entered; the old man closed the door and led the way into the kitchen. at one side of the fire, linden's wife, a frail-looking old lady with white hair, was seated in a large armchair, knitting. linden sat down in a similar chair on the other side. the two grandchildren, a boy and girl about seven and eight years, respectively, were still seated at the table. standing by the side of the dresser at one end of the room was a treadle sewing machine, and on one end of the dresser was a a pile of sewing: ladies' blouses in process of making. this was another instance of the goodness of mr sweater, from whom linden's daughter-in-law obtained the work. it was not much, because she was only able to do it in her spare time, but then, as she often remarked, every little helped. the floor was covered with linoleum: there were a number of framed pictures on the walls, and on the high mantelshelf were a number of brightly polished tins and copper utensils. the room had that indescribably homelike, cosy air that is found only in those houses in which the inhabitants have dwelt for a very long time. the younger woman was already pouring out a cup of tea. old mrs linden, who had never seen owen before, although she had heard of him, belonged to the church of england and was intensely religious. she looked curiously at the atheist as he entered the room. he had taken off his hat and she was surprised to find that he was not repulsive to look at, rather the contrary. but then she remembered that satan often appears as an angel of light. appearances are deceitful. she wished that john had not asked him into the house and hoped that no evil consequences would follow. as she looked at him, she was horrified to perceive a small black head with a pair of glistening green eyes peeping out of the breast of his coat, and immediately afterwards the kitten, catching sight of the cups and saucers on the table, began to mew frantically and scrambled suddenly out of its shelter, inflicting a severe scratch on owen's restraining hands as it jumped to the floor. it clambered up the tablecloth and began rushing all over the table, darting madly from one plate to another, seeking something to eat. the children screamed with delight. their grandmother was filled with a feeling of superstitious alarm. linden and the young woman stood staring with astonishment at the unexpected visitor. before the kitten had time to do any damage, owen caught hold of it and, despite its struggles, lifted it off the table. 'i found it in the street as i was coming along,' he said. 'it seems to be starving.' 'poor little thing. i'll give it something.' exclaimed the young woman. she put some milk and bread into a saucer for it and the kitten ate ravenously, almost upsetting the saucer in its eagerness, much to the amusement of the two children, who stood by watching it admiringly. their mother now handed owen a cup of tea. linden insisted on his sitting down and then began to talk about hunter. 'you know i had to spend some time on them doors to make 'em look anything at all; but it wasn't the time i took, or even the smoking what made 'im go on like that. he knows very well the time it takes. the real reason is that he thinks i was gettin' too much money. work is done so rough nowadays that chaps like sawkins is good enough for most of it. hunter shoved me off just because i was getting the top money, and you'll see i won't be the only one.' 'i'm afraid you're right,' returned owen. 'did you see rushton when you went for your money?' 'yes,' replied linden. 'i hurried up as fast as i could, but hunter was there first. he passed me on his bike before i got half-way, so i suppose he told his tale before i came. anyway, when i started to speak to mr rushton he wouldn't listen. said he couldn't interfere between mr hunter and the men. 'ah! they're a bad lot, them two,' said the old woman, shaking her head sagely. 'but it'll all come 'ome to 'em, you'll see. they'll never prosper. the lord will punish them.' owen did not feel very confident of that. most of the people he knew who had prospered were very similar in character to the two worthies in question. however, he did not want to argue with this poor old woman. 'when tom was called up to go to the war,' said the young woman, bitterly, 'mr rushton shook hands with him and promised to give him a job when he came back. but now that poor tom's gone and they know that me and the children's got no one to look to but father, they do this.' although at the mention of her dead son's name old mrs linden was evidently distressed, she was still mindful of the atheist's presence, and hastened to rebuke her daughter-in-law. 'you shouldn't say we've got no one to look to, mary,' she said. 'we're not as them who are without god and without hope in the world. the lord is our shepherd. he careth for the widow and the fatherless.' owen was very doubtful about this also. he had seen so many badly cared-for children about the streets lately, and what he remembered of his own sorrowful childhood was all evidence to the contrary. an awkward silence succeeded. owen did not wish to continue this conversation: he was afraid that he might say something that would hurt the old woman. besides, he was anxious to get away; he began to feel cold in his wet clothes. as he put his empty cup on the table he said: 'well, i must be going. they'll be thinking i'm lost, at home.' the kitten had finished all the bread and milk and was gravely washing its face with one of its forepaws, to the great admiration of the two children, who were sitting on the floor beside it. it was an artful-looking kitten, all black, with a very large head and a very small body. it reminded owen of a tadpole. 'do you like cats?' he asked, addressing the children. 'yes,' said the boy. 'give it to us, will you, mister?' 'oh, do leave it 'ere, mister,' exclaimed the little girl. 'i'll look after it.' 'so will i,' said the boy. 'but haven't you one of your own?' asked owen. 'yes; we've got a big one.' 'well, if you have one already and i give you this, then you'd have two cats, and i'd have none. that wouldn't be fair, would it?' 'well, you can 'ave a lend of our cat for a little while if you give us this kitten,' said the boy, after a moment's thought. 'why would you rather have the kitten?' 'because it would play: our cat don't want to play, it's too old.' 'perhaps you're too rough with it,' returned owen. 'no, it ain't that; it's just because it's old.' 'you know cats is just the same as people,' explained the little girl, wisely. 'when they're grown up i suppose they've got their troubles to think about.' owen wondered how long it would be before her troubles commenced. as he gazed at these two little orphans he thought of his own child, and of the rough and thorny way they would all three have to travel if they were so unfortunate as to outlive their childhood. 'can we 'ave it, mister?' repeated the boy. owen would have liked to grant the children's request, but he wanted the kitten himself. therefore he was relieved when their grandmother exclaimed: 'we don't want no more cats 'ere: we've got one already; that's quite enough.' she was not yet quite satisfied in her mind that the creature was not an incarnation of the devil, but whether it was or not she did not want it, or anything else of owen's, in this house. she wished he would go, and take his kitten or his familiar or whatever it was, with him. no good could come of his being there. was it not written in the word: 'if any man love not the lord jesus christ, let him be anathema maran-atha.' she did not know exactly what anathema maran-atha meant, but there could be no doubt that it was something very unpleasant. it was a terrible thing that this blasphemer who--as she had heard--did not believe there was a hell and said that the bible was not the word of god, should be here in the house sitting on one of their chairs, drinking from one of their cups, and talking to their children. the children stood by wistfully when owen put the kitten under his coat and rose to go away. as linden prepared to accompany him to the front door, owen, happening to notice a timepiece standing on a small table in the recess at one side of the fireplace, exclaimed: 'that's a very nice clock.' 'yes, it's all right, ain't it?' said old jack, with a touch of pride. 'poor tom made that: not the clock itself, but just the case.' it was the case that had attracted owen's attention. it stood about two feet high and was made of fretwork in the form of an indian mosque, with a pointed dome and pinnacles. it was a very beautiful thing and must have cost many hours of patient labour. 'yes,' said the old woman, in a trembling, broken voice, and looking at owen with a pathetic expression. 'months and months he worked at it, and no one ever guessed who it were for. and then, when my birthday came round, the very first thing i saw when i woke up in the morning were the clock standing on a chair by the bed with a card: 'to dear mother, from her loving son, tom. wishing her many happy birthdays.' 'but he never had another birthday himself, because just five months afterwards he were sent out to africa, and he'd only been there five weeks when he died. five years ago, come the fifteenth of next month.' owen, inwardly regretting that he had unintentionally broached so painful a subject, tried to think of some suitable reply, but had to content himself with murmuring some words of admiration of the work. as he wished her good night, the old woman, looking at him, could not help observing that he appeared very frail and ill: his face was very thin and pale, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. possibly the lord in his infinite loving kindness and mercy was chastening this unhappy castaway in order that he might bring him to himself. after all, he was not altogether bad: it was certainly very thoughtful of him to come all this way to let john know about that job. she observed that he had no overcoat, and the storm was still raging fiercely outside, furious gusts of wind frequently striking the house and shaking it to its very foundations. the natural kindliness of her character asserted itself; her better feelings were aroused, triumphing momentarily over the bigotry of her religious opinions. 'why, you ain't got no overcoat!' she exclaimed. 'you'll be soaked goin' 'ome in this rain.' then, turning to her husband, she continued: 'there's that old one of yours; you might lend him that; it would be better than nothing.' but owen would not hear of this: he thought, as he became very conscious of the clammy feel of his saturated clothing, that he could not get much wetter than he already was. linden accompanied him as far as the front door, and owen once more set out on his way homeward through the storm that howled around like a wild beast hungry for its prey. chapter it is not my crime owen and his family occupied the top floor of a house that had once been a large private dwelling but which had been transformed into a series of flats. it was situated in lord street, almost in the centre of the town. at one time this had been a most aristocratic locality, but most of the former residents had migrated to the newer suburb at the west of the town. notwithstanding this fact, lord street was still a most respectable neighbourhood, the inhabitants generally being of a very superior type: shop-walkers, shop assistants, barber's clerks, boarding house keepers, a coal merchant, and even two retired jerry-builders. there were four other flats in the house in which owen lived. no. (the basement) was occupied by an estate agent's clerk. no. --on a level with the street--was the habitat of the family of mr trafaim, a cadaverous-looking gentleman who wore a top hat, boasted of his french descent, and was a shop-walker at sweater's emporium. no. was tenanted by an insurance agent, and in no. dwelt a tallyman's traveller. lord street--like most other similar neighbourhoods--supplied a striking answer to those futile theorists who prate of the equality of mankind, for the inhabitants instinctively formed themselves into groups, the more superior types drawing together, separating themselves from the inferior, and rising naturally to the top, while the others gathered themselves into distinct classes, grading downwards, or else isolated themselves altogether; being refused admission to the circles they desired to enter, and in their turn refusing to associate with their inferiors. the most exclusive set consisted of the families of the coal merchant, the two retired jerry-builders and mr trafaim, whose superiority was demonstrated by the fact that, to say nothing of his french extraction, he wore--in addition to the top hat aforesaid--a frock coat and a pair of lavender trousers every day. the coal merchant and the jerry builders also wore top hats, lavender trousers and frock coats, but only on sundays and other special occasions. the estate agent's clerk and the insurance agent, though excluded from the higher circle, belonged to another select coterie from which they excluded in their turn all persons of inferior rank, such as shop assistants or barbers. the only individual who was received with equal cordiality by all ranks, was the tallyman's traveller. but whatever differences existed amongst them regarding each other's social standing they were unanimous on one point at least: they were indignant at owen's presumption in coming to live in such a refined locality. this low fellow, this common workman, with his paint-bespattered clothing, his broken boots, and his generally shabby appearance, was a disgrace to the street; and as for his wife she was not much better, because although whenever she came out she was always neatly dressed, yet most of the neighbours knew perfectly well that she had been wearing the same white straw hat all the time she had been there. in fact, the only tolerable one of the family was the boy, and they were forced to admit that he was always very well dressed; so well indeed as to occasion some surprise, until they found out that all the boy's clothes were home-made. then their surprise was changed into a somewhat grudging admiration of the skill displayed, mingled with contempt for the poverty which made its exercise necessary. the indignation of the neighbours was increased when it became known that owen and his wife were not christians: then indeed everyone agreed that the landlord ought to be ashamed of himself for letting the top flat to such people. but although the hearts of these disciples of the meek and lowly jewish carpenter were filled with uncharitableness, they were powerless to do much harm. the landlord regarded their opinion with indifference. all he cared about was the money: although he also was a sincere christian, he would not have hesitated to let the top flat to satan himself, provided he was certain of receiving the rent regularly. the only one upon whom the christians were able to inflict any suffering was the child. at first when he used to go out into the street to play, the other children, acting on their parents' instructions, refused to associate with him, or taunted him with his parents' poverty. occasionally he came home heartbroken and in tears because he had been excluded from some game. at first, sometimes the mothers of some of the better-class children used to come out with a comical assumption of superiority and dignity and compel their children to leave off playing with frankie and some other poorly dressed children who used to play in that street. these females were usually overdressed and wore a lot of jewellery. most of them fancied they were ladies, and if they had only had the sense to keep their mouths shut, other people might possibly have shared the same delusion. but this was now a rare occurrence, because the parents of the other children found it a matter of considerable difficulty to prevent their youngsters from associating with those of inferior rank, for when left to themselves the children disregarded all such distinctions. frequently in that street was to be seen the appalling spectacle of the ten-year-old son of the refined and fashionable trafaim dragging along a cart constructed of a sugar box and an old pair of perambulator wheels with no tyres, in which reposed the plebeian frankie owen, armed with a whip, and the dowdy daughter of a barber's clerk: while the nine-year-old heir of the coal merchant rushed up behind... owen's wife and little son were waiting for him in the living room. this room was about twelve feet square and the ceiling--which was low and irregularly shaped, showing in places the formation of the roof--had been decorated by owen with painted ornaments. there were three or four chairs, and an oblong table, covered with a clean white tablecloth, set ready for tea. in the recess at the right of fireplace--an ordinary open grate--were a number of shelves filled with a miscellaneous collection of books, most of which had been bought second-hand. there were also a number of new books, mostly cheap editions in paper covers. over the back of a chair at one side of the fire, was hanging an old suit of owen's, and some underclothing, which his wife had placed there to air, knowing that he would be wet through by the time he arrived home... the woman was half-sitting, half lying, on a couch by the other side of the fire. she was very thin, and her pale face bore the traces of much physical and mental suffering. she was sewing, a task which her reclining position rendered somewhat difficult. although she was really only twenty-eight years of age, she appeared older. the boy, who was sitting on the hearthrug playing with some toys, bore a strong resemblance to his mother. he also, appeared very fragile and in his childish face was reproduced much of the delicate prettiness which she had once possessed. his feminine appearance was increased by the fact that his yellow hair hung in long curls on his shoulders. the pride with which his mother regarded this long hair was by no means shared by frankie himself, for he was always entreating her to cut it off. presently the boy stood up and walking gravely over to the window, looked down into the street, scanning the pavement for as far as he could see: he had been doing this at intervals for the last hour. 'i wonder wherever he's got to,' he said, as he returned to the fire. 'i'm sure i don't know,' returned his mother. 'perhaps he's had to work overtime.' 'you know, i've been thinking lately,' observed frankie, after a pause, 'that it's a great mistake for dad to go out working at all. i believe that's the very reason why we're so poor.' 'nearly everyone who works is more or less poor, dear, but if dad didn't go out to work we'd be even poorer than we are now. we should have nothing to eat.' 'but dad says that the people who do nothing get lots of everything.' 'yes, and it's quite true that most of the people who never do any work get lots of everything, but where do they get it from? and how do they get it?' 'i'm sure i don't know,' replied frankie, shaking his head in a puzzled fashion. 'supposing dad didn't go to work, or that he had no work to go to, or that he was ill and not able to do any work, then we'd have no money to buy anything. how should we get on then?' 'i'm sure i don't know,' repeated frankie, looking round the room in a thoughtful manner, 'the chairs that's left aren't good enough to sell, and we can't sell the beds, or your sofa, but you might pawn my velvet suit.' 'but even if all the things were good enough to sell, the money we'd get for them wouldn't last very long, and what should we do then?' 'well, i suppose we'd have to go without, that's all, the same as we did when dad was in london.' 'but how do the people who never do any work manage to get lots of money then?' added frankie. 'oh, there's lots of different ways. for instance, you remember when dad was in london, and we had no food in the house, i had to sell the easy chair.' frankie nodded. 'yes,' he said, 'i remember you wrote a note and i took it to the shop, and afterwards old didlum came up here and bought it, and then his cart came and a man took it away.' 'and do you remember how much he gave us for it?' 'five shillings,' replied frankie, promptly. he was well acquainted with the details of the transaction, having often heard his father and mother discuss it. 'and when we saw it in his shop window a little while afterwards, what price was marked on it?' 'fifteen shillings.' well, that's one way of getting money without working. frankie played with his toys in silence for some minutes. at last he said: 'what other ways?' 'some people who have some money already get more in this way: they find some people who have no money and say to them, "come and work for us." then the people who have the money pay the workers just enough wages to keep them alive whilst they are at work. then, when the things that the working people have been making are finished, the workers are sent away, and as they still have no money, they are soon starving. in the meantime the people who had the money take all the things that the workers have made and sell them for a great deal more money than they gave to the workers for making them. that's another way of getting lots of money without doing any useful work.' 'but is there no way to get rich without doing such things as that?' 'it's not possible for anyone to become rich without cheating other people.' 'what about our schoolmaster then? he doesn't do any work.' 'don't you think it's useful and and also very hard work teaching all those boys every day? i don't think i should like to have to do it.' 'yes, i suppose what he does is some use,' said frankie thoughtfully. 'and it must be rather hard too, i should think. i've noticed he looks a bit worried sometimes, and sometimes he gets into a fine old wax when the boys don't pay proper attention.' the child again went over to the window, and pulling back the edge of the blind looked down the deserted rain washed street. 'what about the vicar?' he remarked as he returned. although frankie did not go to church or sunday school, the day school that he had attended was that attached to the parish church, and the vicar was in the habit of looking in occasionally. 'ah, he really is one of those who live without doing any necessary work, and of all the people who do nothing, the vicar is one of the very worst.' frankie looked up at his mother with some surprise, not because he entertained any very high opinion of clergymen in general, for, having been an attentive listener to many conversations between his parents, he had of course assimilated their opinions as far as his infant understanding permitted, but because at the school the scholars were taught to regard the gentleman in question with the most profound reverence and respect. 'why, mum?' he asked. 'for this reason, dearie. you know that all the beautiful things which the people who do nothing have are made by the people who work, don't you?' 'yes.' 'and you know that those who work have to eat the very worst food, and wear the very worst clothes, and live in the very worst homes.' 'yes,' said frankie. 'and sometimes they have nothing to eat at all, and no clothes to wear except rags, and even no homes to live in.' 'yes,' repeated the child. 'well, the vicar goes about telling the idlers that it's quite right for them to do nothing, and that god meant them to have nearly everything that is made by those who work. in fact, he tells them that god made the poor for the use of the rich. then he goes to the workers and tells them that god meant them to work very hard and to give all the good things they make to those who do nothing, and that they should be very thankful to god and to the idlers for being allowed to have even the very worst food to eat and the rags, and broken boots to wear. he also tells them that they mustn't grumble, or be discontented because they're poor in this world, but that they must wait till they're dead, and then god will reward them by letting them go to a place called heaven.' frankie laughed. 'and what about the idlers?' he asked. 'the vicar says that if they believe everything he tells them and give him some of the money they make out of the workers, then god will let them into heaven also.' 'well, that's not fair doos, is it, mum?' said frankie with some indignation. 'it wouldn't be if it were true, but then you see it's not true, it can't be true.' 'why can't it, mum?' 'oh, for many reasons: to begin with, the vicar doesn't believe it himself: he only pretends to. for instance, he pretends to believe the bible, but if we read the bible we find that jesus said that god is our father and that all the people in the world are his children, all brothers and sisters. but the vicar says that although jesus said "brothers and sisters" he really ought to have said "masters and servants". again, jesus said that his disciples should not think of tomorrow, or save up a lot of money for themselves, but they should be unselfish and help those who are in need. jesus said that his disciples must not think about their own future needs at all, because god will provide for them if they only do as he commands. but the vicar says that is all nonsense. 'jesus also said that if anyone tried to do his disciples harm, they must never resist, but forgive those who injured them and pray god to forgive them also. but the vicar says this is all nonsense too. he says that the world would never be able to go on if we did as jesus taught. the vicar teaches that the way to deal with those that injure us is to have them put into prison, or--if they belong to some other country--to take guns and knives and murder them, and burn their houses. so you see the vicar doesn't really believe or do any of the things that jesus said: he only pretends.' 'but why does he pretend, and go about talking like that, mum? what does he do it for?' 'because he wishes to live without working himself, dear.' 'and don't the people know he's only pretending?' 'some of them do. most of the idlers know that what the vicar says is not true, but they pretend to believe it, and give him money for saying it, because they want him to go on telling it to the workers so that they will go on working and keep quiet and be afraid to think for themselves.' 'and what about the workers? do they believe it? 'most of them do, because when they were little children like you, their mothers taught them to believe, without thinking, whatever the vicar said, and that god made them for the use of the idlers. when they went to school, they were taught the same thing: and now that they're grown up they really believe it, and they go to work and give nearly everything they make to the idlers, and have next to nothing left for themselves and their children. that's the reason why the workers' children have very bad clothes to wear and sometimes no food to eat; and that's how it is that the idlers and their children have more clothes than they need and more food than they can eat. some of them have so much food that they are not able to eat it. they just waste it or throw it away.' 'when i'm grown up into a man,' said frankie, with a flushed face, 'i'm going to be one of the workers, and when we've made a lot of things, i shall stand up and tell the others what to do. if any of the idlers come to take our things away, they'll get something they won't like.' in a state of suppressed excitement and scarcely conscious of what he was doing, the boy began gathering up the toys and throwing them violently one by one into the box. 'i'll teach 'em to come taking our things away,' he exclaimed, relapsing momentarily into his street style of speaking. 'first of all we'll all stand quietly on one side. then when the idlers come in and start touching our things, we'll go up to 'em and say, "'ere, watcher doin' of? just you put it down, will yer?" and if they don't put it down at once, it'll be the worse for 'em, i can tell you.' all the toys being collected, frankie picked up the box and placed it noisily in its accustomed corner of the room. 'i should think the workers will be jolly glad when they see me coming to tell them what to do, shouldn't you, mum?' 'i don't know dear; you see so many people have tried to tell them, but they won't listen, they don't want to hear. they think it's quite right that they should work very hard all their lives, and quite right that most of the things they help to make should be taken away from them by the people who do nothing. the workers think that their children are not as good as the children of the idlers, and they teach their children that as soon as ever they are old enough they must be satisfied to work very hard and to have only very bad good and clothes and homes.' 'then i should think the workers ought to be jolly ashamed of themselves, mum, don't you?' 'well, in one sense they ought, but you must remember that that's what they've always been taught themselves. first, their mothers and fathers told them so; then, their schoolteachers told them so; and then, when they went to church, the vicar and the sunday school teacher told them the same thing. so you can't be surprised that they now really believe that god made them and their children to make things for the use of the people who do nothing.' 'but you'd think their own sense would tell them! how can it be right for the people who do nothing to have the very best and most of everything thats made, and the very ones who make everything to have hardly any. why even i know better than that, and i'm only six and a half years old.' 'but then you're different, dearie, you've been taught to think about it, and dad and i have explained it to you, often.' 'yes, i know,' replied frankie confidently. 'but even if you'd never taught me, i'm sure i should have tumbled to it all right by myself; i'm not such a juggins as you think i am.' 'so you might, but you wouldn't if you'd been brought up in the same way as most of the workers. they've been taught that it's very wicked to use their own judgement, or to think. and their children are being taught so now. do you remember what you told me the other day, when you came home from school, about the scripture lesson?' 'about st thomas?' 'yes. what did the teacher say st thomas was?' 'she said he was a bad example; and she said i was worse than him because i asked too many foolish questions. she always gets in a wax if i talk too much.' 'well, why did she call st thomas a bad example?' 'because he wouldn't believe what he was told.' 'exactly: well, when you told dad about it what did he say?' 'dad told me that really st thomas was the only sensible man in the whole crowd of apostles. that is,' added frankie, correcting himself, 'if there ever was such a man at all.' 'but did dad say that there never was such a man?' 'no; he said he didn't believe there ever was, but he told me to just listen to what the teacher said about such things, and then to think about it in my own mind, and wait till i'm grown up and then i can use my own judgement.' 'well, now, that's what you were told, but all the other children's mothers and fathers tell them to believe, without thinking, whatever the teacher says. so it will be no wonder if those children are not able to think for themselves when they're grown up, will it?' 'don't you think it will be any use, then, for me to tell them what to do to the idlers?' asked frankie, dejectedly. 'hark!' said his mother, holding up her finger. 'dad!' cried frankie, rushing to the door and flinging it open. he ran along the passage and opened the staircase door before owen reached the top of the last flight of stairs. 'why ever do you come up at such a rate,' reproachfully exclaimed owen's wife as he came into the room exhausted from the climb upstairs and sank panting into the nearest chair. 'i al-ways-for-get,' he replied, when he had in some degree recovered. as he lay back in the chair, his face haggard and of a ghastly whiteness, and with the water dripping from his saturated clothing, owen presented a terrible appearance. frankie noticed with childish terror the extreme alarm with which his mother looked at his father. 'you're always doing it,' he said with a whimper. 'how many more times will mother have to tell you about it before you take any notice?' 'it's all right, old chap,' said owen, drawing the child nearer to him and kissing the curly head. 'listen, and see if you can guess what i've got for you under my coat.' in the silence the purring of the kitten was distinctly audible. 'a kitten!' cried the boy, taking it out of its hiding-place. 'all black, and i believe it's half a persian. just the very thing i wanted.' while frankie amused himself playing with the kitten, which had been provided with another saucer of bread and milk, owen went into the bedroom to put on the dry clothes, and then, those that he had taken off having been placed with his boots near the fire to dry, he explained as they were taking tea the reason of his late homecoming. 'i'm afraid he won't find it very easy to get another job,' he remarked, referring to linden. 'even in the summer nobody will be inclined to take him on. he's too old.' 'it's a dreadful prospect for the two children,' answered his wife. 'yes,' replied owen bitterly. 'it's the children who will suffer most. as for linden and his wife, although of course one can't help feeling sorry for them, at the same time there's no getting away from the fact that they deserve to suffer. all their lives they've been working like brutes and living in poverty. although they have done more than their fair share of the work, they have never enjoyed anything like a fair share of the things they have helped to produce. and yet, all their lives they have supported and defended the system that robbed them, and have resisted and ridiculed every proposal to alter it. it's wrong to feel sorry for such people; they deserve to suffer.' after tea, as he watched his wife clearing away the tea things and rearranging the drying clothing by the fire, owen for the first time noticed that she looked unusually ill. 'you don't look well tonight, nora,' he said, crossing over to her and putting his arm around her. 'i don't feel well,' she replied, resting her head wearily against his shoulder. 'i've been very bad all day and i had to lie down nearly all the afternoon. i don't know how i should have managed to get the tea ready if it had not been for frankie.' 'i set the table for you, didn't i, mum?' said frankie with pride; 'and tidied up the room as well.' 'yes, darling, you helped me a lot,' she answered, and frankie went over to her and kissed her hand. 'well, you'd better go to bed at once,' said owen. 'i can put frankie to bed presently and do whatever else is necessary.' 'but there are so many things to attend to. i want to see that your clothes are properly dry and to put something ready for you to take in the morning before you go out, and then there's your breakfast to pack up--' 'i can manage all that.' 'i didn't want to give way to it like this,' the woman said, 'because i know you must be tired out yourself, but i really do feel quite done up now.' 'oh, i'm all right,' replied owen, who was really so fatigued that he was scarcely able to stand. 'i'll go and draw the blinds down and light the other lamp; so say good night to frankie and come at once.' 'i won't say good night properly, now, mum,' remarked the boy, 'because dad can carry me into your room before he puts me into bed.' a little later, as owen was undressing frankie, the latter remarked as he looked affectionately at the kitten, which was sitting on the hearthrug watching the child's every movement under the impression that it was part of some game: 'what name do you think we ought to call it, dad?' 'you may give him any name you like,' replied owen, absently. 'i know a dog that lives down the road,' said the boy, 'his name is major. how would that do? or we might call him sergeant.' the kitten, observing that he was the subject of their conversation, purred loudly and winked as if to intimate that he did not care what rank was conferred upon him so long as the commisariat department was properly attended to. 'i don't know, though,' continued frankie, thoughtfully. 'they're all right names for dogs, but i think they're too big for a kitten, don't you, dad?' 'yes, p'raps they are,' said owen. 'most cats are called tom or kitty, but i don't want a common name for him.' 'well, can't you call him after someone you know?' 'i know; i'll call him after a little girl that comes to our school; a fine name, maud! that'll be a good one, won't it dad?' 'yes,' said owen. 'i say, dad,' said frankie, suddenly realizing the awful fact that he was being put to bed. 'you're forgetting all about my story, and you promised that you'd have a game of trains with me tonight.' 'i hadn't forgotten, but i was hoping that you had, because i'm very tired and it's very late, long past your usual bedtime, you know. you can take the kitten to bed with you tonight and i'll tell you two stories tomorrow, because it's saturday.' 'all right, then,' said the boy, contentedly; 'and i'll get the railway station built and i'll have the lines chalked on the floor, and the signals put up before you come home, so that there'll be no time wasted. and i'll put one chair at one end of the room and another chair at the other end, and tie some string across for telegraph wires. that'll be a very good idea, won't it, dad?' and owen agreed. 'but of course i'll come to meet you just the same as other saturdays, because i'm going to buy a ha'porth of milk for the kitten out of my penny.' after the child was in bed, owen sat alone by the table in the draughty sitting-room, thinking. although there was a bright fire, the room was very cold, being so close to the roof. the wind roared loudly round the gables, shaking the house in a way that threatened every moment to hurl it to the ground. the lamp on the table had a green glass reservoir which was half full of oil. owen watched this with unconscious fascination. every time a gust of wind struck the house the oil in the lamp was agitated and rippled against the glass like the waves of a miniature sea. staring abstractedly at the lamp, he thought of the future. a few years ago the future had seemed a region of wonderful and mysterious possibilities of good, but tonight the thought brought no such illusions, for he knew that the story of the future was to be much the same as the story of the past. the story of the past would continue to repeat itself for a few years longer. he would continue to work and they would all three continue to do without most of the necessaries of life. when there was no work they would starve. for himself he did not care much because he knew that at the best--or worst--it would only be a very few years. even if he were to have proper food and clothing and be able to take reasonable care of himself, he could not live much longer; but when that time came, what was to become of them? there would be some hope for the boy if he were more robust and if his character were less gentle and more selfish. under the present system it was impossible for anyone to succeed in life without injuring other people and treating them and making use of them as one would not like to be treated and made use of oneself. in order to succeed in the world it was necessary to be brutal, selfish and unfeeling: to push others aside and to take advantage of their misfortunes: to undersell and crush out one's competitors by fair means or foul: to consider one's own interests first in every case, absolutely regardless of the wellbeing of others. that was the ideal character. owen knew that frankie's character did not come up to this lofty ideal. then there was nora, how would she fare? owen stood up and began walking about the room, oppressed with a kind of terror. presently he returned to the fire and began rearranging the clothes that were drying. he found that the boots, having been placed too near the fire, had dried too quickly and consequently the sole of one of them had begun to split away from the upper: he remedied this as well as he was able and then turned the wetter parts of the clothing to the fire. whilst doing this he noticed the newspaper, which he had forgotten, in the coat pocket. he drew it out with an exclamation of pleasure. here was something to distract his thoughts: if not instructive or comforting, it would at any rate be interesting and even amusing to read the reports of the self-satisfied, futile talk of the profound statesmen who with comical gravity presided over the working of the great system which their combined wisdom pronounced to be the best that could possibly be devised. but tonight owen was not to read of those things, for as soon as he opened the paper his attention was riveted by the staring headline of one of the principal columns: terrible domestic tragedy wife and two children killed suicide of the murderer it was one of the ordinary poverty crimes. the man had been without employment for many weeks and they had been living by pawning or selling their furniture and other possessions. but even this resource must have failed at last, and when one day the neighbours noticed that the blinds remained down and that there was a strange silence about the house, no one coming out or going in, suspicions that something was wrong were quickly aroused. when the police entered the house, they found, in one of the upper rooms, the dead bodies of the woman and the two children, with their throats severed, laid out side by side upon the bed, which was saturated with their blood. there was no bedstead and no furniture in the room except the straw mattress and the ragged clothes and blankets which formed the bed upon the floor. the man's body was found in the kitchen, lying with outstretched arms face downwards on the floor, surrounded by the blood that had poured from the wound in his throat which had evidently been inflicted by the razor that was grasped in his right hand. no particle of food was found in the house, and on a nail in the wall in the kitchen was hung a piece of blood-smeared paper on which was written in pencil: 'this is not my crime, but society's.' the report went on to explain that the deed must have been perpetrated during a fit of temporary insanity brought on by the sufferings the man had endured. 'insanity!' muttered owen, as he read this glib theory. 'insanity! it seems to me that he would have been insane if he had not killed them.' surely it was wiser and better and kinder to send them all to sleep, than to let them continue to suffer. at the same time he thought it very strange that the man should have chosen to do it that way, when there were so many other cleaner, easier and more painless ways of accomplishing the same object. he wondered why it was that most of these killings were done in more or less the same crude, cruel messy way. no; he would set about it in a different fashion. he would get some charcoal, then he would paste strips of paper over the joinings of the door and windows of the room and close the register of the grate. then he would kindle the charcoal on a tray or something in the middle of the room, and then they would all three just lie down together and sleep; and that would be the end of everything. there would be no pain, no blood, and no mess. or one could take poison. of course, there was a certain amount of difficulty in procuring it, but it would not be impossible to find some pretext for buying some laudanum: one could buy several small quantities at different shops until one had sufficient. then he remembered that he had read somewhere that vermillion, one of the colours he frequently had to use in his work, was one of the most deadly poisons: and there was some other stuff that photographers used, which was very easy to procure. of course, one would have to be very careful about poisons, so as not to select one that would cause a lot of pain. it would be necessary to find out exactly how the stuff acted before using it. it would not be very difficult to do so. then he remembered that among his books was one that probably contained some information about this subject. he went over to the book-shelf and presently found the volume; it was called the cyclopedia of practical medicine, rather an old book, a little out of date, perhaps, but still it might contain the information he wanted. opening it, he turned to the table of contents. many different subjects were mentioned there and presently he found the one he sought: poisons: chemically, physiologically and pathologically considered. corrosive poisons. narcotic poisons. slow poisons. consecutive poisons. accumulative poisons. he turned to the chapter indicated and, reading it, he was astonished to find what a number of poisons there were within easy reach of whoever wished to make use of them: poisons that could be relied upon to do their work certainly, quickly and without pain. why, it was not even necessary to buy them: one could gather them from the hedges by the road side and in the fields. the more he thought of it the stranger it seemed that such a clumsy method as a razor should be so popular. why almost any other way would be better and easier than that. strangulation or even hanging, though the latter method could scarcely be adopted in that house, because there were no beams or rafters or anything from which it would be possible to suspend a cord. still, he could drive some large nails or hooks into one of the walls. for that matter, there were already some clothes-hooks on some of the doors. he began to think that this would be an even more excellent way than poison or charcoal; he could easily pretend to frankie that he was going to show him some new kind of play. he could arrange the cord on the hook on one of the doors and then under pretence of play, it would be done. the boy would offer no resistance, and in a few minutes it would all be over. he threw down the book and pressed his hands over his ears: he fancied he could hear the boy's hands and feet beating against the panels of the door as he struggled in his death agony. then, as his arms fell nervelessly by his side again, he thought that he heard frankie's voice calling. 'dad! dad!' owen hastily opened the door. 'are you calling, frankie?' 'yes. i've been calling you quite a long time.' 'what do you want?' 'i want you to come here. i want to tell you something.' 'well, what is it dear? i thought you were asleep a long time ago,' said owen as he came into the room. 'that's just what i want to speak to you about: the kitten's gone to sleep all right, but i can't go. i've tried all different ways, counting and all, but it's no use, so i thought i'd ask you if you'd mind coming and staying with me, and letting me hold you hand for a little while and then p'raps i could go.' the boy twined his arms round owen's neck and hugged him very tightly. 'oh, dad, i love you so much!' he said. 'i love you so much, i could squeeze you to death.' 'i'm afraid you will, if you squeeze me so tightly as that.' the boy laughed softly as he relaxed his hold. 'that would be a funny way of showing you how much i love you, wouldn't it, dad? squeezing you to death!' 'yes, i suppose it would,' replied owen huskily, as he tucked the bedclothes round the child's shoulders. 'but don't talk any more, dear; just hold my hand and try to sleep.' 'all right,' said frankie. lying there very quietly, holding his father's hand and occasionally kissing it, the child presently fell asleep. then owen got up very gently and, having taken the kitten out of the bed again and arranged the bedclothes, he softly kissed the boy's forehead and returned to the other room. looking about for a suitable place for the kitten to sleep in, he noticed frankie's toy box, and having emptied the toys on to the floor in a corner of the room, he made a bed in the box with some rags and placed it on its side on the hearthrug, facing the fire, and with some difficulty persuaded the kitten to lie in it. then, having placed the chairs on which his clothes were drying at a safe distance from the fire, he went into the bedroom. nora was still awake. 'are you feeling any better, dear?' he said. 'yes, i'm ever so much better since i've been in bed, but i can't help worrying about your clothes. i'm afraid they'll never be dry enough for you to put on the first thing in the morning. couldn't you stay at home till after breakfast, just for once?' 'no; i mustn't do that. if i did hunter would probably tell me to stay away altogether. i believe he would be glad of an excuse to get rid of another full-price man just now.' 'but if it's raining like this in the morning, you'll be wet through before you get there.' 'it's no good worrying about that dear: besides, i can wear this old coat that i have on now, over the other.' 'and if you wrap your old shoes in some paper, and take them with you, you can take off your wet boots as soon as you get to the place.' 'yes, all right,' responded owen. 'besides,' he added, reassuringly, 'even if i do get a little wet, we always have a fire there, you know.' 'well, i hope the weather will be a little better than this in the morning,' said nora. 'isn't it a dreadful night! i keep feeling afraid that the house is going to be blown down.' long after nora was asleep, owen lay listening to the howling of the wind and the noise of the rain as it poured heavily on the roof... chapter the exterminating machines 'come on, saturday!' shouted philpot, just after seven o'clock one monday morning as they were getting ready to commence work. it was still dark outside, but the scullery was dimly illuminated by the flickering light of two candles which crass had lighted and stuck on the shelf over the fireplace in order to enable him to see to serve out the different lots of paints and brushes to the men. 'yes, it do seem a 'ell of a long week, don't it?' remarked harlow as he hung his overcoat on a nail and proceeded to put on his apron and blouse. 'i've 'ad bloody near enough of it already.' 'wish to christ it was breakfast-time,' growled the more easily satisfied easton. extraordinary as it may appear, none of them took any pride in their work: they did not 'love' it. they had no conception of that lofty ideal of 'work for work's sake', which is so popular with the people who do nothing. on the contrary, when the workers arrived in the morning they wished it was breakfast-time. when they resumed work after breakfast they wished it was dinner-time. after dinner they wished it was one o'clock on saturday. so they went on, day after day, year after year, wishing their time was over and, without realizing it, really wishing that they were dead. how extraordinary this must appear to those idealists who believe in 'work for work's sake', but who themselves do nothing but devour or use and enjoy or waste the things that are produced by the labour of those others who are not themselves permitted to enjoy a fair share of the good things they help to create? crass poured several lots of colour into several pots. 'harlow,' he said, 'you and sawkins, when he comes, can go up and do the top bedrooms out with this colour. you'll find a couple of candles up there. it's only goin' to 'ave one coat, so see that you make it cover all right, and just look after sawkins a bit so as 'e doesn't make a bloody mess of it. you do the doors and windows, and let 'im do the cupboards and skirtings.' 'that's a bit of all right, i must say,' harlow said, addressing the company generally. 'we've got to teach a b--r like 'im so as 'e can do us out of a job presently by working under price.' 'well, i can't 'elp it,' growled crass. 'you know 'ow it is: 'unter sends 'im 'ere to do paintin', and i've got to put 'im on it. there ain't nothing else for 'im to do.' further discussion on this subject was prevented by sawkins' arrival, nearly a quarter of an hour late. 'oh, you 'ave come, then,' sneered crass. 'thought p'raps you'd gorn for a 'oliday.' sawkins muttered something about oversleeping himself, and having hastily put on his apron, he went upstairs with harlow. 'now, let's see,' crass said, addressing philpot. 'you and newman 'ad better go and make a start on the second floor: this is the colour, and 'ere's a couple of candles. you'd better not both go in one room or 'unter will growl about it. you take one of the front and let newman take one of the back rooms. take a bit of stoppin' with you: they're goin' to 'ave two coats, but you'd better putty up the 'oles as well as you can, this time.' 'only two coats!' said philpot. 'them rooms will never look nothing with two coats--a light colour like this.' 'it's only goin' to get two, anyway,' returned crass, testily. ''unter said so, so you'll 'ave to do the best you can with 'em, and get 'em smeared over middlin' sudden, too.' crass did not think it necessary to mention that according to the copy of the specification of the work which he had in his pocket the rooms in question were supposed to have four coats. crass now turned to owen. 'there's that drorin'-room,' he said. 'i don't know what's goin' to be done with that yet. i don't think they've decided about it. whatever's to be done to it will be an extra, because all that's said about it in the contract is to face it up with putty and give it one coat of white. so you and easton 'ad better get on with it.' slyme was busy softening some putty by rubbing and squeezing it between his hands. 'i suppose i'd better finish the room i started on on saturday?' he asked. 'all right,' replied crass. 'have you got enough colour?' 'yes,' said slyme. as he passed through the kitchen on the way to his work, slyme accosted bert, the boy, who was engaged in lighting, with some pieces of wood, a fire to boil the water to make the tea for breakfast at eight o'clock. 'there's a bloater i want's cooked,' he said. 'all right,' replied bert. 'put it over there on the dresser along of philpot's and mine.' slyme took the bloater from his food basket, but as he was about to put it in the place indicated, he observed that his was rather a larger one than either of the other two. this was an important matter. after they were cooked it would not be easy to say which was which: he might possibly be given one of the smaller ones instead of his own. he took out his pocket knife and cut off the tail of the large bloater. ''ere it is, then,' he said to bert. 'i've cut the tail of mine so as you'll know which it is.' it was now about twenty minutes past seven and all the other men having been started at work, crass washed his hands under the tap. then he went into the kitchen and having rigged up a seat by taking two of the drawers out of the dresser and placing them on the floor about six feet apart and laying a plank across, he sat down in front of the fire, which was now burning brightly under the pail, and, lighting his pipe, began to smoke. the boy went into the scullery and began washing up the cups and jars for the men to drink out of. bert was a lean, undersized boy about fifteen years of age and about four feet nine inches in height. he had light brown hair and hazel grey eyes, and his clothes were of many colours, being thickly encrusted with paint, the result of the unskillful manner in which he did his work, for he had only been at the trade about a year. some of the men had nicknamed him 'the walking paint-shop', a title which bert accepted good-humouredly. this boy was an orphan. his father had been a railway porter who had worked very laboriously for twelve or fourteen hours every day for many years, with the usual result, namely, that he and his family lived in a condition of perpetual poverty. bert, who was their only child and not very robust, had early shown a talent for drawing, so when his father died a little over a year ago, his mother readily assented when the boy said that he wished to become a decorator. it was a nice light trade, and she thought that a really good painter, such as she was sure he would become, was at least always able to earn a good living. resolving to give the boy the best possible chance, she decided if possible to place him at rushton's, that being one of the leading firms in the town. at first mr rushton demanded ten pounds as a premium, the boy to be bound for five years, no wages the first year, two shillings a week the second, and a rise of one shilling every year for the remainder of the term. afterwards, as a special favour--a matter of charity, in fact, as she was a very poor woman--he agreed to accept five pounds. this sum represented the thrifty savings of years, but the poor woman parted with it willingly in order that the boy should become a skilled workman. so bert was apprenticed--bound for five years--to rushton & co. for the first few months his life had been spent in the paint-shop at the yard, a place that was something between a cellar and a stable. there, surrounded by the poisonous pigments and materials of the trade, the youthful artisan worked, generally alone, cleaning the dirty paint-pots brought in by the workmen from finished 'jobs' outside, and occasionally mixing paint according to the instructions of mr hunter, or one of the sub-foremen. sometimes he was sent out to carry materials to the places where the men were working--heavy loads of paint or white lead--sometimes pails of whitewash that his slender arms had been too feeble to carry more than a few yards at a time. often his fragile, childish figure was seen staggering manfully along, bending beneath the weight of a pair of steps or a heavy plank. he could manage a good many parcels at once: some in each hand and some tied together with string and slung over his shoulders. occasionally, however, there were more than he could carry; then they were put into a handcart which he pushed or dragged after him to the distant jobs. that first winter the boy's days were chiefly spent in the damp, evil-smelling, stone-flagged paint-shop, without even a fire to warm the clammy atmosphere. but in all this he had seen no hardship. with the unconsciousness of boyhood, he worked hard and cheerfully. as time went on, the goal of his childish ambition was reached--he was sent out to work with the men! and he carried the same spirit with him, always doing his best to oblige those with whom he was working. he tried hard to learn, and to be a good boy, and he succeeded, fairly well. he soon became a favourite with owen, for whom he conceived a great respect and affection, for he observed that whenever there was any special work of any kind to be done it was owen who did it. on such occasions, bert, in his artful, boyish way, would scheme to be sent to assist owen, and the latter whenever possible used to ask that the boy might be allowed to work with him. bert's regard for owen was equalled in intensity by his dislike of crass, who was in the habit of jeering at the boy's aspirations. 'there'll be plenty of time for you to think about doin' fancy work after you've learnt to do plain painting,' he would say. this morning, when he had finished washing up the cups and mugs, bert returned with them to the kitchen. 'now let's see,' said crass, thoughtfully, 'you've put the tea in the pail, i s'pose.' 'yes.' 'and now you want a job, don't you?' 'yes,' replied the boy. 'well, get a bucket of water and that old brush and a swab, and go and wash off the old whitewash and colouring orf the pantry ceiling and walls.' 'all right,' said bert. when he got as far as the door leading into the scullery he looked round and said: 'i've got to git them three bloaters cooked by breakfast time.' 'never mind about that,' said crass. 'i'll do them.' bert got the pail and the brush, drew some water from the tap, got a pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he rested on the bottom shelf of the pantry and the other on the steps, and proceeded to carry out crass's instructions. it was very cold and damp and miserable in the pantry, and the candle only made it seem more so. bert shivered: he would like to have put his jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this. he lifted the bucket of water on to one of the shelves and, climbing up on to the plank, took the brush from the water and soaked about a square yard of the ceiling; then he began to scrub it with the brush. he was not very skilful yet, and as he scrubbed the water ran down over the stock of the brush, over his hand and down his uplifted arm, wetting the turned-up sleeves of his shirt. when he had scrubbed it sufficiently he rinsed it off as well as he could with the brush, and then, to finish with, he thrust his hand into the pail of water and, taking out the swab, wrung the water out of it and wiped the part of the ceiling that he had washed. then he dropped it back into the pail, and shook his numbed fingers to restore the circulation. then he peeped into the kitchen, where crass was still seated by the fire, smoking and toasting one of the bloaters at the end of a pointed stick. bert wished he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so that he himself might go and have a warm at the fire. ''e might just as well 'ave let me do them bloaters,' he muttered to himself, regarding crass malignantly through the crack of the door. 'this is a fine job to give to anybody--a cold mornin' like this.' he shifted the pail of water a little further along the shelf and went on with the work. a little later, crass, still sitting by the fire, heard footsteps approaching along the passage. he started up guiltily and, thrusting the hand holding his pipe into his apron pocket, retreated hastily into the scullery. he thought it might be hunter, who was in the habit of turning up at all sorts of unlikely times, but it was only easton. 'i've got a bit of bacon i want the young 'un to toast for me,' he said as crass came back. 'you can do it yourself if you like,' replied crass affably, looking at his watch. 'it's about ten to eight.' easton had been working for rushton & co. for a fortnight, and had been wise enough to stand crass a drink on several occasions: he was consequently in that gentleman's good books for the time being. 'how are you getting on in there?' crass asked, alluding to the work easton and owen were doing in the drawing-room. 'you ain't fell out with your mate yet, i s'pose?' 'no; 'e ain't got much to say this morning; 'is cough's pretty bad. i can generally manage to get on orl right with anybody, you know,' easton added. 'well, so can i as a rule, but i get a bit sick listening to that bloody fool. accordin' to 'im, everything's wrong. one day it's religion, another it's politics, and the next it's something else.' 'yes, it is a bit thick; too much of it,' agreed easton, 'but i don't take no notice of the bloody fool: that's the best way.' 'of course, we know that things is a bit bad just now,' crass went on, 'but if the likes of 'im could 'ave their own way they'd make 'em a bloody sight worse.' 'that's just what i say,' replied easton. 'i've got a pill ready for 'im, though, next time 'e start yappin',' crass continued as he drew a small piece of printed paper from his waistcoat pocket. 'just read that; it's out of the obscurer.' easton took the newspaper cutting and read it: 'very good,' he remarked as he handed it back. 'yes, i think that'll about shut 'im up. did yer notice the other day when we was talking about poverty and men bein' out of work, 'ow 'e dodged out of answerin' wot i said about machinery bein' the cause of it? 'e never answered me! started talkin' about something else.' 'yes, i remember 'e never answered it,' said easton, who had really no recollection of the incident at all. 'i mean to tackle 'im about it at breakfast-time. i don't see why 'e should be allowed to get out of it like that. there was a bloke down at the "cricketers" the other night talkin' about the same thing--a chap as takes a interest in politics and the like, and 'e said the very same as me. why, the number of men what's been throwed out of work by all this 'ere new-fangled machinery is something chronic!' 'of course,' agreed easton, 'everyone knows it.' 'you ought to give us a look in at the "cricketers" some night. there's a lot of decent chaps comes there.' 'yes, i think i will.' 'what 'ouse do you usually use?' asked crass after a pause. easton laughed. 'well, to tell you the truth i've not used anywhere's lately. been 'avin too many 'ollerdays.' 'that do make a bit of difference, don't it?' said crass. 'but you'll be all right 'ere, till this job's done. just watch yerself a bit, and don't get comin' late in the mornin's. old nimrod's dead nuts on that.' 'i'll see to that all right,' replied easton. 'i don't believe in losing time when there is work to do. it's bad enough when you can't get it.' 'you know,' crass went on, confidentially. 'between me an' you an' the gatepost, as the sayin' is, i don't think mr bloody owen will be 'ere much longer. nimrod 'ates the sight of 'im.' easton had it in his mind to say that nimrod seemed to hate the sight of all of them: but he made no remark, and crass continued: ''e's 'eard all about the way owen goes on about politics and religion, an' one thing an' another, an' about the firm scampin' the work. you know that sort of talk don't do, does it?' 'of course not.' ''unter would 'ave got rid of 'im long ago, but it wasn't 'im as took 'im on in the first place. it was rushton 'imself as give 'im a start. it seems owen took a lot of samples of 'is work an' showed 'em to the bloke.' 'is them the things wot's 'angin' up in the shop-winder?' 'yes!' said crass, contemptuously. 'but 'e's no good on plain work. of course 'e does a bit of grainin' an' writin'--after a fashion--when there's any to do, and that ain't often, but on plain work, why, sawkins is as good as 'im for most of it, any day!' 'yes, i suppose 'e is,' replied easton, feeling rather ashamed of himself for the part he was taking in this conversation. although he had for the moment forgotten the existence of bert, crass had instinctively lowered his voice, but the boy--who had left off working to warm his hands by putting them into his trousers pockets--managed, by listening attentively, to hear every word. 'you know there's plenty of people wouldn't give the firm no more work if they knowed about it,' crass continued. 'just fancy sendin' a b--r like that to work in a lady's or gentleman's 'ouse--a bloody atheist!' 'yes, it is a bit orf, when you look at it like that.' 'i know my missis--for one--wouldn't 'ave a feller like that in our place. we 'ad a lodger once and she found out that 'e was a freethinker or something, and she cleared 'im out, bloody quick, i can tell yer!' 'oh, by the way,' said easton, glad of an opportunity to change the subject, 'you don't happen to know of anyone as wants a room, do you? we've got one more than we want, so the wife thought that we might as well let it.' crass thought for a moment. 'can't say as i do,' he answered, doubtfully. 'slyme was talking last week about leaving the place 'e's lodging at, but i don't know whether 'e's got another place to go to. you might ask him. i don't know of anyone else.' 'i'll speak to 'im,' replied easton. 'what's the time? it must be nearly on it.' 'so it is: just on eight,' exclaimed crass, and drawing his whistle he blew a shrill blast upon it to apprise the others of the fact. 'has anyone seen old jack linden since 'e got the push?' inquired harlow during breakfast. 'i seen 'im saterdy,' said slyme. 'is 'e doin' anything?' 'i don't know: i didn't 'ave time to speak to 'im.' 'no, 'e ain't got nothing,' remarked philpot. 'i seen 'im saterdy night, an' 'e told me 'e's been walkin' about ever since.' philpot did not add that he had 'lent' linden a shilling, which he never expected to see again. ''e won't be able to get a job again in a 'urry,' remarked easton. ''e's too old.' 'you know, after all, you can't blame misery for sackin' 'im,' said crass after a pause. ''e was too slow for a funeral.' 'i wonder how much you'll be able to do when you're as old as he is?' said owen. 'p'raps i won't want to do nothing,' replied crass with a feeble laugh. 'i'm goin' to live on me means.' 'i should say the best thing old jack could do would be to go in the union,' said harlow. 'yes: i reckon that's what'll be the end of it,' said easton in a matter-of-fact tone. 'it's a grand finish, isn't it?' observed owen. 'after working hard all one's life to be treated like a criminal at the end.' 'i don't know what you call bein' treated like criminals,' exclaimed crass. 'i reckon they 'as a bloody fine time of it, an' we've got to find the money.' 'oh, for god's sake don't start no more arguments,' cried harlow, addressing owen. 'we 'ad enough of that last week. you can't expect a boss to employ a man when 'e's too old to work.' 'of course not,' said crass. philpot said--nothing. 'i don't see no sense in always grumblin',' crass proceeded. 'these things can't be altered. you can't expect there can be plenty of work for everyone with all this 'ere labour-savin' machinery what's been invented.' 'of course,' said harlow, 'the people what used to be employed on the work what's now done by machinery, has to find something else to do. some of 'em goes to our trade, for instance: the result is there's too many at it, and there ain't enough work to keep 'em all goin'.' 'yes,' cried crass, eagerly. 'that's just what i say. machinery is the real cause of the poverty. that's what i said the other day.' 'machinery is undoubtedly the cause of unemployment,' replied owen, 'but it's not the cause of poverty: that's another matter altogether.' the others laughed derisively. 'well, it seems to me to amount to the same thing,' said harlow, and nearly everyone agreed. 'it doesn't seem to me to amount to the same thing,' owen replied. 'in my opinion, we are all in a state of poverty even when we have employment--the condition we are reduced to when we're out of work is more properly described as destitution.' 'poverty,' continued owen after a short silence, 'consists in a shortage of the necessaries of life. when those things are so scarce or so dear that people are unable to obtain sufficient of them to satisfy all their needs, those people are in a condition of poverty. if you think that the machinery, which makes it possible to produce all the necessaries of life in abundance, is the cause of the shortage, it seems to me that there must be something the matter with your minds.' 'oh, of course we're all bloody fools except you,' snarled crass. 'when they were servin' out the sense, they give you such a 'ell of a lot, there wasn't none left for nobody else.' 'if there wasn't something wrong with your minds,' continued owen, 'you would be able to see that we might have "plenty of work" and yet be in a state of destitution. the miserable wretches who toil sixteen or eighteen hours a day--father, mother and even the little children--making match-boxes, or shirts or blouses, have "plenty of work", but i for one don't envy them. perhaps you think that if there was no machinery and we all had to work thirteen or fourteen hours a day in order to obtain a bare living, we should not be in a condition of poverty? talk about there being something the matter with your minds! if there were not, you wouldn't talk one day about tariff reform as a remedy for unemployment and then the next day admit that machinery is the cause of it! tariff reform won't do away with the machinery, will it?' 'tariff reform is the remedy for bad trade,' returned crass. 'in that case tariff reform is the remedy for a disease that does not exist. if you would only take the trouble to investigate for yourself you would find out that trade was never so good as it is at present: the output--the quantity of commodities of every kind--produced in and exported from this country is greater than it has ever been before. the fortunes amassed in business are larger than ever before: but at the same time--owing, as you have just admitted--to the continued introduction and extended use of wages-saving machinery, the number of human beings being employed is steadily decreasing. i have here,' continued owen, taking out his pocket-book, 'some figures which i copied from the daily mail year book for , page : '"it is a very noticeable fact that although the number of factories and their value have vastly increased in the united kingdom, there is an absolute decrease in the number of men and women employed in those factories between and . this is doubtless due to the displacement of hand labour by machinery!" 'will tariff reform deal with that? are the good, kind capitalists going to abandon the use of wages-saving machinery if we tax all foreign-made goods? does what you call "free trade" help us here? or do you think that abolishing the house of lords, or disestablishing the church, will enable the workers who are displaced to obtain employment? since it is true--as you admit--that machinery is the principal cause of unemployment, what are you going to do about it? what's your remedy?' no one answered, because none of them knew of any remedy: and crass began to feel sorry that he had re-introduced the subject at all. 'in the near future,' continued owen, 'it is probable that horses will be almost entirely superseded by motor cars and electric trams. as the services of horses will be no longer required, all but a few of those animals will be caused to die out: they will no longer be bred to the same extent as formerly. we can't blame the horses for allowing themselves to be exterminated. they have not sufficient intelligence to understand what's being done. therefore they will submit tamely to the extinction of the greater number of their kind. 'as we have seen, a great deal of the work which was formerly done by human beings is now being done by machinery. this machinery belongs to a few people: it is worked for the benefit of those few, just the same as were the human beings it displaced. these few have no longer any need of the services of so many human workers, so they propose to exterminate them! the unnecessary human beings are to be allowed to starve to death! and they are also to be taught that it is wrong to marry and breed children, because the sacred few do not require so many people to work for them as before!' 'yes, and you'll never be able to prevent it, mate!' shouted crass. 'why can't we?' 'because it can't be done!' cried crass fiercely. 'it's impossible!' 'you're always sayin' that everything's all wrong,' complained harlow, 'but why the 'ell don't you tell us 'ow they're goin' to be put right?' 'it doesn't seem to me as if any of you really wish to know. i believe that even if it were proved that it could be done, most of you would be sorry and would do all you could to prevent it.' ''e don't know 'isself,' sneered crass. 'accordin' to 'im, tariff reform ain't no bloody good--free trade ain't no bloody good, and everybody else is wrong! but when you arst 'im what ought to be done--'e's flummoxed.' crass did not feel very satisfied with the result of this machinery argument, but he consoled himself with the reflection that he would be able to flatten out his opponent on another subject. the cutting from the obscurer which he had in his pocket would take a bit of answering! when you have a thing in print--in black and white--why there it is, and you can't get away from it! if it wasn't right, a paper like that would never have printed it. however, as it was now nearly half past eight, he resolved to defer this triumph till another occasion. it was too good a thing to be disposed of in a hurry. chapter the cap on the stairs after breakfast, when they were working together in the drawing-room, easton, desiring to do owen a good turn, thought he would put him on his guard, and repeated to him in a whisper the substance of the conversation he had held with crass concerning him. 'of course, you needn't mention that i told you, frank,' he said, 'but i thought i ought to let you know: you can take it from me, crass ain't no friend of yours.' 'i've know that for a long time, mate,' replied owen. 'thanks for telling me, all the same.' 'the bloody rotter's no friend of mine either, or anyone else's, for that matter,' easton continued, 'but of course it doesn't do to fall out with 'im because you never know what he'd go and say to ol' 'unter.' 'yes, one has to remember that.' 'of course we all know what's the matter with 'im as far as you're concerned,' easton went on. 'he don't like 'avin' anyone on the firm wot knows more about the work than 'e does 'imself--thinks 'e might git worked out of 'is job.' owen laughed bitterly. 'he needn't be afraid of me on that account. i wouldn't have his job if it were offered to me.' 'but 'e don't think so,' replied easton, 'and that's why 'e's got 'is knife into you.' 'i believe that what he said about hunter is true enough,' said owen. 'every time he comes here he tries to goad me into doing or saying something that would give him an excuse to tell me to clear out. i might have done it before now if i had not guessed what he was after, and been on my guard.' meantime, crass, in the kitchen, had resumed his seat by the fire with the purpose of finishing his pipe of tobacco. presently he took out his pocket-book and began to write in it with a piece of black-lead pencil. when the pipe was smoked out he knocked the bowl against the grate to get rid of the ash, and placed the pipe in his waistcoat pocket. then, having torn out the leaf on which he had been writing, he got up and went into the pantry, where bert was still struggling with the old whitewash. 'ain't yer nearly finished? i don't want yer to stop in 'ere all day, yer know.' 'i ain't got much more to do now,' said the boy. 'just this bit under the bottom shelf and then i'm done.' 'yes, and a bloody fine mess you've made, what i can see of it!' growled crass. 'look at all this water on the floor!' bert looked guiltily at the floor and turned very red. 'i'll clean it all up', he stammered. 'as soon as i've got this bit of wall done, i'll wipe all the mess up with the swab.' crass now took a pot of paint and some brushes and, having put some more fuel on the fire, began in a leisurely way to paint some of the woodwork in the kitchen. presently bert came in. 'i've finished there,' he said. 'about time, too. you'll 'ave to look a bit livelier than you do, you know, or me and you will fall out.' bert did not answer. 'now i've got another job for yer. you're fond of drorin, ain't yer?' continued crass in a jeering tone. 'yes, a little,' replied the boy, shamefacedly. 'well,' said crass, giving him the leaf he had torn out of the pocket-book, 'you can go up to the yard and git them things and put 'em on a truck and dror it up 'ere, and git back as soon as you can. just look at the paper and see if you understand it before you go. i don't want you to make no mistakes.' bert took the paper and with some difficulty read as follows: i pare steppes foot / gallon plastor off perish pale off witewosh lbs wite led / gallon linsede hoil do. do. turps 'i can make it out all right.' 'you'd better bring the big truck,' said crass, 'because i want you to take the venetian blinds with you on it when you take it back tonight. they've got to be painted at the shop.' 'all right.' when the boy had departed crass took a stroll through the house to see how the others were getting on. then he returned to the kitchen and proceeded with his work. crass was about thirty-eight years of age, rather above middle height and rather stout. he had a considerable quantity of curly black hair and wore a short beard of the same colour. his head was rather large, but low, and flat on top. when among his cronies he was in the habit of referring to his obesity as the result of good nature and a contented mind. behind his back other people attributed it to beer, some even going to far as to nickname him the 'tank'. there was no work of a noisy kind being done this morning. both the carpenters and the bricklayers having been taken away, temporarily, to another 'job'. at the same time there was not absolute silence: occasionally crass could hear the voices of the other workmen as they spoke to each other, sometimes shouting from one room to another. now and then harlow's voice rang through the house as he sang snatches of music-hall songs or a verse of a moody and sankey hymn, and occasionally some of the others joined in the chorus or interrupted the singer with squeals and catcalls. once or twice crass was on the point of telling them to make less row: there would be a fine to do if nimrod came and heard them. just as he had made up his mind to tell them to stop the noise, it ceased of itself and he heard loud whispers: 'look out! someone's comin'.' the house became very quiet. crass put out his pipe and opened the window and the back door to get rid of the smell of the tobacco smoke. then he shifted the pair of steps noisily, and proceeded to work more quickly than before. most likely it was old misery. he worked on for some time in silence, but no one came to the kitchen: whoever it was must have gone upstairs. crass listened attentively. who could it be? he would have liked to go to see whom it was, but at the same time, if it were nimrod, crass wished to be discovered at work. he therefore waited a little longer and presently he heard the sound of voices upstairs but was unable to recognize them. he was just about to go out into the passage to listen, when whoever it was began coming downstairs. crass at once resumed his work. the footsteps came along the passage leading to the kitchen: slow, heavy, ponderous footsteps, but yet the sound was not such as would be made by a man heavily shod. it was not misery, evidently. as the footsteps entered the kitchen, crass looked round and beheld a very tall, obese figure, with a large, fleshy, coarse-featured, clean-shaven face, and a great double chin, the complexion being of the colour and appearance of the fat of uncooked bacon. a very large fleshy nose and weak-looking pale blue eyes, the slightly inflamed lids being almost destitute of eye-lashes. he had large fat feet cased in soft calfskin boots, with drab-coloured spats. his overcoat, heavily trimmed with sealskin, reached just below the knees, and although the trousers were very wide they were filled by the fat legs within, the shape of the calves being distinctly perceptible. even as the feet seemed about to burst the uppers of the boots, so the legs appeared to threaten the trousers with disruption. this man was so large that his figure completely filled up the doorway, and as he came in he stooped slightly to avoid damaging the glittering silk hat on his head. one gloved hand was thrust into the pocket of the overcoat and in the other he carried a small gladstone bag. when crass beheld this being, he touched his cap respectfully. 'good morning, sir!' 'good morning. they told me upstairs that i should find the foreman here. are you the foreman?' 'yes, sir.' 'i see you're getting on with the work here.' 'ho yes sir, we're beginning to make a bit hov a show now, sir,' replied crass, speaking as if he had a hot potato in his mouth. 'mr rushton isn't here yet, i suppose?' 'no, sir: 'e don't horfun come hon the job hin the mornin, sir; 'e generally comes hafternoons, sir, but mr 'unter's halmost sure to be 'ere presently, sir.' 'it's mr rushton i want to see: i arranged to meet him here at ten o'clock; but'--looking at his watch--'i'm rather before my time.' 'he'll be here presently, i suppose,' added mr sweater. 'i'll just take a look round till he comes.' 'yes, sir,' responded crass, walking behind him obsequiously as he went out of the room. hoping that the gentleman might give him a shilling, crass followed him into the front hall and began explaining what progress had so far been made with the work, but as mr sweater answered only by monosyllables and grunts, crass presently concluded that his conversation was not appreciated and returned to the kitchen. meantime, upstairs, philpot had gone into newman's room and was discussing with him the possibility of extracting from mr sweater the price of a little light refreshment. 'i think,' he remarked, 'that we oughter see-ise this 'ere tuneropperty to touch 'im for an allowance.' 'we won't git nothin' out of 'im, mate,' returned newman. ''e's a red-'ot teetotaller.' 'that don't matter. 'ow's 'e to know that we buys beer with it? we might 'ave tea, or ginger ale, or lime-juice and glycerine for all 'e knows!' mr sweater now began ponderously re-ascending the stairs and presently came into the room where philpot was. the latter greeted him with respectful cordiality: 'good morning, sir.' 'good morning. you've begun painting up here, then.' 'yes, sir, we've made a start on it,' replied philpot, affably. 'is this door wet?' asked sweater, glancing apprehensively at the sleeve of his coat. 'yes, sir,' answered philpot, and added, as he looked meaningly at the great man, 'the paint is wet, sir, but the painters is dry.' 'confound it!' exclaimed sweater, ignoring, or not hearing the latter part of philpot's reply. 'i've got some of the beastly stuff on my coat sleeve.' 'oh, that's nothing, sir,' cried philpot, secretly delighted. 'i'll get that orf for yer in no time. you wait just 'arf a mo!' he had a piece of clean rag in his tool bag, and there was a can of turps in the room. moistening the rag slightly with turps he carefully removed the paint from sweater's sleeve. 'it's all orf now, sir,' he remarked, as he rubbed the place with a dry part of the rag. 'the smell of the turps will go away in about a hour's time.' 'thanks,' said sweater. philpot looked at him wistfully, but sweater evidently did not understand, and began looking about the room. 'i see they've put a new piece of skirting here,' he observed. 'yes, sir,' said newman, who came into the room just then to get the turps. 'the old piece was all to bits with dry-rot.' 'i feel as if i 'ad a touch of the dry-rot meself, don't you?' said philpot to newman, who smiled feebly and cast a sidelong glance at sweater, who did not appear to notice the significance of the remark, but walked out of the room and began climbing up to the next floor, where harlow and sawkins were working. 'well, there's a bleeder for yer!' said philpot with indignation. 'after all the trouble i took to clean 'is coat! not a bloody stiver! well, it takes the cake, don't it?' 'i told you 'ow it would be, didn't i?' replied newman. 'p'raps i didn't make it plain enough,' said philpot, thoughtfully. 'we must try to get some of our own back somehow, you know.' going out on the landing he called softly upstairs. 'i say, harlow.' 'hallo,' said that individual, looking over the banisters. ''ow are yer getting on up there?' 'oh, all right, you know.' 'pretty dry job, ain't it?' philpot continued, raising his voice a little and winking at harlow. 'yes, it is, rather,' replied harlow with a grin. 'i think this would be a very good time to take up the collection, don't you?' 'yes, it wouldn't be a bad idear.' 'well, i'll put me cap on the stairs,' said philpot, suiting the action to the word. 'you never knows yer luck. things is gettin' a bit serious on this floor, you know; my mate's fainted away once already!' philpot now went back to his room to await developments: but as sweater made no sign, he returned to the landing and again hailed harlow. 'i always reckon a man can work all the better after 'e's 'ad a drink: you can seem to get over more of it, like.' 'oh, that's true enough,' responded harlow. 'i've often noticed it meself.' sweater came out of the front bedroom and passed into one of the back rooms without any notice of either of the men. 'i'm afraid it's a frost, mate,' harlow whispered, and philpot, shaking his head sadly, returned to work; but in a little while he came out again and once more accosted harlow. 'i knowed a case once,' he said in a melancholy tone, 'where a chap died--of thirst--on a job just like this; and at the inquest the doctor said as 'arf a pint would 'a saved 'im!' 'it must 'ave been a norrible death,' remarked harlow. ''orrible ain't the work for it, mate,' replied philpot, mournfully. 'it was something chronic!' after this final heartrending appeal to sweater's humanity they returned to work, satisfied that, whatever the result of their efforts, they had done their best. they had placed the matter fully and fairly before him: nothing more could be said: the issue now rested entirely with him. but it was all in vain. sweater either did not or would not understand, and when he came downstairs he took no notice whatever of the cap which philpot had placed so conspicuously in the centre of the landing floor. chapter who is to pay? sweater reached the hall almost at the same moment that rushton entered by the front door. they greeted each other in a friendly way and after a few remarks concerning the work that was being done, they went into the drawing-room where owen and easton were and rushton said: 'what about this room? have you made up your mind what you're going to have done to it?' 'yes,' replied sweater; 'but i'll tell you about that afterwards. what i'm anxious about is the drains. have you brought the plans?' 'yes.' 'what's it going to cost?' 'just wait a minute,' said rushton, with a slight gesture calling sweater's attention to the presence of the two workmen. sweater understood. 'you might leave that for a few minutes, will you?' rushton continued, addressing owen and easton. 'go and get on with something else for a little while.' when they were alone, rushton closed the door and remarked: 'it's always as well not to let these fellows know more than is necessary.' sweater agreed. 'now this 'ere drain work is really two separate jobs,' said rushton. 'first, the drains of the house: that is, the part of the work that' actually on your ground. when that's done, there will 'ave to be a pipe carried right along under this private road to the main road to connect the drains of the house with the town main. you follow me?' 'perfectly. what's it going to cost for the lot?' 'for the drains of the house, £ . . . and for the connecting pipe £ . . . £ . . . for the lot.' 'um! that the lower you can do it for, eh?' 'that's the lowest. i've figured it out most carefully, the time and materials, and that's practically all i'm charging you.' the truth of the matter was that rushton had had nothing whatever to do with estimating the cost of this work: he had not the necessary knowledge to do so. hunter had drawn the plans, calculated the cost and prepared the estimate. 'i've been thinking over this business lately,' said sweater, looking at rushton with a cunning leer. 'i don't see why i should have to pay for the connecting pipe. the corporation ought to pay for that. what do you say?' rushton laughed. 'i don't see why not,' he replied. 'i think we could arrange it all right, don't you?' sweater went on. 'anyhow, the work will have to be done, so you'd better let 'em get on with it. £ . . . covers both jobs, you say?' 'yes.' 'oh, all right, you get on with it and we'll see what can be done with the corporation later on.' 'i don't suppose we'll find 'em very difficult to deal with,' said rushton with a grin, and sweater smiled agreement. as they were passing through the hall they met hunter, who had just arrived. he was rather surprised to see them, as he knew nothing of their appointment. he wished them 'good morning' in an awkward hesitating undertone as if he were doubtful how his greeting would be received. sweater nodded slightly, but rushton ignored him altogether and nimrod passed on looking and feeling like a disreputable cur that had just been kicked. as sweater and rushton walked together about the house, hunter hovered about them at a respectable distance, hoping that presently some notice might be taken of him. his dismal countenance became even longer than usual when he observed that they were about to leave the house without appearing even to know that he was there. however, just as they were going out, rushton paused on the threshold and called him: 'mr hunter!' 'yes, sir.' nimrod ran to him like a dog taken notice of by his master: if he had possessed a tail, it is probable that he would have wagged it. rushton gave him the plans with an intimation that the work was to be proceeded with. for some time after they were gone, hunter crawled silently about the house, in and out of the rooms, up and down the corridors and the staircases. after a while he went into the room where newman was and stood quietly watching him for about ten minutes as he worked. the man was painting the skirting, and just then he came to a part that was split in several places, so he took his knife and began to fill the cracks with putty. he was so nervous under hunter's scrutiny that his hand trembled to such an extent that it took him about twice as long as it should have done, and hunter told him so with brutal directness. 'never mind about puttying up such little cracks as them!' he shouted. 'fill 'em up with the paint. we can't afford to pay you for messing about like that!' newman made no reply. misery found no excuse for bullying anyone else, because they were all tearing into it for all they were worth. as he wandered up and down the house like an evil spirit, he was followed by the furtively unfriendly glances of the men, who cursed him in their hearts as he passed. he sneaked into the drawing-room and after standing with a malignant expression, silently watching owen and easton, he came out again without having uttered a word. although he frequently acted in this manner, yet somehow today the circumstance worried owen considerably. he wondered uneasily what it meant, and began to feel vaguely apprehensive. hunter's silence seemed more menacing than his speech. chapter the long hill bert arrived at the shop and with as little delay as possible loaded up the handcart with all the things he had been sent for and started on the return journey. he got on all right in the town, because the roads were level and smooth, being paved with wood blocks. if it had only been like that all the way it would have been easy enough, although he was a small boy for such a large truck, and such a heavy load. while the wood road lasted the principal trouble he experienced was the difficulty of seeing where he was going, the handcart being so high and himself so short. the pair of steps on the cart of course made it all the worse in that respect. however, by taking great care he managed to get through the town all right, although he narrowly escaped colliding with several vehicles, including two or three motor cars and an electric tram, besides nearly knocking over an old woman who was carrying a large bundle of washing. from time to time he saw other small boys of his acquaintance, some of them former schoolmates. some of these passed by carrying heavy loads of groceries in baskets, and others with wooden trays full of joints of meat. unfortunately, the wood paving ceased at the very place where the ground began to rise. bert now found himself at the beginning of a long stretch of macadamized road which rose slightly and persistently throughout its whole length. bert had pushed a cart up this road many times before and consequently knew the best method of tackling it. experience had taught him that a full frontal attack on this hill was liable to failure, so on this occasion he followed his usual plan of making diagonal movements, crossing the road repeatedly from right to left and left to right, after the fashion of a sailing ship tacking against the wind, and halting about every twenty yards to rest and take breath. the distance he was to go was regulated, not so much by his powers of endurance as by the various objects by the wayside--the lamp-posts, for instance. during each rest he used to look ahead and select a certain lamp-post or street corner as the next stopping-place, and when he start again he used to make the most strenuous and desperate efforts to reach it. generally the goal he selected was too distant, for he usually overestimated his strength, and whenever he was forced to give in he ran the truck against the kerb and stood there panting for breath and feeling profoundly disappointed at his failure. on the present occasion, during one of these rests, it flashed upon him that he was being a very long time: he would have to buck up or he would get into a row: he was not even half-way up the road yet! selecting a distant lamp-post, he determined to reach it before resting again. the cart had a single shaft with a cross-piece at the end, forming the handle: he gripped this fiercely with both hands and, placing his chest against it, with a mighty effort he pushed the cart before him. it seemed to get heavier and heavier every foot of the way. his whole body, but especially the thighs and calves of his legs, pained terribly, but still he strained and struggled and said to himself that he would not give in until he reached the lamp-post. finding that the handle hurt his chest, he lowered it to his waist, but that being even more painful he raised it again to his chest, and struggled savagely on, panting for breath and with his heart beating wildly. the cart became heavier and heavier. after a while it seemed to the boy as if there were someone at the front of it trying to push him back down the hill. this was such a funny idea that for a moment he felt inclined to laugh, but the inclination went almost as soon as it came and was replaced by the dread that he would not be able to hold out long enough to reach the lamp-post, after all. clenching his teeth, he made a tremendous effort and staggered forward two or three more steps and then--the cart stopped. he struggled with it despairingly for a few seconds, but all the strength had suddenly gone out of him: his legs felt so weak that he nearly collapsed on to the ground, and the cart began to move backwards down the hill. he was just able to stick to it and guide it so that it ran into and rested against the kerb, and then he stood holding it in a half-dazed way, very pale, saturated with perspiration, and trembling. his legs in particular shook so much that he felt that unless he could sit down for a little, he would fall down. he lowered the handle very carefully so as not to spill the whitewash out of the pail which was hanging from a hook under the cart, then, sitting down on the kerbstone, he leaned wearily against the wheel. a little way down the road was a church with a clock in the tower. it was five minutes to ten by this clock. bert said to himself that when it was ten he would make another start. whilst he was resting he thought of many things. just behind that church was a field with several ponds in it where he used to go with other boys to catch effets. if it were not for the cart he would go across now, to see whether there were any there still. he remembered that he had been very eager to leave school and go to work, but they used to be fine old times after all. then he thought of the day when his mother took him to mr rushton's office to 'bind' him. he remembered that day very vividly: it was almost a year ago. how nervous he had been! his hand had trembled so that he was scarcely able to hold the pen. and even when it was all over, they had both felt very miserable, somehow. his mother had been very nervous in the office also, and when they got home she cried a lot and called him her poor little fatherless boy, and said she hoped he would be good and try to learn. and then he cried as well, and promised her that he would do his best. he reflected with pride that he was keeping his promise about being a good boy and trying to learn: in fact, he knew a great deal about the trade already--he could paint back doors as well as anybody! and railings as well. owen had taught him lots of things and had promised to do some patterns of graining for him so that he might practise copying them at home in the evenings. owen was a fine chap. bert resolved that he would tell him what crass had been saying to easton. just fancy, the cheek of a rotter like crass, trying to get owen the sack! it would be more like it if crass was to be sacked himself, so that owen could be the foreman. one minute to ten. with a heavy heart bert watched the clock. his legs were still aching very badly. he could not see the hands of the clock moving, but they were creeping on all the same. now, the minute hand was over the edge of the number, and he began to deliberate whether he might not rest for another five minutes? but he had been such a long time already on his errand that he dismissed the thought. the minute hand was now upright and it was time to go on. just as he was about to get up a harsh voice behind him said: 'how much longer are you going to sit there?' bert started up guiltily, and found himself confronted by mr rushton, who was regarding him with an angry frown, whilst close by towered the colossal figure of the obese sweater, the expression on his greasy countenance betokening the pain he experienced on beholding such as appalling example of juvenile depravity. 'what do you mean by sich conduct?' demanded rushton, indignantly. 'the idear of sitting there like that when most likely the men are waiting for them things?' crimson with shame and confusion, the boy made no reply. 'you've been there a long time,' continued rushton, 'i've been watchin' you all the time i've been comin' down the road.' bert tried to speak to explain why he had been resting, but his mouth and his tongue had become quite parched from terror and he was unable to articulate a single word. 'you know, that's not the way to get on in life, my boy,' observed sweater lifting his forefinger and shaking his fat head reproachfully. 'get along with you at once!' rushton said, roughly. 'i'm surprised at yer! the idear! sitting down in my time!' this was quite true. rushton was not merely angry, but astonished at the audacity of the boy. that anyone in his employment should dare to have the impertinence to sit down in his time was incredible. the boy lifted the handle of the cart and once more began to push it up the hill. it seemed heavier now that ever, but he managed to get on somehow. he kept glancing back after rushton and sweater, who presently turned a corner and were lost to view: then he ran the cart to the kerb again to have a breathe. he couldn't have kept up much further without a spell even if they had still been watching him, but he didn't rest for more than about half a minute this time, because he was afraid they might be peeping round the corner at him. after this he gave up the lamp-post system and halted for a minute or so at regular short intervals. in this way, he at length reached the top of the hill, and with a sigh of relief congratulated himself that the journey was practically over. just before he arrived at the gate of the house, he saw hunter sneak out and mount his bicycle and ride away. bert wheeled his cart up to the front door and began carrying in the things. whilst thus engaged he noticed philpot peeping cautiously over the banisters of the staircase, and called out to him: 'give us a hand with this bucket of whitewash, will yer, joe?' 'certainly, me son, with the greatest of hagony,' replied philpot as he hurried down the stairs. as they were carrying it in philpot winked at bert and whispered: 'did yer see pontius pilate anywheres outside?' ''e went away on 'is bike just as i come in at the gate.' 'did 'e? thank gord for that! i don't wish 'im no 'arm,' said philpot, fervently, 'but i 'opes 'e gets runned over with a motor.' in this wish bert entirely concurred, and similar charitable sentiments were expressed by all the others as soon as they heard that misery was gone. just before four o'clock that afternoon bert began to load up the truck with the venetian blinds, which had been taken down some days previously. 'i wonder who'll have the job of paintin' 'em?' remarked philpot to newman. 'p'raps's they'll take a couple of us away from ere.' 'i shouldn't think so. we're short-'anded 'ere already. most likely they'll put on a couple of fresh 'ands. there's a 'ell of a lot of work in all them blinds, you know: i reckon they'll 'ave to 'ave three or four coats, the state they're in.' 'yes. no doubt that's what will be done,' replied newman, and added with a mirthless laugh: 'i don't suppose they'll have much difficulty in getting a couple of chaps.' 'no, you're right, mate. there's plenty of 'em walkin' about as a week's work would be a gordsend to.' 'come to think of it,' continued newman after a pause, 'i believe the firm used to give all their blind work to old latham, the venetian blind maker. prap's they'll give 'im this lot to do.' 'very likely,' replied philpot, 'i should think 'e can do 'em cheaper even than us chaps, and that's all the firm cares about.' how far their conjectures were fulfilled will appear later. shortly after bert was gone it became so dark that it was necessary to light the candles, and philpot remarked that although he hated working under such conditions, yet he was always glad when lighting up time came, because then knocking off time was not very far behind. about five minutes to five, just as they were all putting their things away for the night, nimrod suddenly appeared in the house. he had come hoping to find some of them ready dressed to go home before the proper time. having failed in this laudable enterprise, he stood silently by himself for some seconds in the drawing-room. this was a spacious and lofty apartment with a large semicircular bay window. round the ceiling was a deep cornice. in the semi-darkness the room appeared to be of even greater proportions than it really was. after standing thinking in this room for a little while, hunter turned and strode out to the kitchen, where the men were preparing to go home. owen was taking off his blouse and apron as the other entered. hunter addressed him with a malevolent snarl: 'you can call at the office tonight as you go home.' owen's heart seemed to stop beating. all the petty annoyances he had endured from hunter rushed into his memory, together with what easton had told him that morning. he stood, still and speechless, holding his apron in his hand and staring at the manager. 'what for?' he ejaculated at length. 'what's the matter?' 'you'll find out what you're wanted for when you get there,' returned hunter as he went out of the room and away from the house. when he was gone a dead silence prevailed. the hands ceased their preparations for departure and looked at each other and at owen in astonishment. to stand a man off like that--when the job was not half finished--and for no apparent reason: and of a monday, too. it was unheard of. there was a general chorus of indignation. harlow and philpot especially were very wroth. 'if it comes to that,' harlow shouted, 'they've got no bloody right to do it! we're entitled to an hour's notice.' 'of course we are!' cried philpot, his goggle eyes rolling wildly with wrath. 'and i should 'ave it too, if it was me. you take my tip, frank: charge up to six o'clock on yer time sheet and get some of your own back.' everyone joined in the outburst of indignant protest. everyone, that is, except crass and slyme. but then they were not exactly in the kitchen: they were out in the scullery putting their things away, and so it happened that they said nothing, although they exchanged significant looks. owen had by this time recovered his self-possession. he collected all his tools and put them with his apron and blouse into his tool-bag with the purpose of taking them with him that night, but on reflection he resolved not to do so. after all, it was not absolutely certain that he was going to be 'stood off': possibly they were going to send him on some other job. they kept all together--some walking on the pavement and some in the road--until they got down town, and then separated. crass, sawkins, bundy and philpot adjourned to the 'cricketers' for a drink, newman went on by himself, slyme accompanied easton who had arranged with him to come that night to see the bedroom, and owen went in the direction of the office. chapter hands and brains rushton & co.'s premises were situated in one of the principal streets of mugsborough and consisted of a double-fronted shop with plate glass windows. the shop extended right through to the narrow back street which ran behind it. the front part of the shop was stocked with wall-hangings, mouldings, stands showing patterns of embossed wall and ceiling decorations, cases of brushes, tins of varnish and enamel, and similar things. the office was at the rear and was separated from the rest of the shop by a partition, glazed with muranese obscured glass. this office had two doors, one in the partition, giving access to the front shop, and the other by the side of the window and opening on to the back street. the glass of the lower sash of the back window consisted of one large pane on which was painted 'rushton & co.' in black letters on a white ground. owen stood outside this window for two or three seconds before knocking. there was a bright light in the office. then he knocked at the door, which was at once opened from the inside by hunter, and owen went in. rushton was seated in an armchair at his desk, smoking a cigar and reading one of several letters that were lying before him. at the back was a large unframed photograph of the size known as half-plate of the interior of some building. at another desk, or rather table, at the other side of the office, a young woman was sitting writing in a large ledger. there was a typewriting machine on the table at her side. rushton glanced up carelessly as owen came in, but took no further notice of him. 'just wait a minute,' hunter said to owen, and then, after conversing in a low tone with rushton for a few minutes, the foreman put on his hat and went out of the office through the partition door which led into the front shop. owen stood waiting for rushton to speak. he wondered why hunter had sneaked off and felt inclined to open the door and call him back. one thing he was determined about: he meant to have some explanation: he would not submit tamely to be dismissed without any just reason. when he had finished reading the letter, rushton looked up, and, leaning comfortably back in his chair, he blew a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and said in an affable, indulgent tone, such as one might use to a child: 'you're a bit of a hartist, ain't yer?' owen was so surprised at this reception that he was for the moment unable to reply. 'you know what i mean,' continued rushton; 'decorating work, something like them samples of yours what's hanging up there.' he noticed the embarrassment of owen's manner, and was gratified. he thought the man was confused at being spoken to by such a superior person as himself. mr rushton was about thirty-five years of age, with light grey eyes, fair hair and moustache, and his complexion was a whitey drab. he was tall--about five feet ten inches--and rather clumsily built; not corpulent, but fat--in good condition. he appeared to be very well fed and well cared for generally. his clothes were well made, of good quality and fitted him perfectly. he was dressed in a grey norfolk suit, dark brown boots and knitted woollen stockings reaching to the knee. he was a man who took himself very seriously. there was an air of pomposity and arrogant importance about him which--considering who and what he was--would have been entertaining to any observer gifted with a sense of humour. 'yes,' replied owen at last. 'i can do a little of that sort of work, although of course i don't profess to be able to do it as well or as quickly as a man who does nothing else.' 'oh, no, of course not, but i think you could manage this all right. it's that drawing-room at the 'cave'. mr sweater's been speaking to me about it. it seems that when he was over in paris some time since he saw a room that took his fancy. the walls and ceiling was not papered, but painted: you know what i mean; sort of panelled out, and decorated with stencils and hand painting. this 'ere's a photer of it: it's done in a sort of japanese fashion.' he handed the photograph to owen as he spoke. it represented a room, the walls and ceiling of which were decorated in a moorish style. 'at first mr sweater thought of getting a firm from london to do it, but 'e gave up the idear on account of the expense; but if you can do it so that it doesn't cost too much, i think i can persuade 'im to go in for it. but if it's goin' to cost a lot it won't come off at all. 'e'll just 'ave a frieze put up and 'ave the room papered in the ordinary way.' this was not true: rushton said it in case owen might want to be paid extra wages while doing the work. the truth was that sweater was going to have the room decorated in any case, and intended to get a london firm to do it. he had consented rather unwillingly to let rushton & co. submit him an estimate, because he thought they would not be able to do the work satisfactorily. owen examined the photograph closely. 'could you do anything like that in that room?' 'yes, i think so,' replied owen. 'well, you know, i don't want you to start on the job and not be able to finish it. can you do it or not?' rushton felt sure that owen could do it, and was very desirous that he should undertake it, but he did not want him to know that. he wished to convey the impression that he was almost indifferent whether owen did the work or not. in fact, he wished to seem to be conferring a favour upon him by procuring him such a nice job as this. 'i'll tell you what i can do,' owen replied. 'i can make you a watercolour sketch--a design--and if you think it good enough, of course, i can reproduce it on the ceiling and the walls, and i can let you know, within a little, how long it will take.' rushton appeared to reflect. owen stood examining the photograph and began to feel an intense desire to do the work. rushton shook his head dubiously. 'if i let you spend a lot of time over the sketches and then mr sweater does not approve of your design, where do i come in?' 'well, suppose we put it like this: i'll draw the design at home in the evenings--in my own time. if it's accepted, i'll charge you for the time i've spent upon it. if it's not suitable, i won't charge the time at all.' rushton brightened up considerably. 'all right. you can do so,' he said with an affectation of good nature, 'but you mustn't pile it on too thick, in any case, you know, because, as i said before, 'e don't want to spend too much money on it. in fact, if it's going to cost a great deal 'e simply won't 'ave it done at all.' rushton knew owen well enough to be sure that no consideration of time or pains would prevent him from putting the very best that was in him into this work. he knew that if the man did the room at all there was no likelihood of his scamping it for the sake of getting it done quickly; and for that matter rushton did not wish him to hurry over it. all that he wanted to do was to impress upon owen from the very first that he must not charge too much time. any profit that it was possible to make out of the work, rushton meant to secure for himself. he was a smart man, this rushton, he possessed the ideal character: the kind of character that is necessary for any man who wishes to succeed in business--to get on in life. in other words, his disposition was very similar to that of a pig--he was intensely selfish. no one had any right to condemn him for this, because all who live under the present system practise selfishness, more or less. we must be selfish: the system demands it. we must be selfish or we shall be hungry and ragged and finally die in the gutter. the more selfish we are the better off we shall be. in the 'battle of life' only the selfish and cunning are able to survive: all others are beaten down and trampled under foot. no one can justly be blamed for acting selfishly--it is a matter of self-preservation--we must either injure or be injured. it is the system that deserves to be blamed. what those who wish to perpetuate the system deserve is another question. 'when do you think you'll have the drawings ready?' inquired rushton. 'can you get them done tonight?' 'i'm afraid not,' replied owen, feeling inclined to laugh at the absurdity of the question. 'it will need a little thinking about.' 'when can you have them ready then? this is monday. wednesday morning?' owen hesitated. 'we don't want to keep 'im waiting too long, you know, or 'e may give up the idear altogether.' 'well, say friday morning, then,' said owen, resolving that he would stay up all night if necessary to get it done. rushton shook his head. 'can't you get it done before that? i'm afraid that if we keeps 'im waiting all that time we may lose the job altogether.' 'i can't get them done any quicker in my spare time,' returned owen, flushing. 'if you like to let me stay home tomorrow and charge the time the same as if i had gone to work at the house, i could go to my ordinary work on wednesday and let you have the drawings on thursday morning.' 'oh, all right,' said rushton as he returned to the perusal of his letters. that night, long after his wife and frankie were asleep, owen worked in the sitting-room, searching through old numbers of the decorators' journal and through the illustrations in other books of designs for examples of moorish work, and making rough sketches in pencil. he did not attempt to finish anything yet: it was necessary to think first; but he roughed out the general plan, and when at last he did go to bed he could not sleep for a long time. he almost fancied he was in the drawing-room at the 'cave'. first of all it would be necessary to take down the ugly plaster centre flower with its crevices all filled up with old whitewash. the cornice was all right; it was fortunately a very simple one, with a deep cove and without many enrichments. then, when the walls and the ceiling had been properly prepared, the ornamentation would be proceeded with. the walls, divided into panels and arches containing painted designs and lattice-work; the panels of the door decorated in a similar manner. the mouldings of the door and window frames picked out with colours and gold so as to be in character with the other work; the cove of the cornice, a dull yellow with a bold ornament in colour--gold was not advisable in the hollow because of the unequal distribution of the light, but some of the smaller mouldings of the cornice should be gold. on the ceiling there would be one large panel covered with an appropriate design in gold and colours and surrounded by a wide margin or border. to separate this margin from the centre panel there would be a narrow border, and another border--but wider--round the outer edge of the margin, where the ceiling met the cornice. both these borders and the margin would be covered with ornamentation in colour and gold. great care would be necessary when deciding what parts were to be gilded because--whilst large masses of gilding are apt to look garish and in bad taste--a lot of fine gold lines are ineffective, especially on a flat surface, where they do not always catch the light. process by process he traced the work, and saw it advancing stage by stage until, finally, the large apartment was transformed and glorified. and then in the midst of the pleasure he experienced in the planning of the work there came the fear that perhaps they would not have it done at all. the question, what personal advantage would he gain never once occurred to owen. he simply wanted to do the work; and he was so fully occupied with thinking and planning how it was to be done that the question of profit was crowded out. but although this question of what profit could be made out of the work never occurred to owen, it would in due course by fully considered by mr rushton. in fact, it was the only thing about the work that mr rushton would think of at all: how much money could be made out of it. this is what is meant by the oft-quoted saying, 'the men work with their hands--the master works with his brains.' chapter the letting of the room it will be remembered that when the men separated, owen going to the office to see rushton, and the others on their several ways, easton and slyme went together. during the day easton had found an opportunity of speaking to him about the bedroom. slyme was about to leave the place where he was at present lodging, and he told easton that although he had almost decided on another place he would take a look at the room. at easton's suggestion they arranged that slyme was to accompany him home that night. as the former remarked, slyme could come to see the place, and if he didn't like it as well as the other he was thinking of taking, there was no harm done. ruth had contrived to furnish the room. some of the things she had obtained on credit from a second-hand furniture dealer. exactly how she had managed, easton did not know, but it was done. 'this is the house,' said easton. as they passed through, the gate creaked loudly on its hinges and then closed of itself rather noisily. ruth had just been putting the child to sleep and she stood up as they came in, hastily fastening the bodice of her dress as she did so. 'i've brought a gentleman to see you,' said easton. although she knew that he was looking out for someone for the room, ruth had not expected him to bring anyone home in this sudden manner, and she could not help wishing that he had told her beforehand of his intention. it being monday, she had been very busy all day and she was conscious that she was rather untidy in her appearance. her long brown hair was twisted loosely into a coil behind her head. she blushed in an embarrassed way as the young man stared at her. easton introduced slyme by name and they shook hands; and then at ruth's suggestion easton took a light to show him the room, and while they were gone ruth hurriedly tidied her hair and dress. when they came down again slyme said he thought the room would suit him very well. what were the terms? did he wish to take the room only--just to lodge? inquired ruth, or would he prefer to board as well? slyme intimated that he desired the latter arrangement. in that case she thought twelve shillings a week would be fair. she believed that was about the usual amount. of course that would include washing, and if his clothes needed a little mending she would do it for him. slyme expressed himself satisfied with these terms, which were as ruth had said--about the usual ones. he would take the room, but he was not leaving his present lodgings until saturday. it was therefore agreed that he was to bring his box on saturday evening. when he had gone, easton and ruth stood looking at each other in silence. ever since this plan of letting the room first occurred to them they had been very anxious to accomplish it; and yet, now that it was done, they felt dissatisfied and unhappy, as if they had suddenly experienced some irreparable misfortune. in that moment they remembered nothing of the darker side of their life together. the hard times and the privations were far off and seemed insignificant beside the fact that this stranger was for the future to share their home. to ruth especially it seemed that the happiness of the past twelve months had suddenly come to an end. she shrank with involuntary aversion and apprehension from the picture that rose before her of the future in which this intruder appeared the most prominent figure, dominating everything and interfering with every detail of their home life. of course they had known all this before, but somehow it had never seemed so objectionable as it did now, and as easton thought of it he was filled an unreasonable resentment against slyme, as if the latter had forced himself upon them against their will. 'damn him!' he thought. 'i wish i'd never brought him here at all!' ruth did not appear to him to be very happy about it either. 'well?' he said at last. 'what do you think of him?' 'oh, he'll be all right, i suppose.' 'for my part, i wish he wasn't coming,' easton continued. 'that's just what i was thinking,' replied ruth dejectedly. 'i don't like him at all. i seemed to turn against him directly he came in the door.' 'i've a good mind to back out of it, somehow, tomorrow,' exclaimed easton after another silence. 'i could tell him we've unexpectedly got some friends coming to stay with us.' 'yes,' said ruth eagerly. 'it would be easy enough to make some excuse or other.' as this way of escape presented itself she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her mind, but almost in the same instant she remembered the reasons which had at first led them to think of letting the room, and she added, disconsolately: 'it's foolish for us to go on like this, dear. we must let the room and it might just as well be him as anyone else. we must make the best of it, that's all.' easton stood with his back to the fire, staring gloomily at her. 'yes, i suppose that's the right way to look at it,' he replied at length. 'if we can't stand it, we'll give up the house and take a couple of rooms, or a small flat--if we can get one.' ruth agreed, although neither alternative was very inviting. the unwelcome alteration in their circumstances was after all not altogether without its compensations, because from the moment of arriving at this decision their love for each other seemed to be renewed and intensified. they remembered with acute regret that hitherto they had not always fully appreciated the happiness of that exclusive companionship of which there now remained to them but one week more. for once the present was esteemed at its proper value, being invested with some of the glamour which almost always envelops the past. chapter penal servitude and death on tuesday--the day after his interview with rushton--owen remained at home working at the drawings. he did not get them finished, but they were so far advanced that he thought he would be able to complete them after tea on wednesday evening. he did not go to work until after breakfast on wednesday and his continued absence served to confirm the opinion of the other workmen that he had been discharged. this belief was further strengthened by the fact that a new hand had been sent to the house by hunter, who came himself also at about a quarter past seven and very nearly caught philpot in the act of smoking. during breakfast, philpot, addressing crass and referring to hunter, inquired anxiously: ''ow's 'is temper this mornin', bob?' 'as mild as milk,' replied crass. 'you'd think butter wouldn't melt in 'is mouth.' 'seemed quite pleased with 'isself, didn't 'e?' said harlow. 'yes,' remarked newman. ''e said good morning to me!' 'so 'e did to me!' said easton. ''e come inter the drorin'-room an' 'e ses, "oh, you're in 'ere are yer, easton," 'e ses--just like that, quite affable like. so i ses, "yes, sir." "well," 'e ses, "get it slobbered over as quick as you can," 'e ses, "'cos we ain't got much for this job: don't spend a lot of time puttying up. just smear it over an' let it go!"' ''e certinly seemed very pleased about something,' said harlow. 'i thought prap's there was a undertaking job in: one o' them generally puts 'im in a good humour.' 'i believe that nothing would please 'im so much as to see a epidemic break out,' remarked philpot. 'small-pox, hinfluenza, cholery morbus, or anything like that.' 'yes: don't you remember 'ow good-tempered 'e was last summer when there was such a lot of scarlet fever about?' observed harlow. 'yes,' said crass with a chuckle. 'i recollect we 'ad six children's funerals to do in one week. ole misery was as pleased as punch, because of course as a rule there ain't many boxin'-up jobs in the summer. it's in winter as hundertakers reaps their 'arvest.' 'we ain't 'ad very many this winter, though, so far,' said harlow. 'not so many as usual,' admitted crass, 'but still, we can't grumble: we've 'ad one nearly every week since the beginning of october. that's not so bad, you know.' crass took a lively interest in the undertaking department of rushton & co.'s business. he always had the job of polishing or varnishing the coffin and assisting to take it home and to 'lift in' the corpse, besides acting as one of the bearers at the funeral. this work was more highly paid for than painting. 'but i don't think there's no funeral job in,' added crass after a pause. 'i think it's because 'e's glad to see the end of owen, if yeh ask me.' 'praps that 'as got something to do with it,' said harlow. 'but all the same i don't call that a proper way to treat anyone--givin' a man the push in that way just because 'e 'appened to 'ave a spite against 'im.' 'it's wot i call a bl--dy shame!' cried philpot. 'owen's a chap wots always ready to do a good turn to anybody, and 'e knows 'is work, although 'e is a bit of a nuisance sometimes, i must admit, when 'e gets on about socialism.' 'i suppose misery didn't say nothin' about 'im this mornin'?' inquired easton. 'no,' replied crass, and added: 'i only 'ope owen don't think as i never said anything against 'im. 'e looked at me very funny that night after nimrod went away. owen needn't think nothing like that about me, because i'm a chap like this--if i couldn't do nobody no good, i wouldn't never do 'em no 'arm!' at this some of the others furtively exchanged significant glances, and harlow began to smile, but no one said anything. philpot, noticing that the newcomer had not helped himself to any tea, called bert's attention to the fact and the boy filled owen's cup and passed it over to the new hand. their conjectures regarding the cause of hunter's good humour were all wrong. as the reader knows, owen had not been discharged at all, and there was nobody dead. the real reason was that, having decided to take on another man, hunter had experienced no difficulty in getting one at the same reduced rate as that which newman was working for, there being such numbers of men out of employment. hitherto the usual rate of pay in mugsborough had been sevenpence an hour for skilled painters. the reader will remember that newman consented to accept a job at sixpence halfpenny. so far none of the other workmen knew that newman was working under price: he had told no one, not feeling sure whether he was the only one or not. the man whom hunter had taken on that morning also decided in his mind that he would keep his own counsel concerning what pay he was to receive, until he found out what the others were getting. just before half past eight owen arrived and was immediately assailed with questions as to what had transpired at the office. crass listened with ill-concealed chagrin to owen's account, but most of the others were genuinely pleased. 'but what a way to speak to anybody!' observed harlow, referring to hunter's manner on the previous monday night. 'you know, i reckon if ole misery 'ad four legs, 'e'd make a very good pig,' said philpot, solemnly, 'and you can't expect nothin' from a pig but a grunt.' during the morning, as easton and owen were working together in the drawing-room, the former remarked: 'did i tell you i had a room i wanted to let, frank?' 'yes, i think you did.' 'well, i've let it to slyme. i think he seems a very decent sort of chap, don't you?' 'yes, i suppose he is,' replied owen, hesitatingly. 'i know nothing against him.' 'of course, we'd rather 'ave the 'ouse to ourselves if we could afford it, but work is so scarce lately. i've been figuring out exactly what my money has averaged for the last twelve months and how much a week do you think it comes to?' 'god only knows,' said owen. 'how much?' 'about eighteen bob.' 'so you see we had to do something,' continued easton; 'and i reckon we're lucky to get a respectable sort of chap like slyme, religious and teetotal and all that, you know. don't you think so?' 'yes, i suppose you are,' said owen, who, although he intensely disliked slyme, knew nothing definite against him. they worked in silence for some time, and then owen said: 'at the present time there are thousands of people so badly off that, compared with them, we are rich. their sufferings are so great that compared with them, we may be said to be living in luxury. you know that, don't you?' 'yes, that's true enough, mate. we really ought to be very thankful: we ought to consider ourselves lucky to 'ave a inside job like this when there's such a lot of chaps walkin' about doin' nothing.' 'yes,' said owen: 'we're lucky! although we're in a condition of abject, miserable poverty we must consider ourselves lucky that we're not actually starving.' owen was painting the door; easton was doing the skirting. this work caused no noise, so they were able to converse without difficulty. 'do you think it's right for us to tamely make up our minds to live for the rest of our lives under such conditions as that?' 'no; certainly not,' replied easton; 'but things are sure to get better presently. trade hasn't always been as bad as it is now. why, you can remember as well as i can a few years ago there was so much work that we was putting in fourteen and sixteen hours a day. i used to be so done up by the end of the week that i used to stay in bed nearly all day on sunday.' 'but don't you think it's worth while trying to find out whether it's possible to so arrange things that we may be able to live like civilized human beings without being alternately worked to death or starved?' 'i don't see how we're goin' to alter things,' answered easton. 'at the present time, from what i hear, work is scarce everywhere. we can't make work, can we?' 'do you think, then, that the affairs of the world are something like the wind or the weather--altogether beyond our control? and that if they're bad we can do nothing but just sit down and wait for them to get better?' 'well, i don't see 'ow we can odds it. if the people wot's got the money won't spend it, the likes of me and you can't make 'em, can we?' owen looked curiously at easton. 'i suppose you're about twenty-six now,' he said. 'that means that you have about another thirty years to live. of course, if you had proper food and clothes and hadn't to work more than a reasonable number of hours every day, there is no natural reason why you should not live for another fifty or sixty years: but we'll say thirty. do you mean to say that you are able to contemplate with indifference the prospect of living for another thirty years under such conditions as those we endure at present?' easton made no reply. 'if you were to commit some serious breach of the law, and were sentenced next week to ten years' penal servitude, you'd probably think your fate a very pitiable one: yet you appear to submit quite cheerfully to this other sentence, which is--that you shall die a premature death after you have done another thirty years' hard labour.' easton continued painting the skirting. 'when there's no work,' owen went on, taking another dip of paint as he spoke and starting on one of the lower panels of the door, 'when there's no work, you will either starve or get into debt. when--as at present--there is a little work, you will live in a state of semi-starvation. when times are what you call "good", you will work for twelve or fourteen hours a day and--if you're very lucky--occasionally all night. the extra money you then earn will go to pay your debts so that you may be able to get credit again when there's no work.' easton put some putty in a crack in the skirting. 'in consequence of living in this manner, you will die at least twenty years sooner than is natural, or, should you have an unusually strong constitution and live after you cease to be able to work, you will be put into a kind of jail and treated like a criminal for the remainder of your life.' having faced up the cracks, easton resumed the painting of the skirting. 'if it were proposed to make a law that all working men and women were to be put to death--smothered, or hung, or poisoned, or put into a lethal chamber--as soon as they reached the age of fifty years, there is not the slightest doubt that you would join in the uproar of protest that would ensue. yet you submit tamely to have your life shortened by slow starvation, overwork, lack of proper boots and clothing, and though having often to turn out and go to work when you are so ill that you ought to be in bed receiving medical care.' easton made no reply: he knew that all this was true, but he was not without a large share of the false pride which prompts us to hide our poverty and to pretend that we are much better off than we really are. he was at that moment wearing the pair of second-hand boots that ruth had bought for him, but he had told harlow--who had passed some remark about them--that he had had them for years, wearing them only for best. he felt very resentful as he listened to the other's talk, and owen perceived it, but nevertheless he continued: 'unless the present system is altered, that is all we have to look forward to; and yet you're one of the upholders of the present system--you help to perpetuate it!' ''ow do i help to perpetuate it?' demanded easton. 'by not trying to find out how to end it--by not helping those who are trying to bring a better state of things into existence. even if you are indifferent to your own fate--as you seem to be--you have no right to be indifferent to that of the child for whose existence in this world you are responsible. every man who is not helping to bring about a better state of affairs for the future is helping to perpetuate the present misery, and is therefore the enemy of his own children. there is no such thing as being neutral: we must either help or hinder.' as owen opened the door to paint its edge, bert came along the passage. 'look out!' he cried, 'misery's comin' up the road. 'e'll be 'ere in a minit.' it was not often that easton was glad to hear of the approach of nimrod, but on this occasion he heard bert's message with a sigh of relief. 'i say,' added the boy in a whisper to owen, 'if it comes orf--i mean if you gets the job to do this room--will you ask to 'ave me along of you?' 'yes, all right, sonny,' replied owen, and bert went off to warn the others. 'unaware that he had been observed, nimrod sneaked stealthily into the house and began softly crawling about from room to room, peeping around corners and squinting through the cracks of doors, and looking through keyholes. he was almost pleased to see that everybody was very hard at work, but on going into newman's room misery was not satisfied with the progress made since his last visit. the fact was that newman had been forgetting himself again this morning. he had been taking a little pains with the work, doing it something like properly, instead of scamping and rushing it in the usual way. the result was that he had not done enough. 'you know, newman, this kind of thing won't do!' nimrod howled. 'you must get over a bit more than this or you won't suit me! if you can't move yourself a bit quicker i shall 'ave to get someone else. you've been in this room since seven o'clock this morning and it's dam near time you was out of it!' newman muttered something about being nearly finished now, and hunter ascended to the next landing--the attics, where the cheap man--sawkins, the labourer--was at work. harlow had been taken away from the attics to go on with some of the better work, so sawkins was now working alone. he had been slogging into it like a trojan and had done quite a lot. he had painted not only the sashes of the window, but also a large part of the glass, and when doing the skirting he had included part of the floor, sometimes an inch, sometimes half an inch. the paint was of a dark drab colour and the surface of the newly painted doors bore a strong resemblance to corduroy cloth, and from the bottom corners of nearly every panel there was trickling down a large tear, as if the doors were weeping for the degenerate condition of the decorative arts. but these tears caused no throb of pity in the bosom of misery: neither did the corduroy-like surface of the work grate upon his feelings. he perceived them not. he saw only that there was a lot of work done and his soul was filled with rapture as he reflected that the man who had accomplished all this was paid only fivepence an hour. at the same time it would never do to let sawkins know that he was satisfied with the progress made, so he said: 'i don't want you to stand too much over this up 'ere, you know, sawkins. just mop it over anyhow, and get away from it as quick as you can.' 'all right, sir,' replied sawkins, wiping the sweat from his brow as misery began crawling downstairs again. 'where's harlow go to, then?' he demanded of philpot. ''e wasn't 'ere just now, when i came up.' ''e's gorn downstairs, sir, out the back,' replied joe, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and winking at hunter. ''e'll be back in 'arf a mo.' and indeed at that moment harlow was just coming upstairs again. ''ere, we can't allow this kind of thing in workin' hours, you know.' hunter bellowed. 'there's plenty of time for that in the dinner hour!' nimrod now went down to the drawing-room, which easton and owen had been painting. he stood here deep in thought for some time, mentally comparing the quantity of work done by the two men in this room with that done by sawkins in the attics. misery was not a painter himself: he was a carpenter, and he thought but little of the difference in the quality of the work: to him it was all about the same: just plain painting. 'i believe it would pay us a great deal better,' he thought to himself, 'if we could get hold of a few more lightweights like sawkins.' and with his mind filled with this reflection he shortly afterwards sneaked stealthily from the house. chapter three children. the wages of intelligence owen spent the greater part of the dinner hour by himself in the drawing-room making pencil sketches in his pocket-book and taking measurements. in the evening after leaving off, instead of going straight home as usual he went round to the free library to see if he could find anything concerning moorish decorative work in any of the books there. although it was only a small and ill-equipped institution he was rewarded by the discovery of illustrations of several examples of which he made sketches. after about an hour spent this way, as he was proceeding homewards he observed two children--a boy and a girl--whose appearance seemed familiar. they were standing at the window of a sweetstuff shop examining the wares exposed therein. as owen came up the children turned round and they recognized each other simultaneously. they were charley and elsie linden. owen spoke to them as he drew near and the boy appealed to him for his opinion concerning a dispute they had been having. 'i say, mister. which do you think is the best: a fardensworth of everlasting stickjaw torfee, or a prize packet?' 'i'd rather have a prize packet,' replied owen, unhesitatingly. 'there! i told you so!' cried elsie, triumphantly. 'well, i don't care. i'd sooner 'ave the torfee,' said charley, doggedly. 'why, can't you agree which of the two to buy?' 'oh no, it's not that,' replied elsie. 'we was only just supposing what we'd buy if we 'ad a fardin; but we're not really goin' to buy nothing, because we ain't got no money.' 'oh, i see,' said owen. 'but i think _i_ have some money,' and putting his hand into his pocket he produced two halfpennies and gave one to each of the children, who immediately went in to buy the toffee and the prize packet, and when they came out he walked along with them, as they were going in the same direction as he was: indeed, they would have to pass by his house. 'has your grandfather got anything to do yet?' he inquired as they went along. 'no. 'e's still walkin' about, mister,' replied charley. when they reached owen's door he invited them to come up to see the kitten, which they had been inquiring about on the way. frankie was delighted with these two visitors, and whilst they were eating some home-made cakes that nora gave them, he entertained them by displaying the contents of his toy box, and the antics of the kitten, which was the best toy of all, for it invented new games all the time: acrobatic performances on the rails of chairs; curtain climbing; running slides up and down the oilcloth; hiding and peeping round corners and under the sofa. the kitten cut so many comical capers, and in a little while the children began to create such an uproar, that nora had to interfere lest the people in the flat underneath should be annoyed. however, elsie and charley were not able to stay very long, because their mother would be anxious about them, but they promised to come again some other day to play with frankie. 'i'm going to 'ave a prize next sunday at our sunday school,' said elsie as they were leaving. 'what are you going to get it for?' asked nora. ''cause i learned my text properly. i had to learn the whole of the first chapter of matthew by heart and i never made one single mistake! so teacher said she'd give me a nice book next sunday.' 'i 'ad one too, the other week, about six months ago, didn't i, elsie?' said charley. 'yes,' replied elsie and added: 'do they give prizes at your sunday school, frankie?' 'i don't go to sunday school.' 'ain't you never been?' said charley in a tone of surprise. 'no,' replied frankie. 'dad says i have quite enough of school all the week.' 'you ought to come to ours, man!' urged charley. 'it's not like being in school at all! and we 'as a treat in the summer, and prizes and sometimes a magic lantern 'tainment. it ain't 'arf all right, i can tell you.' frankie looked inquiringly at his mother. 'might i go, mum?' 'yes, if you like, dear.' 'but i don't know the way.' 'oh, it's not far from 'ere,' cried charley. 'we 'as to pass by your 'ouse when we're goin', so i'll call for you on sunday if you like.' 'it's only just round in duke street; you know, the "shining light chapel",' said elsie. 'it commences at three o'clock.' 'all right,' said nora. 'i'll have frankie ready at a quarter to three. but now you must run home as fast as you can. did you like those cakes?' 'yes, thank you very much,' answered elsie. 'not 'arf!' said charley. 'does your mother make cakes for you sometimes?' 'she used to, but she's too busy now, making blouses and one thing and another,' elsie answered. 'i suppose she hasn't much time for cooking,' said nora, 'so i've wrapped up some more of those cakes in this parcel for you to take home for tomorrow. i think you can manage to carry it all right, can't you, charley?' 'i think i'd better carry it myself,' said elsie. 'charley's so careless, he's sure to lose some of them.' 'i ain't no more careless than you are,' cried charley, indignantly. 'what about the time you dropped the quarter of butter you was sent for in the mud?' 'that wasn't carelessness: that was an accident, and it wasn't butter at all: it was margarine, so there!' eventually it was arranged that they were to carry the parcel in turns, elsie to have first innings. frankie went downstairs to the front door with them to see them off, and as they went down the street he shouted after them: 'mind you remember, next sunday!' 'all right,' charley shouted back. 'we shan't forget.' on thursday owen stayed at home until after breakfast to finish the designs which he had promised to have ready that morning. when he took them to the office at nine o'clock, the hour at which he had arranged to meet rushton, the latter had not yet arrived, and he did not put in an appearance until half an hour later. like the majority of people who do brain work, he needed a great deal more rest than those who do only mere physical labour. 'oh, you've brought them sketches, i suppose,' he remarked in a surly tone as he came in. 'you know, there was no need for you to wait: you could 'ave left 'em 'ere and gone on to your job.' he sat down at his desk and looked carelessly at the drawing that owen handed to him. it was on a sheet of paper about twenty-four by eighteen inches. the design was drawn with pencil and one half of it was coloured. 'that's for the ceiling,' said owen. 'i hadn't time to colour all of it.' with an affectation of indifference, rushton laid the drawing down and took the other which owen handed to him. 'this is for the large wall. the same design would be adapted for the other walls; and this one shows the door and the panels under the window.' rushton expressed no opinion about the merits of the drawings. he examined them carelessly one after the other, and then, laying them down, he inquired: 'how long would it take you to do this work--if we get the job?' 'about three weeks: say hours. that is--the decorative work only. of course, the walls and ceiling would have to be painted first: they will need three coats of white.' rushton scribbled a note on a piece of paper. 'well,' he said, after a pause, 'you can leave these 'ere and i'll see mr sweater about it and tell 'im what it will cost, and if he decides to have it done i'll let you know.' he put the drawings aside with the air of a man who has other matters to attend to, and began to open one of the several letters that were on his desk. he meant this as an intimation that the audience was at an end and that he desired the 'hand' to retire from the presence. owen understood this, but he did not retire, because it was necessary to mention one or two things which rushton would have to allow for when preparing the estimate. 'of course i should want some help,' he said. 'i should need a man occasionally, and the boy most of the time. then there's the gold leaf--say, fifteen books.' 'don't you think it would be possible to use gold paint?' 'i'm afraid not.' 'is there anything else?' inquired rushton as he finished writing down these items. 'i think that's all, except a few sheets of cartridge paper for stencils and working drawings. the quantity of paint necessary for the decorative work will be very small.' as soon as owen was gone, rushton took up the designs and examined them attentively. 'these are all right,' he muttered. 'good enough for anywhere. if he can paint anything like as well as this on the walls and ceiling of the room, it will stand all the looking at that anyone in this town is likely to give it.' 'let's see,' he continued. 'he said three weeks, but he's so anxious to do the job that he's most likely under-estimated the time; i'd better allow four weeks: that means about hours: hours at eight-pence: how much is that? and say he has a painter to help him half the time. hours at sixpence-ha'penny.' he consulted a ready reckoner that was on the desk. 'time, £ . . . materials: fifteen books of gold, say a pound. then there's the cartridge paper and the colours--say another pound, at the outside. boy's time? well, he gets no wages as yet, so we needn't mention that at all. then there's the preparing of the room. three coats of white paint. i wish hunter was here to give me an idea what it will cost.' as if in answer to his wish, nimrod entered the office at that moment, and in reply to rushton's query said that to give the walls and ceiling three coats of paint would cost about three pounds five for time and material. between them the two brain workers figured that fifteen pounds would cover the entire cost of the work--painting and decorating. 'well, i reckon we can charge sweater forty-five pounds for it,' said rushton. 'it isn't like an ordinary job, you know. if he gets a london firm to do it, it'll cost him double that, if not more.' having arrived at this decision, rushton rung up sweater's emporium on the telephone, and, finding that mr sweater was there, he rolled up the designs and set out for that gentleman's office. the men work with their hands, and the masters work with their brains. what a dreadful calamity it would be for the world and for mankind if all these brain workers were to go on strike. chapter the undeserving persons and the upper and nether millstones hunter had taken on three more painters that morning. bundy and two labourers had commenced the work of putting in the new drains; the carpenters were back again doing some extra work, and there was also a plumber working on the house; so there was quite a little crowd in the kitchen at dinner-time. crass had been waiting for a suitable opportunity to produce the newspaper cutting which it will be remembered he showed to easton on monday morning, but he had waited in vain, for there had been scarcely any 'political' talk at meal-times all the week, and it was now thursday. as far as owen was concerned, his thoughts were so occupied with the designs for the drawing-room that he had no time for anything else, and most of the others were only too willing to avoid a subject which frequently led to unpleasantness. as a rule crass himself had no liking for such discussion, but he was so confident of being able to 'flatten out' owen with the cutting from the obscurer that he had several times tried to lead the conversation into the desired channel, but so far without success. during dinner--as they called it--various subjects were discussed. harlow mentioned that he had found traces of bugs in one of the bedrooms upstairs and this called forth a number of anecdotes of those vermin and of houses infested by them. philpot remembered working in a house over at windley; the people who lived in it were very dirty and had very little furniture; no bedsteads, the beds consisting of dilapidated mattresses and rags on the floor. he declared that these ragged mattresses used to wander about the rooms by themselves. the house was so full of fleas that if one placed a sheet of newspaper on the floor one could hear and see them jumping on it. in fact, directly one went into that house one was covered from head to foot with fleas! during the few days he worked at that place, he lost several pounds in weight, and of evenings as he walked homewards the children and people in the streets, observing his ravaged countenance, thought he was suffering from some disease and used to get out of his way when they saw him coming. there were several other of these narratives, four or five men talking at the top of their voices at the same time, each one telling a different story. at first each story-teller addressed himself to the company generally, but after a while, finding it impossible to make himself heard, he would select some particular individual who seemed disposed to listen and tell him the story. it sometimes happened that in the middle of the tale the man to whom it was being told would remember a somewhat similar adventure of his own, which he would immediately proceed to relate without waiting for the other to finish, and each of them was generally so interested in the gruesome details of his own story that he was unconscious of the fact that the other was telling one at all. in a contest of this kind the victory usually went to the man with the loudest voice, but sometimes a man who had a weak voice, scored by repeating the same tale several times until someone heard it. barrington, who seldom spoke and was an ideal listener, was appropriated by several men in succession, who each told him a different yarn. there was one man sitting on an up-ended pail in the far corner of the room and it was evident from the movements of his lips that he also was relating a story, although nobody knew what it was about or heard a single word of it, for no one took the slightest notice of him... when the uproar had subsided harlow remembered the case of a family whose house got into such a condition that the landlord had given them notice and the father had committed suicide because the painters had come to turn 'em out of house and home. there were a man, his wife and daughter--a girl about seventeen--living in the house, and all three of 'em used to drink like hell. as for the woman, she could shift it and no mistake! several times a day she used to send the girl with a jug to the pub at the corner. when the old man was out, one could have anything one liked to ask for from either of 'em for half a pint of beer, but for his part, said harlow, he could never fancy it. they were both too ugly. the finale of this tale was received with a burst of incredulous laughter by those who heard it. 'do you 'ear what harlow says, bob?' easton shouted to crass. 'no. what was it?' ''e ses 'e once 'ad a chance to 'ave something but 'e wouldn't take it on because it was too ugly!' 'if it 'ad bin me, i should 'ave shut me bl--y eyes,' cried sawkins. 'i wouldn't pass it for a trifle like that.' 'no,' said crass amid laughter, 'and you can bet your life 'e didn't lose it neither, although 'e tries to make 'imself out to be so innocent.' 'i always though old harlow was a bl--y liar,' remarked bundy, 'but now we knows 'e is.' although everyone pretended to disbelieve him, harlow stuck to his version of the story. 'it's not their face you want, you know,' added bundy as he helped himself to some more tea. 'i know it wasn't my old woman's face that i was after last night,' observed crass; and then he proceeded amid roars of laughter to give a minutely detailed account of what had taken place between himself and his wife after they had retired for the night. this story reminded the man on the pail of a very strange dream he had had a few weeks previously: 'i dreamt i was walkin' along the top of a 'igh cliff or some sich place, and all of a sudden the ground give way under me feet and i began to slip down and down and to save meself from going over i made a grab at a tuft of grass as was growin' just within reach of me 'and. and then i thought that some feller was 'ittin me on the 'ead with a bl--y great stick, and tryin' to make me let go of the tuft of grass. and then i woke up to find my old woman shouting out and punchin' me with 'er fists. she said i was pullin' 'er 'air!' while the room was in an uproar with the merriment induced by these stories, crass rose from his seat and crossed over to where his overcoat was hanging on a nail in the wall, and took from the pocket a piece of card about eight inches by about four inches. one side of it was covered with printing, and as he returned to his seat crass called upon the others to listen while he read it aloud. he said it was one of the best things he had ever seen: it had been given to him by a bloke in the cricketers the other night. crass was not a very good reader, but he was able to read this all right because he had read it so often that he almost knew it by heart. it was entitled 'the art of flatulence', and it consisted of a number of rules and definitions. shouts of laughter greeted the reading of each paragraph, and when he had ended, the piece of dirty card was handed round for the benefit of those who wished to read it for themselves. several of the men, however, when it was offered to them, refused to take it, and with evident disgust suggested that it should be put into the fire. this view did not commend itself to crass, who, after the others had finished with it, put it back in the pocket of his coat. meanwhile, bundy stood up to help himself to some more tea. the cup he was drinking from had a large piece broken out of one side and did not hold much, so he usually had to have three or four helpings. 'anyone else want any' he asked. several cups and jars were passed to him. these vessels had been standing on the floor, and the floor was very dirty and covered with dust, so before dipping them into the pail, bundy--who had been working at the drains all morning--wiped the bottoms of the jars upon his trousers, on the same place where he was in the habit of wiping his hands when he happened to get some dirt on them. he filled the jars so full that as he held them by the rims and passed them to their owners part of the contents slopped over and trickled through his fingers. by the time he had finished the floor was covered with little pools of tea. 'they say that gord made everything for some useful purpose,' remarked harlow, reverting to the original subject, 'but i should like to know what the hell's the use of sich things as bugs and fleas and the like.' 'to teach people to keep theirselves clean, of course,' said slyme. 'that's a funny subject, ain't it?' continued harlow, ignoring slyme's answer. 'they say as all diseases is caused by little insects. if gord 'adn't made no cancer germs or consumption microbes there wouldn't be no cancer or consumption.' 'that's one of the proofs that there isn't an individual god,' said owen. 'if we were to believe that the universe and everything that lives was deliberately designed and created by god, then we must also believe that he made his disease germs you are speaking of for the purpose of torturing his other creatures.' 'you can't tell me a bloody yarn like that,' interposed crass, roughly. 'there's a ruler over us, mate, and so you're likely to find out.' 'if gord didn't create the world, 'ow did it come 'ere?' demanded slyme. 'i know no more about that than you do,' replied owen. 'that is--i know nothing. the only difference between us is that you think you know. you think you know that god made the universe; how long it took him to do it; why he made it; how long it's been in existence and how it will finally pass away. you also imagine you know that we shall live after we're dead; where we shall go, and the kind of existence we shall have. in fact, in the excess of your "humility", you think you know all about it. but really you know no more of these things than any other human being does; that is, you know nothing.' 'that's only your opinion,' said slyme. 'if we care to take the trouble to learn,' owen went on, 'we can know a little of how the universe has grown and changed; but of the beginning we know nothing.' 'that's just my opinion, matey,' observed philpot. 'it's just a bloody mystery, and that's all about it.' 'i don't pretend to 'ave no 'ead knowledge,' said slyme, 'but 'ead knowledge won't save a man's soul: it's 'eart knowledge as does that. i knows in my 'eart as my sins is all hunder the blood, and it's knowin' that, wot's given 'appiness and the peace which passes all understanding to me ever since i've been a christian.' 'glory, glory, hallelujah!' shouted bundy, and nearly everyone laughed. '"christian" is right,' sneered owen. 'you've got some title to call yourself a christian, haven't you? as for the happiness that passes all understanding, it certainly passes my understanding how you can be happy when you believe that millions of people are being tortured in hell; and it also passes my understanding why you are not ashamed of yourself for being happy under such circumstances.' 'ah, well, you'll find it all out when you come to die, mate,' replied slyme in a threatening tone. 'you'll think and talk different then!' 'that's just wot gets over me,' observed harlow. 'it don't seem right that after living in misery and poverty all our bloody lives, workin' and slavin' all the hours that gord a'mighty sends, that we're to be bloody well set fire and burned in 'ell for all eternity! it don't seem feasible to me, you know.' 'it's my belief,' said philpot, profoundly, 'that when you're dead, you're done for. that's the end of you.' 'that's what _i_ say,' remarked easton. 'as for all this religious business, it's just a money-making dodge. it's the parson's trade, just the same as painting is ours, only there's no work attached to it and the pay's a bloody sight better than ours is.' 'it's their livin', and a bloody good livin' too, if you ask me,' said bundy. 'yes,' said harlow; 'they lives on the fat o' the land, and wears the best of everything, and they does nothing for it but talk a lot of twaddle two or three times a week. the rest of the time they spend cadgin' money orf silly old women who thinks it's a sorter fire insurance.' 'it's an old sayin' and a true one,' chimed in the man on the upturned pail. 'parsons and publicans is the worst enemies the workin' man ever 'ad. there may be some good 'uns, but they're few and far between.' 'if i could only get a job like the harchbishop of canterbury,' said philpot, solemnly, 'i'd leave this firm.' 'so would i,' said harlow, 'if i was the harchbishop of canterbury, i'd take my pot and brushes down the office and shy 'em through the bloody winder and tell ole misery to go to 'ell.' 'religion is a thing that don't trouble me much,' remarked newman; 'and as for what happens to you after death, it's a thing i believe in leavin' till you comes to it--there's no sense in meetin' trouble 'arfway. all the things they tells us may be true or they may not, but it takes me all my time to look after this world. i don't believe i've been to church more than arf a dozen times since i've been married--that's over fifteen years ago now--and then it's been when the kids 'ave been christened. the old woman goes sometimes and of course the young 'uns goes; you've got to tell 'em something or other, and they might as well learn what they teaches at the sunday school as anything else.' a general murmur of approval greeted this. it seemed to be the almost unanimous opinion, that, whether it were true or not, 'religion' was a nice thing to teach children. 'i've not been even once since i was married,' said harlow, 'and i sometimes wish to christ i 'adn't gorn then.' 'i don't see as it matters a dam wot a man believes,' said philpot, 'as long as you don't do no 'arm to nobody. if you see a poor b--r wot's down on 'is luck, give 'im a 'elpin' 'and. even if you ain't got no money you can say a kind word. if a man does 'is work and looks arter 'is 'ome and 'is young 'uns, and does a good turn to a fellow creature when 'e can, i reckon 'e stands as much chance of getting into 'eaven--if there is sich a place--as some of there 'ere bible-busters, whether 'e ever goes to church or chapel or not.' these sentiments were echoed by everyone with the solitary exception of slyme, who said that philpot would find out his mistake after he was dead, when he would have to stand before the great white throne for judgement! 'and at the last day, when yer sees the moon turned inter blood, you'll be cryin' hout for the mountings and the rocks to fall on yer and 'ide yer from the wrath of the lamb!' the others laughed derisively. 'i'm a bush baptist meself,' remarked the man on the upturned pail. this individual, dick wantley by name, was of what is usually termed a 'rugged' cast of countenance. he reminded one strongly of an ancient gargoyle, or a dragon. most of the hands had by now lit their pipes, but there were a few who preferred chewing their tobacco. as they smoked or chewed they expectorated upon the floor or into the fire. wantley was one of those who preferred chewing and he had been spitting upon the floor to such an extent that he was by this time partly surrounded by a kind of semicircular moat of dark brown spittle. 'i'm a bush baptist!' he shouted across the moat, 'and you all knows wot that is.' this confession of faith caused a fresh outburst of hilarity, because of course everyone knew what a bush baptist was. 'if 'evven's goin' to be full of sich b--r's as hunter,' observed eaton, 'i think i'd rather go to the other place.' 'if ever ole misery does get into 'eaven,' said philpot, ''e won't stop there very long. i reckon 'e'll be chucked out of it before 'e's been there a week, because 'e's sure to start pinchin' the jewels out of the other saints' crowns.' 'well, if they won't 'ave 'im in 'eaven, i'm sure i don't know wot's to become of 'im,' said harlow with pretended concern, 'because i don't believe 'e'd be allowed into 'ell, now.' 'why not?' demanded bundy. 'i should think it's just the bloody place for sich b--r's as 'im.' 'so it used to be at one time o' day, but they've changed all that now. they've 'ad a revolution down there: deposed the devil, elected a parson as president, and started puttin' the fire out.' 'from what i hears of it,' continued harlow when the laughter had ceased, ''ell is a bloody fine place to live in just now. there's underground railways and 'lectric trams, and at the corner of nearly every street there's a sort of pub where you can buy ice-cream, lemon squash, four ale, and american cold drinks; and you're allowed to sit in a refrigerator for two hours for a tanner.' although they laughed and made fun of these things the reader must not think that they really doubted the truth of the christian religion, because--although they had all been brought up by 'christian' parents and had been 'educated' in 'christian' schools--none of them knew enough about christianity to either really believe it or disbelieve it. the imposters who obtain a comfortable living by pretending to be the ministers and disciples of the workman of nazareth are too cunning to encourage their dupes to acquire anything approaching an intelligent understanding of the subject. they do not want people to know or understand anything: they want them to have faith--to believe without knowledge, understanding, or evidence. for years harlow and his mates--when children--had been 'taught' 'christianity' in day school, sunday school and in church or chapel, and now they knew practically nothing about it! but they were 'christians' all the same. they believed that the bible was the word of god, but they didn't know where it came from, how long it had been in existence, who wrote it, who translated it or how many different versions there were. most of them were almost totally unacquainted with the contents of the book itself. but all the same, they believed it--after a fashion. 'but puttin' all jokes aside,' said philpot, 'i can't believe there's sich a place as 'ell. there may be some kind of punishment, but i don't believe it's a real fire.' 'nor nobody else, what's got any sense,' replied harlow, contemptuously. 'i believe as this world is 'ell,' said crass, looking around with a philosophic expression. this opinion was echoed by most of the others, although slyme remained silent and owen laughed. 'wot the bloody 'ell are you laughin' at?' crass demanded in an indignant tone. 'i was laughing because you said you think this world is hell.' 'well, i don't see nothing to laugh at in that,' said crass. 'so it is a 'ell,' said easton. 'there can't be anywheres much worse than this.' ''ear, 'ear,' said the man behind the moat. 'what i was laughing at is this,' said owen. 'the present system of managing the affairs of the world is so bad and has produced such dreadful results that you are of the opinion that the earth is a hell: and yet you are a conservative! you wish to preserve the present system--the system which has made the world into a hell!' 'i thought we shouldn't get through the dinner hour without politics if owen was 'ere,' growled bundy. 'bloody sickenin' i call it.' 'don't be 'ard on 'im,' said philpot. ''e's been very quiet for the last few days.' 'we'll 'ave to go through it today, though,' remarked harlow despairingly. 'i can see it comin'.' 'i'm not goin' through it,' said bundy, 'i'm orf!' and he accordingly drank the remainder of his tea, closed his empty dinner basket and, having placed it on the mantelshelf, made for the door. 'i'll leave you to it,' he said as he went out. the others laughed. crass, remembering the cutting from the obscurer that he had in his pocket, was secretly very pleased at the turn the conversation was taking. he turned roughly on owen: 'the other day, when we was talkin' about the cause of poverty, you contradicted everybody. everyone else was wrong! but you yourself couldn't tell us what's the cause of poverty, could you?' 'i think i could.' 'oh, of course, you think you know,' sneered crass, 'and of course you think your opinion's right and everybody else's is wrong.' 'yes,' replied owen. several men expressed their abhorrence of this intolerant attitude of owen's, but the latter rejoined: 'of course i think that my opinions are right and that everyone who differs from me is wrong. if i didn't think their opinions were wrong i wouldn't differ from them. if i didn't think my own opinions right i wouldn't hold them.' 'but there's no need to keep on arguin' about it day after day,' said crass. 'you've got your opinion and i've got mine. let everyone enjoy his own opinion, i say.' a murmur of approbation from the crowd greeted these sentiments; but owen rejoined: 'but we can't both be right; if your opinions are right and mine are not, how am i to find out the truth if we never talk about them?' 'well, wot do you reckon is the cause of poverty, then?' demanded easton. 'the present system--competition--capitalism.' 'it's all very well to talk like that,' snarled crass, to whom this statement conveyed no meaning whatever. 'but 'ow do you make it out?' 'well, i put it like that for the sake of shortness,' replied owen. 'suppose some people were living in a house--' 'more supposin'!' sneered crass. 'and suppose they were always ill, and suppose that the house was badly built, the walls so constructed that they drew and retained moisture, the roof broken and leaky, the drains defective, the doors and windows ill-fitting and the rooms badly shaped and draughty. if you were asked to name, in a word, the cause of the ill-health of the people who lived there you would say--the house. all the tinkering in the world would not make that house fit to live in; the only thing to do with it would be to pull it down and build another. well, we're all living in a house called the money system; and as a result most of us are suffering from a disease called poverty. there's so much the matter with the present system that it's no good tinkering at it. everything about it is wrong and there's nothing about it that's right. there's only one thing to be done with it and that is to smash it up and have a different system altogether. we must get out of it.' 'it seems to me that that's just what you're trying to do,' remanded harlow, sarcastically. 'you seem to be tryin' to get out of answering the question what easton asked you.' 'yes!' cried crass, fiercely. 'why don't you answer the bloody question? wot's the cause of poverty?' 'what the 'ell's the matter with the present system?' demanded sawkins. 'ow's it goin' to be altered?' said newman. 'wot the bloody 'ell sort of a system do you think we ought to 'ave?' shouted the man behind the moat. 'it can't never be altered,' said philpot. 'human nature's human nature and you can't get away from it.' 'never mind about human nature,' shouted crass. 'stick to the point. wot's the cause of poverty?' 'oh, b--r the cause of poverty!' said one of the new hands. 'i've 'ad enough of this bloody row.' and he stood up and prepared to go out of the room. this individual had two patches on the seat of his trousers and the bottoms of the legs of that garment were frayed and ragged. he had been out of work for about six weeks previous to having been taken on by rushton & co. during most of that time he and his family had been existing in a condition of semi-starvation on the earnings of his wife as a charwoman and on the scraps of food she brought home from the houses where she worked. but all the same, the question of what is the cause of poverty had no interest for him. 'there are many causes,' answered owen, 'but they are all part of and inseparable from the system. in order to do away with poverty we must destroy the causes: to do away with the causes we must destroy the whole system.' 'what are the causes, then?' 'well, money, for one thing.' this extraordinary assertion was greeted with a roar of merriment, in the midst of which philpot was heard to say that to listen to owen was as good as going to a circus. money was the cause of poverty! 'i always thought it was the want of it!' said the man with the patches on the seat of his trousers as he passed out of the door. 'other things,' continued owen, 'are private ownership of land, private ownership of railways, tramways, gasworks, waterworks, private ownership of factories, and the other means of producing the necessaries and comforts of life. competition in business--' 'but 'ow do you make it out?' demanded crass, impatiently. owen hesitated. to his mind the thing appeared very clear and simple. the causes of poverty were so glaringly evident that he marvelled that any rational being should fail to perceive them; but at the same time he found it very difficult to define them himself. he could not think of words that would convey his thoughts clearly to these others who seemed so hostile and unwilling to understand, and who appeared to have made up their minds to oppose and reject whatever he said. they did not know what were the causes of poverty and apparently they did not want to know. 'well, i'll try to show you one of the causes,' he said nervously at last. he picked up a piece of charred wood that had fallen from the fire and knelt down and began to draw upon the floor. most of the others regarded him, with looks in which an indulgent, contemptuous kind of interest mingled with an air of superiority and patronage. there was no doubt, they thought, that owen was a clever sort of chap: his work proved that: but he was certainly a little bit mad. by this time owen had drawn a circle about two feet in diameter. inside he had drawn two squares, one much larger than the other. these two squares he filled in solid black with the charcoal. 'wot's it all about?' asked crass with a sneer. 'why, can't you see?' said philpot with a wink. ''e's goin' to do some conjurin'! in a minit 'e'll make something pass out o' one o' them squares into the other and no one won't see 'ow it's done.' when he had finished drawing, owen remained for a few minutes awkwardly silent, oppressed by the anticipation of ridicule and a sense of his inability to put his thoughts into plain language. he began to wish that he had not undertaken this task. at last, with an effort, he began to speak in a halting, nervous way: ....... ... ... .. .. . ### . . ### . . . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . ############### . . . .. .. ... ... ......... 'this circle--or rather the space inside the circle--is supposed to represent england.' 'well, i never knowed it was round before,' jeered crass. 'i've heard as the world is round--' 'i never said it was the shape--i said it was supposed to represent england.' 'oh, i see. i thought we'd very soon begin supposin'.' 'the two black squares,' continued owen, 'represent the people who live in the country. the small square represents a few thousand people. the large square stands for the remainder--about forty millions--that is, the majority.' 'we ain't sich bloody fools as to think that the largest number is the minority,' interrupted crass. 'the greater number of the people represented by the large black square work for their living: and in return for their labour they receive money: some more, some less than others.' 'you don't think they'd be sich bloody fools as to work for nothing, do you?' said newman. 'i suppose you think they ought all to get the same wages!' cried harlow. 'do you think it's right that a scavenger should get as much as a painter?' 'i'm not speaking about that at all,' replied owen. 'i'm trying to show you what i think is one of the causes of poverty.' 'shut up, can't you, harlow,' remonstrated philpot, who began to feel interested. 'we can't all talk at once.' 'i know we can't,' replied harlow in an aggrieved tone: 'but 'e takes sich a 'ell of a time to say wot 'e's got to say. nobody else can't get a word in edgeways.' 'in order that these people may live,' continued owen, pointing to the large black square, 'it is first necessary that they shall have a place to live in--' 'well! i should never a thought it!' exclaimed the man on the pail, pretending to be much impressed. the others laughed, and two or three of them went out of the room, contemptuously remarking to each other in an audible undertone as they went: 'bloody rot!' 'wonder wot the bloody 'ell 'e thinks 'e is? a sort of schoolmaster?' owen's nervousness increased as he continued: 'now, they can't live in the air or in the sea. these people are land animals, therefore they must live on the land.' 'wot do yer mean by animals?' demanded slyme. 'a human bean ain't a animal!' said crass indignantly. 'yes, we are!' cried harlow. 'go into any chemist's shop you like and ask the bloke, and 'e'll tell you--' 'oh, blow that!' interrupted philpot. 'let's 'ear wot owen's sayin'.' 'they must live on the land: and that's the beginning of the trouble; because--under the present system--the majority of the people have really no right to be in the country at all! under the present system the country belongs to a few--those who are here represented by this small black square. if it would pay them to do so, and if they felt so disposed, these few people have a perfect right--under the present system--to order everyone else to clear out! 'but they don't do that, they allow the majority to remain in the land on one condition--that is, they must pay rent to the few for the privilege of being permitted to live in the land of their birth. the amount of rent demanded by those who own this country is so large that, in order to pay it, the greater number of the majority have often to deprive themselves and their children, not only of the comforts, but even the necessaries of life. in the case of the working classes the rent absorbs at the lowest possible estimate, about one-third of their total earnings, for it must be remembered that the rent is an expense that goes on all the time, whether they are employed or not. if they get into arrears when out of work, they have to pay double when they get employment again. 'the majority work hard and live in poverty in order that the minority may live in luxury without working at all, and as the majority are mostly fools, they not only agree to pass their lives in incessant slavery and want, in order to pay this rent to those who own the country, but they say it is quite right that they should have to do so, and are very grateful to the little minority for allowing them to remain in the country at all.' owen paused, and immediately there arose a great clamour from his listeners. 'so it is right, ain't it?' shouted crass. 'if you 'ad a 'ouse and let it to someone, you'd want your rent, wouldn't yer?' 'i suppose,' said slyme with resentment, for he had some shares in a local building society, 'after a man's been careful, and scraping and saving and going without things he ought to 'ave 'ad all 'is life, and managed to buy a few 'ouses to support 'im in 'is old age--they ought all to be took away from 'im? some people,' he added, 'ain't got common honesty.' nearly everyone had something to say in reprobation of the views suggested by owen. harlow, in a brief but powerful speech, bristling with numerous sanguinary references to the bottomless pit, protested against any interference with the sacred rights of property. easton listened with a puzzled expression, and philpot's goggle eyes rolled horribly as he glared silently at the circle and the two squares. 'by far the greatest part of the land,' said owen when the row had ceased, 'is held by people who have absolutely no moral right to it. possession of much of it was obtained by means of murder and theft perpetrated by the ancestors of the present holders. in other cases, when some king or prince wanted to get rid of a mistress of whom he had grown weary, he presented a tract of our country to some 'nobleman' on condition that he would marry the female. vast estates were also bestowed upon the remote ancestors of the present holders in return for real or alleged services. listen to this,' he continued as he took a small newspaper cutting from his pocket-book. crass looked at the piece of paper dolefully. it reminded him of the one he had in his own pocket, which he was beginning to fear that he would not have an opportunity of producing today after all. 'ballcartridge rent day. 'the hundredth anniversary of the battle of ballcartridge occurred yesterday and in accordance with custom the duke of ballcartridge handed to the authorities the little flag which he annually presents to the state in virtue of his tenure of the vast tract of this country which was presented to one of his ancestors--the first duke--in addition to his salary, for his services at the battle of ballcartridge. 'the flag--which is the only rent the duke has to pay for the great estate which brings him in several hundreds of thousands of pounds per annum--is a small tricoloured one with a staff surmounted by an eagle. 'the duke of blankmind also presents the state with a little coloured silk flag every year in return for being allowed to retain possession of that part of england which was presented--in addition to his salary--to one of his grace's very remote ancestors, for his services at the battle of commissariat--in the netherlands. 'the duke of southward is another instance,' continued owen. 'he "owns" miles of the country we speak of as "ours". much of his part consists of confiscated monastery lands which were stolen from the owners by king henry viii and presented to the ancestors of the present duke. 'whether it was right or wrong that these parts of our country should ever have been given to those people--the question whether those ancestor persons were really deserving cases or not--is a thing we need not trouble ourselves about now. but the present holders are certainly not deserving people. they do not even take the trouble to pretend they are. they have done nothing and they do nothing to justify their possession of these "estates" as they call them. and in my opinion no man who is in his right mind can really think it's just that these people should be allowed to prey upon their fellow men as they are doing now. or that it is right that their children should be allowed to continue to prey upon our children for ever! the thousands of people on those estates work and live in poverty in order that these three men and their families may enjoy leisure and luxury. just think of the absurdity of it!' continued owen, pointing to the drawings. 'all those people allowing themselves to be overworked and bullied and starved and robbed by this little crowd here!' observing signs of a renewal of the storm of protests, owen hurriedly concluded: 'whether it's right or wrong, you can't deny that the fact that this small minority possesses nearly all the land of the country is one of the principal causes of the poverty of the majority.' 'well, that seems true enough,' said easton, slowly. 'the rent's the biggest item a workin' man's got to pay. when you're out of work and you can't afford other things, you goes without 'em, but the rent 'as to be paid whether you're workin' or not.' 'yes, that's true enough,' said harlow impatiently; 'but you gets value for yer money: you can't expect to get a 'ouse for nothing.' 'suppose we admits as it's wrong, just for the sake of argyment,' said crass in a jeering tone. 'wot then? wot about it? 'ow's it agoin' to be altered.' 'yes!' cried harlow triumphantly. 'that's the bloody question! 'ow's it goin' to be altered? it can't be done!' there was a general murmur of satisfaction. nearly everyone seemed very pleased to think that the existing state of things could not possibly be altered. 'whether it can be altered or not, whether it's right or wrong, landlordism is one of the causes of poverty,' owen repeated. 'poverty is not caused by men and women getting married; it's not caused by machinery; it's not caused by "over-production"; it's not caused by drink or laziness; and it's not caused by "over-population". it's caused by private monopoly. that is the present system. they have monopolized everything that it is possible to monopolize; they have got the whole earth, the minerals in the earth and the streams that water the earth. the only reason they have not monopolized the daylight and the air is that it is not possible to do it. if it were possible to construct huge gasometers and to draw together and compress within them the whole of the atmosphere, it would have been done long ago, and we should have been compelled to work for them in order to get money to buy air to breathe. and if that seemingly impossible thing were accomplished tomorrow, you would see thousands of people dying for want of air--or of the money to buy it--even as now thousands are dying for want of the other necessities of life. you would see people going about gasping for breath, and telling each other that the likes of them could not expect to have air to breathe unless they had the money to pay for it. most of you here, for instance, would think and say so. even as you think at present that it's right for so few people to own the earth, the minerals and the water, which are all just as necessary as is the air. in exactly the same spirit as you now say: "it's their land," "it's their water," "it's their coal," "it's their iron," so you would say "it's their air," "these are their gasometers, and what right have the likes of us to expect them to allow us to breathe for nothing?" and even while he is doing this the air monopolist will be preaching sermons on the brotherhood of man; he will be dispensing advice on "christian duty" in the sunday magazines; he will give utterance to numerous more or less moral maxims for the guidance of the young. and meantime, all around, people will be dying for want of some of the air that he will have bottled up in his gasometers. and when you are all dragging out a miserable existence, gasping for breath or dying for want of air, if one of your number suggests smashing a hole in the side of one of the gasometers, you will all fall upon him in the name of law and order, and after doing your best to tear him limb from limb, you'll drag him, covered with blood, in triumph to the nearest police station and deliver him up to "justice" in the hope of being given a few half-pounds of air for your trouble.' 'i suppose you think the landlords ought to let people live in their 'ouses for nothing?' said crass, breaking the silence that followed. 'certainly,' remarked harlow, pretending to be suddenly converted to owen's views, 'i reckon the landlord ought to pay the rent to the tenant!' 'of course, landlordism is not the only cause,' said owen, ignoring these remarks. 'the wonderful system fosters a great many others. employers of labour, for instance, are as great a cause of poverty as landlords are.' this extraordinary statement was received with astonished silence. 'do you mean to say that if i'm out of work and a master gives me a job, that 'e's doin' me a injury?' said crass at length. 'no, of course not,' replied owen. 'well, what the bloody 'ell do yer mean, then?' 'i mean this: supposing that the owner of a house wishes to have it repainted. what does he usually do?' 'as a rule, 'e goes to three or four master painters and asks 'em to give 'im a price for the job.' 'yes; and those master painters are so eager to get the work that they cut the price down to what they think is the lowest possible point,' answered owen, 'and the lowest usually gets the job. the successful tenderer has usually cut the price so fine that to make it pay he has to scamp the work, pay low wages, and drive and sweat the men whom he employs. he wants them to do two days' work for one day's pay. the result is that a job which--if it were done properly--would employ say twenty men for two months, is rushed and scamped in half that time with half that number of men. 'this means that--in one such case as this--ten men are deprived of one month's employment; and ten other men are deprived of two months' employment; and all because the employers have been cutting each other's throats to get the work.' 'and we can't 'elp ourselves, you nor me either,' said harlow. 'supposing one of us on this job was to make up 'is mind not to tear into it like we do, but just keep on steady and do a fair day's work: wot would 'appen?' no one answered; but the same thought was in everyone's mind. such a one would be quickly marked by hunter; and even if the latter failed to notice it would not be long before crass reported his conduct. 'we can't 'elp ourselves,' said easton, gloomily. 'if one man won't do it there's twenty others ready to take 'is place.' 'we could help ourselves to a certain extent if we would stand by each other. if, for instance, we all belonged to the society,' said owen. 'i don't believe in the society,' observed crass. 'i can't see as it's right that a inferior man should 'ave the same wages as me.' 'they're a drunken lot of beer-swillers,' remarked slyme. 'that's why they always 'as their meetings in public 'ouses.' harlow made no comment on this question. he had at one time belonged to the union and he was rather ashamed of having fallen away from it. 'wot good 'as the society ever done 'ere?' said easton. 'none that i ever 'eard of.' 'it might be able to do some good if most of us belonged to it; but after all, that's another matter. whether we could help ourselves or not, the fact remains that we don't. but you must admit that this competition of the employers is one of the causes of unemployment and poverty, because it's not only in our line--exactly the same thing happens in every other trade and industry. competing employers are the upper and nether millstones which grind the workers between them.' 'i suppose you think there oughtn't to be no employers at all?' sneered crass. 'or p'raps you think the masters ought to do all the bloody work theirselves, and give us the money?' 'i don't see 'ow its goin' to be altered,' remarked harlow. 'there must be masters, and someone 'as to take charge of the work and do the thinkin'.' 'whether it can be altered or not,' said owen, 'landlordism and competing employers are two of the causes of poverty. but of course they're only a small part of the system which produces luxury, refinement and culture for a few, and condemns the majority to a lifelong struggle with adversity, and many thousands to degradation, hunger and rags. this is the system you all uphold and defend, although you don't mind admitting that it has made the world into a hell.' crass slowly drew the obscurer cutting from his waistcoat pocket, but after a moment's thought he replaced it, deciding to defer its production till a more suitable occasion. 'but you 'aven't told us yet 'ow you makes out that money causes poverty,' cried harlow, winking at the others. 'that's what i'm anxious to 'ear about!' 'so am i,' remarked the man behind the moat. 'i was just wondering whether i 'adn't better tell ole misery that i don't want no wages this week.' 'i think i'll tell 'im on saterday to keep my money and get 'imself a few drinks with it,' said philpot. 'it might cheer 'im up a bit and make 'im a little more sociable and friendly like.' 'money is the principal cause of poverty,' said owen. ''ow do yer make it out?' cried sawkins. but their curiosity had to remain unsatisfied for the time being because crass announced that it was 'just on it'. chapter true freedom about three o'clock that afternoon, rushton suddenly appeared and began walking silently about the house, and listening outside the doors of rooms where the hands were working. he did not succeed in catching anyone idling or smoking or talking. the nearest approach to what the men called 'a capture' that he made was, as he stood outside the door of one of the upper rooms in which philpot and harlow were working, he heard them singing one of sankey's hymns--'work! for the night is coming'. he listened to two verses and several repetitions of the chorus. being a 'christian', he could scarcely object to this, especially as by peeping through the partly open door he could see that they were suiting the action to the word. when he went into the room they glanced around to see who it was, and stopped singing. rushton did not speak, but stood in the middle of the floor, silently watching them as they worked, for about a quarter of an hour. then, without having uttered a syllable, he turned and went out. they heard him softly descend the stairs, and harlow, turning to philpot said in a hoarse whisper: 'what do you think of the b--r, standing there watchin' us like that, as if we was a couple of bloody convicts? if it wasn't that i've got someone else beside myself to think of, i would 'ave sloshed the bloody sod in the mouth with this pound brush!' 'yes; it does make yer feel like that, mate,' replied philpot, 'but of course we mustn't give way to it.' 'several times,' continued harlow, who was livid with anger, 'i was on the point of turnin' round and sayin' to 'im, "what the bloody 'ell do you mean by standin' there and watchin' me, you bloody, psalm-singin' swine?" it took me all my time to keep it in, i can tell you.' meanwhile, rushton was still going about the house, occasionally standing and watching the other men in the same manner as he had watched philpot and harlow. none of the men looked round from their work or spoke either to rushton or to each other. the only sounds heard were the noises made by the saws and hammers of the carpenters who were fixing the frieze rails and dado rails or repairing parts of the woodwork in some of the rooms. crass placed himself in rushton's way several times with the hope of being spoken to, but beyond curtly acknowledging the 'foreman's' servile 'good hafternoon, sir,' the master took no notice of him. after about an hour spent in this manner rushton went away, but as no one saw him go, it was not until some considerable time after his departure that they knew that he was gone. owen was secretly very disappointed. 'i thought he had come to tell me about the drawing-room,' he said to himself, 'but i suppose it's not decided yet.' just as the 'hands' were beginning to breathe freely again, misery arrived, carrying some rolled-up papers in his hand. he also flitted silently from one room to another, peering round corners and listening at doors in the hope of seeing or hearing something which would give him an excuse for making an example of someone. disappointed in this, he presently crawled upstairs to the room where owen was working and, handing to him the roll of papers he had been carrying, said: 'mr sweater had decided to 'ave this work done, so you can start on it as soon as you like.' it is impossible to describe, without appearing to exaggerate, the emotions experienced by owen as he heard this announcement. for one thing it meant that the work at this house would last longer than it would otherwise have done; and it also meant that he would be paid for the extra time he had spent on the drawings, besides having his wages increased--for he was always paid an extra penny an hour when engaged on special work, such as graining or sign-writing or work of the present kind. but these considerations did not occur to him at the moment at all, for to him it meant much more. since his first conversation on the subject with rushton he had though of little else than this work. in a sense he had been doing it ever since. he had thought and planned and altered the details of the work repeatedly. the colours for the different parts had been selected and rejected and re-selected over and over again. a keen desire to do the work had grown within him, but he had scarcely allowed himself to hope that it would be done at all. his face flushed slightly as he took the drawings from hunter. 'you can make a start on it tomorrow morning,' continued that gentleman. 'i'll tell crass to send someone else up 'ere to finish this room.' 'i shan't be able to commence tomorrow, because the ceiling and walls will have to be painted first.' 'yes: i know. you and easton can do that. one coat tomorrow, another on friday and the third on saturday--that is, unless you can make it do with two coats. even if it has to be the three, you will be able to go on with your decoratin' on monday.' 'i won't be able to start on monday, because i shall have to make some working drawings first.' 'workin' drorins!' ejaculated misery with a puzzled expression. 'wot workin' drorins? you've got them, ain't yer?' pointing to the roll of papers. 'yes: but as the same ornaments are repeated several times, i shall have to make a number of full-sized drawings, with perforated outlines, to transfer the design to the walls,' said owen, and he proceeded to laboriously explain the processes. nimrod looked at him suspiciously. 'is all that really necessary?' he asked. 'couldn't you just copy it on the wall, free-hand?' 'no; that wouldn't do. it would take much longer that way.' this consideration appealed to misery. 'ah, well,' he sighed. 'i s'pose you'll 'ave to do it the way you said; but for goodness sake don't spend too much time over it, because we've took it very cheap. we only took it on so as you could 'ave a job, not that we expect to make any profit out of it.' 'and i shall have to cut some stencils, so i shall need several sheets of cartridge paper.' upon hearing of this addition expense, misery's long visage appeared to become several inches longer; but after a moment's thought he brightened up. 'i'll tell you what!' he exclaimed with a cunning leer, 'there's lots of odd rolls of wallpaper down at the shop. couldn't you manage with some of that?' 'i'm afraid it wouldn't do,' replied owen doubtfully, 'but i'll have a look at it and if possible i'll use it.' 'yes, do!' said misery, pleased at the thought of saving something. 'call at the shop on your way home tonight, and we'll see what we can find. 'ow long do you think it'll take you to make the drorins and the stencils?' 'well, today's thursday. if you let someone else help easton to get the room ready, i think i can get them done in time to bring them with me on monday morning.' 'wot do yer mean, "bring them with you"?' demanded nimrod. 'i shall have to do them at home, you know.' 'do 'em at 'ome! why can't you do 'em 'ere?' 'well, there's no table, for one thing.' 'oh, but we can soon fit you out with a table. you can 'ave a pair of paperhanger's tressels and boards for that matter.' 'i have a lot of sketches and things at home that i couldn't very well bring here,' said owen. misery argued about it for a long time, insisting that the drawings should be made either on the 'job' or at the paint-shop down at the yard. how, he asked, was he to know at what hour owen commenced or left off working, if the latter did them at home? 'i shan't charge any more time than i really work,' replied owen. 'i can't possibly do them here or at the paint-shop. i know i should only make a mess of them under such conditions.' 'well, i s'pose you'll 'ave to 'ave your own way,' said misery, dolefully. 'i'll let harlow help easton paint the room out, so as you can get your stencils and things ready. but for gord's sake get 'em done as quick as you can. if you could manage to get done by friday and come down and help easton on saturday, it would be so much the better. and when you do get a start on the decoratin', i shouldn't take too much care over it, you know, if i was you, because we 'ad to take the job for next to nothing or mr sweater would never 'ave 'ad it done at all!' nimrod now began to crawl about the house, snarling and grumbling at everyone. 'now then, you chaps. rouse yourselves!' he bellowed, 'you seem to think this is a 'orspital. if some of you don't make a better show than this, i'll 'ave to 'ave a alteration! there's plenty of chaps walkin' about doin' nothin' who'll be only too glad of a job!' he went into the scullery, where crass was mixing some colour. 'look 'ere, crass!' he said. 'i'm not at all satisfied with the way you're gettin' on with the work. you must push the chaps a bit more than you're doin'. there's not enough being done, by a long way. we shall lose money over this job before we're finished!' crass--whose fat face had turned a ghastly green with fright--mumbled something about getting on with it as fast as he could. 'well, you'll 'ave to make 'em move a bit quicker than this!' misery howled, 'or there'll 'ave to be a alteration!' by an 'alteration' crass understood that he might get the sack, or that someone else might be put in charge of the job, and that would of course reduce him to the ranks and do away with his chance of being kept on longer than the others. he determined to try to ingratiate himself with hunter and appease his wrath by sacrificing someone else. he glanced cautiously into the kitchen and up the passage and then, lowering his voice, he said: 'they all shapes pretty well, except newman. i would 'ave told you about 'im before, but i thought i'd give 'im a fair chance. i've spoke to 'im several times myself about not doin' enough, but it don't seem to make no difference.' 'i've 'ad me eye on 'im meself for some time,' replied nimrod in the same tone. 'anybody would think the work was goin' to be sent to a exhibition, the way 'e messes about with it, rubbing it with glasspaper and stopping up every little crack! i can't understand where 'e gets all the glasspaper from.' ''e brings it 'isself!' said crass hoarsely. 'i know for a fact that 'e bought two 'a'penny sheets of it, last week out of 'is own money!' 'oh, 'e did, did 'e?' snarled misery. 'i'll give 'im glasspaper! i'll 'ave a alteration!' he went into the hall, where he remained alone for a considerable time, brooding. at last, with the manner of one who has resolved on a certain course of action, he turned and entered the room where philpot and harlow were working. 'you both get sevenpence an hour, don't you?' he said. they both replied to the affirmative. 'i've never worked under price yet,' added harlow. 'nor me neither,' observed philpot. 'well, of course you can please yourselves,' hunter continued, 'but after this week we've decided not to pay more than six and a half. things is cut so fine nowadays that we can't afford to go on payin' sevenpence any longer. you can work up till tomorrow night on the old terms, but if you're not willin' to accept six and a half you needn't come on saturday morning. please yourselves. take it or leave it.' harlow and philpot were both too much astonished to say anything in reply to this cheerful announcement, and hunter, with the final remark, 'you can think it over,' left them and went to deliver the same ultimatum to all the other full-price men, who took it in the same way as philpot and harlow had done. crass and owen were the only two whose wages were not reduced. it will be remembered that newman was one of those who were already working for the reduced rate. misery found him alone in one of the upper rooms, to which he was giving the final coat. he was at his old tricks. the woodwork of the cupboard be was doing was in a rather damaged condition, and he was facing up the dents with white-lead putty before painting it. he knew quite well that hunter objected to any but very large holes or cracks being stopped, and yet somehow or other he could not scamp the work to the extent that he was ordered to; and so, almost by stealth, he was in the habit of doing it--not properly but as well as he dared. he even went to the length of occasionally buying a few sheets of glasspaper with his own money, as crass had told hunter. when the latter came into the room he stood with a sneer on his face, watching newman for about five minutes before he spoke. the workman became very nervous and awkward under this scrutiny. 'you can make out yer time-sheet and come to the office for yer money at five o'clock,' said nimrod at last. 'we shan't require your valuable services no more after tonight.' newman went white. 'why, what's wrong?' said he. 'what have i done?' 'oh, it's not wot you've done,' replied misery. 'it's wot you've not done. that's wot's wrong! you've not done enough, that's all!' and without further parley he turned and went out. newman stood in the darkening room feeling as if his heart had turned to lead. there rose before his mind the picture of his home and family. he could see them as they were at this very moment, the wife probably just beginning to prepare the evening meal, and the children setting the cups and saucers and other things on the kitchen table--a noisy work, enlivened with many a frolic and childish dispute. even the two-year-old baby insisted on helping, although she always put everything in the wrong place and made all sorts of funny mistakes. they had all been so happy lately because they knew that he had work that would last till nearly christmas--if not longer. and now this had happened--to plunge them back into the abyss of wretchedness from which they had so recently escaped. they still owed several weeks' rent, and were already so much in debt to the baker and the grocer that it was hopeless to expect any further credit. 'my god!' said newman, realizing the almost utter hopelessness of the chance of obtaining another 'job' and unconsciously speaking aloud. 'my god! how can i tell them? what will become of us?' having accomplished the objects of his visit, hunter shortly afterwards departed, possibly congratulating himself that he had not been hiding his light under a bushel, but that he had set it upon a candlestick and given light unto all that were within that house. as soon as they knew that he was gone, the men began to gather into little groups, but in a little while they nearly all found themselves in the kitchen, discussing the reduction. sawkins and the other 'lightweights' remained at their work. some of them got only fourpence halfpenny--sawkins was paid fivepence--so none of these were affected by the change. the other two fresh hands--the journeymen--joined the crowd in the kitchen, being anxious to conceal the fact that they had agreed to accept the reduced rate before being 'taken on'. owen also was there, having heard the news from philpot. there was a lot of furious talk. at first several of them spoke of 'chucking up', at once; but others were more prudent, for they knew that if they did leave there were dozens of others who would be eager to take their places. 'after all, you know,' said slyme, who had--stowed away somewhere at the back of his head--an idea of presently starting business on his own account: he was only waiting until he had saved enough money, 'after all, there's something in what 'unter says. it's very 'ard to get a fair price for work nowadays. things is cut very fine.' 'yes! we know all about that!' shouted harlow. 'and who the bloody 'ell is it cuts 'em? why, sich b--rs as 'unter and rushton! if this firm 'adn't cut this job so fine, some other firm would 'ave 'ad it for more money. rushton's cuttin' it fine didn't make this job, did it? it would 'ave been done just the same if they 'adn't tendered for it at all! the only difference is that we should 'ave been workin' for some other master.' 'i don't believe the bloody job's cut fine at all!' said philpot. 'rushton is a pal of sweater's and they're both members of the town council.' 'that may be,' replied slyme; 'but all the same i believe sweater got several other prices besides rushton's--friend or no friend; and you can't blame 'im: it's only business. but pr'aps rushton got the preference--sweater may 'ave told 'im the others' prices.' 'yes, and a bloody fine lot of prices they was, too, if the truth was known!' said bundy. 'there was six other firms after this job to my knowledge--pushem and sloggem, bluffum and doemdown, dodger and scampit, snatcham and graball, smeeriton and leavit, makehaste and sloggitt, and gord only knows 'ow many more.' at this moment newman came into the room. he looked so white and upset that the others involuntarily paused in their conversation. 'well, what do you think of it?' asked harlow. 'think of what?' said newman. 'why, didn't 'unter tell you?' cried several voices, whose owners looked suspiciously at him. they thought--if hunter had not spoken to newman, it must be because he was already working under price. there had been a rumour going about the last few days to that effect. 'didn't misery tell you? they're not goin' to pay more than six and a half after this week.' 'that's not what 'e said to me. 'e just told me to knock off. said i didn't do enough for 'em.' 'jesus christ!' exclaimed crass, pretending to be overcome with surprise. newman's account of what had transpired was listened to in gloomy silence. 'those who--a few minutes previously--had been talking loudly of chucking up the job became filled with apprehension that they might be served in the same manner as he had been. crass was one of the loudest in his expression of astonishment and indignation, but he rather overdid it and only succeeded in confirming the secret suspicion of the others that he had had something to do with hunter's action. the result of the discussion was that they decided to submit to misery's terms for the time being, until they could see a chance of getting work elsewhere. as owen had to go to the office to see the wallpaper spoken of by hunter, he accompanied newman when the latter went to get his wages. nimrod was waiting for them, and had the money ready in an envelope, which he handed to newman, who took it without speaking and went away. misery had been rummaging amongst the old wallpapers, and had got out a great heap of odd rolls, which he now submitted to owen, but after examining them the latter said that they were unsuitable for the purpose, so after some argument misery was compelled to sign an order for some proper cartridge paper, which owen obtained at a stationer's on his way home. the next morning, when misery went to the 'cave', he was in a fearful rage, and he kicked up a terrible row with crass. he said that mr rushton had been complaining of the lack of discipline on the job, and he told crass to tell all the hands that for the future singing in working hours was strictly forbidden, and anyone caught breaking this rule would be instantly dismissed. several times during the following days nimrod called at owen's flat to see how the work was progressing and to impress upon him the necessity of not taking too much trouble over it. chapter the rev. john starr 'what time is it now, mum?' asked frankie as soon as he had finished dinner on the following sunday. 'two o'clock.' 'hooray! only one more hour and charley will be here! oh, i wish it was three o'clock now, don't you, mother?' 'no, dear, i don't. you're not dressed yet, you know.' frankie made a grimace. 'you're surely not going to make me wear my velvets, are you, mum? can't i go just as i am, in my old clothes?' the 'velvets' was a brown suit of that material that nora had made out of the least worn parts of an old costume of her own. 'of course not: if you went as you are now, you'd have everyone staring at you.' 'well, i suppose i'll have to put up with it,' said frankie, resignedly. 'and i think you'd better begin to dress me now, don't you?' 'oh, there's plenty of time yet; you'd only make yourself untidy and then i should have the trouble all over again. play with your toys a little while, and when i've done the washing up i'll get you ready.' frankie obeyed, and for about ten minutes his mother heard him in the next room rummaging in the box where he stored his collection of 'things'. at the end of that time, however, he returned to the kitchen. 'is it time to dress me yet, mum?' 'no, dear, not yet. you needn't be afraid; you'll be ready in plenty of time.' 'but i can't help being afraid; you might forget.' 'oh, i shan't forget. there's lots of time.' 'well, you know, i should be much easier in my mind if you would dress me now, because perhaps our clock's wrong, or p'r'aps when you begin dressing me you'll find some buttons off or something, and then there'll be a lot of time wasted sewing them on; or p'r'aps you won't be able to find my clean stockings or something and then while you're looking for it charley might come, and if he sees i'm not ready he mightn't wait for me.' 'oh, dear!' said nora, pretending to be alarmed at this appalling list of possibilities. 'i suppose it will be safer to dress you at once. it's very evident you won't let me have much peace until it is done, but mind when you're dressed you'll have to sit down quietly and wait till he comes, because i don't want the trouble of dressing you twice.' 'oh, i don't mind sitting still,' returned frankie, loftily. 'that's very easy. 'i don't mind having to take care of my clothes,' said frankie as his mother--having washed and dressed him, was putting the finishing touches to his hair, brushing and combing and curling the long yellow locks into ringlets round her fingers, 'the only thing i don't like is having my hair done. you know all these curls are quite unnecessary. i'm sure it would save you a lot of trouble if you wouldn't mind cutting them off.' nora did not answer: somehow or other she was unwilling to comply with this often-repeated entreaty. it seemed to her that when this hair was cut off the child would have become a different individual--more separate and independent. 'if you don't want to cut it off for your own sake, you might do it for my sake, because i think it's the reason some of the big boys don't want to play with me, and some of them shout after me and say i'm a girl, and sometimes they sneak up behind me and pull it. only yesterday i had to have a fight with a boy for doing it: and even charley linden laughs at me, and he's my best friend--except you and dad of course. 'why don't you cut it off, mum?' 'i am going to cut it as i promised you, after your next birthday.' 'then i shall be jolly glad when it comes. won't you? why, what's the matter, mum? what are you crying for?' frankie was so concerned that he began to cry also, wondering if he had done or said something wrong. he kissed her repeatedly, stroking her face with his hand. what's the matter, mother?' 'i was thinking that when you're over seven and you've had your hair cut short you won't be a baby any more.' 'why, i'm not a baby now, am i? here, look at this!' he strode over to the wall and, dragging out two chairs, he placed them in the middle of the room, back to back, about fifteen inches apart, and before his mother realized what he was doing he had climbed up and stood with one leg on the back of each chair. 'i should like to see a baby who could do this,' he cried, with his face wet with tears. 'you needn't lift me down. i can get down by myself. babies can't do tricks like these or even wipe up the spoons and forks or sweep the passage. but you needn't cut it off if you don't want to. i'll bear it as long as you like. only don't cry any more, because it makes me miserable. if i cry when i fall down or when you pull my hair when you're combing it you always tell me to bear it like a man and not be a baby, and now you're crying yourself just because i'm not a baby. you ought to be jolly glad that i'm nearly grown up into a man, because you know i've promised to build you a house with the money i earn, and then you needn't do no more work. we'll have a servant the same as the people downstairs, and dad can stop at home and sit by the fire and read the paper or play with me and maud and have pillow fights and tell stories and--' 'it's all right, dearie,' said nora, kissing him. 'i'm not crying now, and you mustn't either, or your eyes will be all red and you won't be able to go with charley at all.' when she had finished dressing him, frankie sat for some time in silence, apparently lost in thought. at last he said: 'why don't you get a baby, mother? you could nurse it, and i could have it to play with instead of going out in the street.' 'we can't afford to keep a baby, dear. you know, even as it is, sometimes we have to go without things we want because we haven't the money to buy them. babies need many things that cost lots of money.' 'when i build our house when i'm a man, i'll take jolly good care not to have a gas-stove in it. that's what runs away with all the money; we're always putting pennies in the slot. and that reminds me: charley said i'll have to take a ha'penny to put in the mishnery box. oh, dear, i'm tired of sitting still. i wish he'd come. what time is it now, mother?' before she could answer both frankie's anxiety and the painful ordeal of sitting still were terminated by the loud peal at the bell announcing charley's arrival, and frankie, without troubling to observe the usual formality of looking out of the window to see if it was a runaway ring, had clattered half-way downstairs before he heard his mother calling him to come back for the halfpenny; then he clattered up again and then down again at such a rate and with so much noise as to rouse the indignation of all the respectable people in the house. when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs he remembered that he had omitted to say goodbye, and as it was too far to go up again he rang the bell and then went into the middle of the road and looked up at the window that nora opened. 'goodbye, mother,' he shouted. 'tell dad i forgot to say it before i came down.' the school was not conducted in the chapel itself, but in a large lecture hall under it. at one end was a small platform raised about six inches from the floor; on this was a chair and a small table. a number of groups of chairs and benches were arranged at intervals round the sides and in the centre of the room, each group of seats accommodating a separate class. on the walls--which were painted a pale green--were a number of coloured pictures: moses striking the rock, the israelites dancing round the golden calf, and so on. as the reader is aware, frankie had never been to a sunday school of any kind before, and he stood for a moment looking in at the door and half afraid to enter. the lessons had already commenced, but the scholars had not yet settled down to work. the scene was one of some disorder: some of the children talking, laughing or playing, and the teachers alternately threatening and coaxing them. the girls' and the very young children's classes were presided over by ladies: the boys' teachers were men. the reader already has some slight knowledge of a few of these people. there was mr didlum, mr sweater, mr rushton and mr hunter and mrs starvem (ruth easton's former mistress). on this occasion, in addition to the teachers and other officials of the sunday school, there were also present a considerable number of prettily dressed ladies and a few gentlemen, who had come in the hope of meeting the rev. john starr, the young clergyman who was going to be their minister for the next few weeks during the absence of their regular shepherd, mr belcher, who was going away for a holiday for the benefit of his health. mr belcher was not suffering from any particular malady, but was merely 'run down', and rumour had it that this condition had been brought about by the rigorous asceticism of his life and his intense devotion to the arduous labours of his holy calling. mr starr had conducted the service in the shining light chapel that morning, and a great sensation had been produced by the young minister's earnest and eloquent address, which was of a very different style from that of their regular minister. although perhaps they had not quite grasped the real significance of all that he had said, most of them had been favourably impressed by the young clergyman's appearance and manner in the morning: but that might have arisen from prepossession and force of habit, for they were accustomed, as a matter of course, to think well of any minister. there were, however, one or two members of the congregation who were not without some misgivings and doubts as to the soundness of his doctrines. mr starr had promised that he would look in some time during the afternoon to say a few words to the sunday school children, and consequently on this particular afternoon all the grown-ups were looking forward so eagerly to hearing him again that not much was done in the way of lessons. every time a late arrival entered all eyes were directed towards the door in the hope and expectation that it was he. when frankie, standing at the door, saw all the people looking at him he drew back timidly. 'come on, man,' said charley. 'you needn't be afraid; it's not like a weekday school; they can't do nothing to us, not even if we don't behave ourselves. there's our class over in that corner and that's our teacher, mr hunter. you can sit next to me. come on!' thus encouraged, frankie followed charley over to the class, and both sat down. the teacher was so kind and spoke so gently to the children that in a few minutes frankie felt quite at home. when hunter noticed how well cared for and well dressed he was he thought the child must belong to well-to-do, respectable parents. frankie did not pay much attention to the lesson, for he was too much interested in the pictures on the walls and in looking at the other children. he also noticed a very fat man who was not teaching at all, but drifted aimlessly about he room from one class to another. after a time he came and stood by the class where frankie was, and, after nodding to hunter, remained near, listening and smiling patronizingly at the children. he was arrayed in a long garment of costly black cloth, a sort of frock coat, and by the rotundity of his figure he seemed to be one of those accustomed to sit in the chief places at feasts. this was the rev. mr belcher, minister of the shining light chapel. his short, thick neck was surrounded by a studless collar, and apparently buttonless, being fastened in some mysterious way known only to himself, and he showed no shirt front. the long garment beforementioned was unbuttoned and through the opening there protruded a vast expanse of waistcoat and trousers, distended almost to bursting by the huge globe of flesh they contained. a gold watch-chain with a locket extended partly across the visible portion of the envelope of the globe. he had very large feet which were carefully encased in soft calfskin boots. if he had removed the long garment, this individual would have resembled a balloon: the feet representing the car and the small head that surmounted the globe, the safety valve; as it was it did actually serve the purpose of a safety valve, the owner being, in consequence of gross overfeeding and lack of natural exercise, afflicted with chronic flatulence, which manifested itself in frequent belchings forth through the mouth of the foul gases generated in the stomach by the decomposition of the foods with which it was generally loaded. but as the rev. mr belcher had never been seen with his coat off, no one ever noticed the resemblance. it was not necessary for him to take his coat off: his part in life was not to help to produce, but to help to devour the produce of the labour of others. after exchanging a few words and grins with hunter, he moved on to another class, and presently frankie with a feeling of awe noticed that the confused murmuring sound that had hitherto pervaded the place was hushed. the time allotted for lessons had expired, and the teachers were quietly distributing hymn-books to the children. meanwhile the balloon had drifted up to the end of the hall and had ascended the platform, where it remained stationary by the side of the table, occasionally emitting puffs of gas through the safety valve. on the table were several books, and also a pile of folded cards. these latter were about six inches by three inches; there was some printing on the outside: one of them was lying open on the table, showing the inside, which was ruled and had money columns. presently mr belcher reached out a flabby white hand and, taking up one of the folded cards, he looked around upon the under-fed, ill-clad children with a large, sweet, benevolent, fatherly smile, and then in a drawling voice occasionally broken by explosions of flatulence, he said: 'my dear children. this afternoon as i was standing near brother hunter's class i heard him telling them of the wanderings of the children of israel in the wilderness, and of all the wonderful things that were done for them; and i thought how sad it was that they were so ungrateful. 'now those ungrateful israelites had received many things, but we have even more cause to be grateful than they had, for we have received even more abundantly than they did.' (here the good man's voice was stilled by a succession of explosions.) 'and i am sure,' he resumed, 'that none of you would like to be even as those israelites, ungrateful for all the good things you have received. oh, how thankful you should be for having been made happy english children. now, i am sure that you are grateful and that you will all be very glad of an opportunity of showing your gratitude by doing something in return. 'doubtless some of you have noticed the unseemly condition of the interior of our chapel. the flooring is broken in countless places. the walls are sadly in need of cleansing and distempering, and they also need cementing externally to keep out the draught. the seats and benches and the chairs are also in a most unseemly condition and need varnishing. 'now, therefore, after much earnest meditation and prayer, it has been decided to open a subscription list, and although times are very hard just now, we believe we shall succeed in getting enough to have the work done; so i want each one of you to take one of these cards and go round to all your friends to see how much you can collect. it doesn't matter how trifling the amounts are, because the smallest donations will be thankfully received. 'now, i hope you will all do your very best. ask everyone you know; do not refrain from asking people because you think that they are too poor to give a donation, but remind them that if they cannot give their thousands they can give the widow's mite. ask everyone! first of all ask those whom you feel certain will give: then ask all those whom you think may possibly give: and, finally, ask all those whom you feel certain will not give: and you will be surprised to find that many of these last will donate abundantly. 'if your friends are very poor and unable to give a large donation at one time, a good plan would be to arrange to call upon them every saturday afternoon with your card to collect their donations. and while you are asking others, do not forget to give what you can yourselves. just a little self-denial, and those pennies and half-pennies which you so often spend on sweets and other unnecessary things might be given--as a donation--to the good cause.' here the holy man paused again, and there was a rumbling, gurgling noise in the interior of the balloon, followed by several escapes of gas through the safety valve. the paroxysm over, the apostle of self-denial continued: 'all those who wish to collect donations will stay behind for a few minutes after school, when brother hunter--who has kindly consented to act as secretary to the fund--will issue the cards. 'i would like here to say a few words of thanks to brother hunter for the great interest he has displayed in this matter, and for all the trouble he is taking to help us to gather in the donations.' this tribute was well deserved; hunter in fact had originated the whole scheme in the hope of securing the job for rushton & co., and two-and-a-half per cent of the profits for himself. mr belcher now replaced the collecting card on the table and, taking up one of the hymn-books, gave out the words and afterwards conducted the singing, flourishing one fat, flabby white hand in the air and holding the book in the other. as the last strains of the music died away, he closed his eyes and a sweet smile widened his mouth as he stretched forth his right hand, open, palm down, with the fingers close together, and said: 'let us pray.' with much shuffling of feet everyone knelt down. hunter's lanky form was distributed over a very large area; his body lay along one of the benches, his legs and feet sprawled over the floor, and his huge hands clasped the sides of the seat. his eyes were tightly closed and an expression of the most intense misery pervaded his long face. mrs starvem, being so fat that she knew if she once knelt down she would never be able to get up again, compromised by sitting on the extreme edge of her chair, resting her elbows on the back of the seat in front of her, and burying her face in her hands. it was a very large face, but her hands were capacious enough to receive it. in a seat at the back of the hall knelt a pale-faced, weary-looking little woman about thirty-six years of age, very shabbily dressed, who had come in during the singing. this was mrs white, the caretaker, bert white's mother. when her husband died, the committee of the chapel, out of charity, gave her this work, for which they paid her six shillings a week. of course, they could not offer her full employment; the idea was that she could get other work as well, charing and things of that kind, and do the chapel work in between. there wasn't much to do: just the heating furnace to light when necessary; the chapel, committee rooms, classrooms and sunday school to sweep and scrub out occasionally; the hymn-books to collect, etc. whenever they had a tea meeting--which was on an average about twice a week--there were the trestle tables to fix up, the chairs to arrange, the table to set out, and then, supervised by miss didlum or some other lady, the tea to make. there was rather a lot to do on the days following these functions: the washing up, the tables and chairs to put away, the floor to sweep, and so on; but the extra work was supposed to be compensated by the cakes and broken victuals generally left over from the feast, which were much appreciated as a welcome change from the bread and dripping or margarine that constituted mrs white's and bert's usual fare. there were several advantages attached to the position: the caretaker became acquainted with the leading members and their wives, some of who, out of charity, occasionally gave her a day's work as charwoman, the wages being on about the same generous scale as those she earned at the chapel, sometimes supplemented by a parcel of broken victuals or some castoff clothing. an evil-minded, worldly or unconverted person might possibly sum up the matter thus: these people required this work done: they employed this woman to do it, taking advantage of her poverty to impose upon her conditions of price and labour that they would not have liked to endure themselves. although she worked very hard, early and late, the money they paid her as wages was insufficient to enable her to provide herself with the bare necessaries of life. then her employers, being good, kind, generous, christian people, came to the rescue and bestowed charity, in the form of cast-off clothing and broken victuals. should any such evil-minded, worldly or unconverted persons happen to read these lines, it is a sufficient answer to their impious and malicious criticisms to say that no such thoughts ever entered the simple mind of mrs white herself: on the contrary, this very afternoon as she knelt in the chapel, wearing an old mantle that some years previously had adorned the obese person of the saintly mrs starvem, her heart was filled with gratitude towards her generous benefactors. during the prayer the door was softly opened: a gentleman in clerical dress entered on tiptoe and knelt down next to mr didlum. he came in very softly, but all the same most of those present heard him and lifted their heads or peeped through their fingers to see who it was, and when they recognized him a sound like a sigh swept through the hall. at the end of the prayer, amid groans and cries of 'amen', the balloon slowly descended from the platform, and collapsed into one of the seats, and everyone rose up from the floor. when all were seated and the shuffling, coughing and blowing of noses had ceased mr didlum stood up and said: 'before we sing the closin' 'ymn, the gentleman hon my left, the rev. mr john starr, will say a few words.' an expectant murmur rippled through the hall. the ladies lifted their eyebrows and nodded, smiled and whispered to each other; the gentlemen assumed various attitudes and expressions; the children were very quiet. everyone was in a state of suppressed excitement as john starr rose from his seat and, stepping up on to the platform, stood by the side of the table, facing them. he was about twenty-six years of age, tall and slenderly built. his clean-cut, intellectual face, with its lofty forehead, and his air of refinement and culture were in striking contrast to the coarse appearance of the other adults in the room: the vulgar, ignorant, uncultivated crowd of profit-mongers and hucksters in front of him. but it was not merely his air of good breeding and the general comeliness of his exterior that attracted and held one. there was an indefinable something about him--an atmosphere of gentleness and love that seemed to radiate from his whole being, almost compelling confidence and affection from all those with whom he came in contact. as he stood there facing the others with an inexpressibly winning smile upon his comely face, it seemed impossible that there could be any fellowship between him and them. there was nothing in his appearance to give anyone even an inkling of the truth, which was: that he was there for the purpose of bolstering up the characters of the despicable crew of sweaters and slave-drivers who paid his wages. he did not give a very long address this afternoon--only just a few words; but they were very precious, original and illuminating. he told them of certain thoughts that had occurred to his mind on his way there that afternoon; and as they listened, sweater, rushton, didlum, hunter, and the other disciples exchanged significant looks and gestures. was it not magnificent! such power! such reasoning! in fact, as they afterwards modestly admitted to each other, it was so profound that even they experienced great difficulty in fathoming the speaker's meaning. as for the ladies, they were motionless and dumb with admiration. they sat with flushed faces, shining eyes and palpitating hearts, looking hungrily at the dear man as he proceeded: 'unfortunately, our time this afternoon does not permit us to dwell at length upon these thoughts. perhaps at some future date we may have the blessed privilege of so doing; but this afternoon i have been asked to say a few words on another subject. the failing health of your dear minister has for some time past engaged the anxious attention of the congregation.' sympathetic glances were directed towards the interesting invalid; the ladies murmured, 'poor dear!' and other expressions of anxious concern. 'although naturally robust,' continued starr, 'long, continued overwork, the loving solicitude for others that often prevented him taking even necessary repose, and a too rigorous devotion to the practice of self-denial have at last brought about the inevitable breakdown, and rendered a period of rest absolutely imperative.' the orator paused to take breath, and the silence that ensued was disturbed only by faint rumblings in the interior of the ascetic victim of overwork. 'with this laudable object,' proceeded starr, 'a subscription list was quietly opened about a month ago, and those dear children who had cards and assisted in the good work of collecting donations will be pleased to hear that altogether a goodly sum was gathered, but as it was not quite enough, the committee voted a further amount out of the general fund, and at a special meeting held last friday evening, your dear shepherd was presented with an illuminated address, and a purse of gold sufficient to defray the expenses of a month's holiday in the south of france. 'although, of course, he regrets being separated from you even for such a brief period he feels that in going he is choosing the lesser of two evils. it is better to go to the south of france for a month than to continue working in spite of the warnings of exhausted nature and perhaps be taken away from you altogether--to heaven.' 'god forbid!' fervently ejaculated several disciples, and a ghastly pallor overspread the features of the object of their prayers. 'even as it is there is a certain amount of danger. let us hope and pray for the best, but if the worst should happen and he is called upon to ascend, there will be some satisfaction in knowing that you have done what you could to avert the dreadful calamity.' here, probably as a precaution against the possibility of an involuntary ascent, a large quantity of gas was permitted to escape through the safety valve of the balloon. 'he sets out on his pilgrimage tomorrow,' concluded starr, 'and i am sure he will be followed by the good wishes and prayers of all the members of his flock.' the reverend gentleman resumed his seat, and almost immediately it became evident from the oscillations of the balloon that mr belcher was desirous of rising to say a few words in acknowledgement, but he was restrained by the entreaties of those near him, who besought him not to exhaust himself. he afterwards said that he would not have been able to say much even if they had permitted him to speak, because he felt too full. 'during the absence of our beloved pastor,' said brother didlum, who now rose to give out the closing hymn, 'his flock will not be left hentirely without a shepherd, for we 'ave arranged with mr starr to come and say a few words to us hevery sunday.' from the manner in which they constantly referred to themselves, it might have been thought that they were a flock of sheep instead of being what they really were--a pack of wolves. when they heard brother didlum's announcement a murmur of intense rapture rose from the ladies, and mr starr rolled his eyes and smiled sweetly. brother didlum did not mention the details of the 'arrangement', to have done so at that time would have been most unseemly, but the following extract from the accounts of the chapel will not be out of place here: 'paid to rev. john starr for sunday, nov. --£ . . per the treasurer.' it was not a large sum considering the great services rendered by mr starr, but, small as it was, it is to be feared that many worldly, unconverted persons will think it was far too much to pay for a few words, even such wise words as mr john starr's admittedly always were. but the labourer is worthy of his hire. after the 'service' was over, most of the children, including charley and frankie, remained to get collecting cards. mr starr was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and a little later, when he rode away with mr belcher and mr sweater in the latter's motor car, the ladies looked hungrily after that conveyance, listening to the melancholy 'pip, pip' of its hooter and trying to console themselves with the reflection that they would see him again in a few hours' time at the evening service. chapter the lodger in accordance with his arrangement with hunter, owen commenced the work in the drawing-room on the monday morning. harlow and easton were distempering some of the ceilings, and about ten o'clock they went down to the scullery to get some more whitewash. crass was there as usual, pretending to be very busy mixing colours. 'well, wot do you think of it?' he said as he served them with what they required. 'think of what?' asked easton. 'why, hour speshul hartist,' replied crass with a sneer. 'do you think 'e's goin' to get through with it?' 'shouldn't like to say,' replied easton guardedly. 'you know it's one thing to draw on a bit of paper and colour it with a penny box of paints, and quite another thing to do it on a wall or ceiling,' continued crass. 'ain't it?' 'yes; that's true enough,' said harlow. 'do you believe they're 'is own designs?' crass went on. 'be rather 'ard to tell,' remarked easton, embarrassed. neither harlow nor easton shared crass's sentiments in this matter, but at the same time they could not afford to offend him by sticking up for owen. 'if you was to ast me, quietly,' crass added, 'i should be more inclined to say as 'e copied it all out of some book.' 'that's just about the size of it, mate,' agreed harlow. 'it would be a bit of all right if 'e was to make a bloody mess of it, wouldn't it?' crass continued with a malignant leer. 'not arf!' said harlow. when the two men regained the upper landing on which they were working they exchanged significant glances and laughed quietly. hearing these half-suppressed sounds of merriment, philpot, who was working alone in a room close by, put his head out of the doorway. 'wot's the game?' he inquired in a low voice. 'ole crass ain't arf wild about owen doin' that room,' replied harlow, and repeated the substance of crass's remarks. 'it is a bit of a take-down for the bleeder, ain't it, 'avin' to play second fiddle,' said philpot with a delighted grin. ''e's opin' owen'll make a mess of it,' easton whispered. 'well, 'e'll be disappointed, mate,' answered philpot. 'i was workin' along of owen for pushem and sloggem about two year ago, and i seen 'im do a job down at the royal 'otel--the smokin'-room ceilin' it was--and i can tell you it looked a bloody treat!' 'i've heard tell of it,' said harlow. 'there's no doubt owen knows 'is work,' remarked easton, 'although 'e is a bit orf is onion about socialism.' 'i don't know so much about that, mate,' returned philpot. 'i agree with a lot that 'e ses. i've often thought the same things meself, but i can't talk like 'im, 'cause i ain't got no 'ead for it.' 'i agree with some of it too,' said harlow with a laugh, 'but all the same 'e does say some bloody silly things, you must admit. for instance, that stuff about money bein' the cause of poverty.' 'yes. i can't exactly see that meself,' agreed philpot. 'we must tackle 'im about that at dinner-time,' said harlow. 'i should rather like to 'ear 'ow 'e makes it out.' 'for gord's sake don't go startin' no arguments at dinner-time,' said easton. 'leave 'im alone when 'e is quiet.' 'yes; let's 'ave our dinner in peace, if possible,' said philpot. 'sh!!' he added, hoarsely, suddenly holding up his hand warningly. they listened intently. it was evident from the creaking of the stairs that someone was crawling up them. philpot instantly disappeared. harlow lifted up the pail of whitewash and set it down again noisily. 'i think we'd better 'ave the steps and the plank over this side, easton,' he said in a loud voice. 'yes. i think that'll be the best way,' replied easton. while they were arranging their scaffold to do the ceiling crass arrived on the landing. he made no remark at first, but walked into the room to see how many ceilings they had done. 'you'd better look alive, you chaps, he said as he went downstairs again. 'if we don't get these ceilings finished by dinner-time, nimrod's sure to ramp.' 'all right,' said harlow, gruffly. 'we'll bloody soon slosh 'em over.' 'slosh' was a very suitable word; very descriptive of the manner in which the work was done. the cornices of the staircase ceilings were enriched with plaster ornaments. these ceilings were supposed to have been washed off, but as the men who were put to do that work had not been allowed sufficient time to do it properly, the crevices of the ornaments were still filled up with old whitewash, and by the time harlow and easton had 'sloshed' a lot more whitewash on to them they were mere formless unsightly lumps of plaster. the 'hands' who did the 'washing off' were not to blame. they had been hunted away from the work before it was half done. while harlow and easton were distempering these ceilings, philpot and the other hands were proceeding with the painting in different parts of the inside of the house, and owen, assisted by bert, was getting on with the work in the drawing-room, striking chalk lines and measuring and setting out the different panels. there were no 'political' arguments that day at dinner-time, to the disappointment of crass, who was still waiting for an opportunity to produce the obscurer cutting. after dinner, when the others had all gone back to their work, philpot unobtrusively returned to the kitchen and gathered up the discarded paper wrappers in which some of the men had brought their food. spreading one of these open, he shook the crumbs from the others upon it. in this way and by picking up particles of bread from the floor, he collected a little pile of crumbs and crusts. to these he added some fragments that he had left from his own dinner. he then took the parcel upstairs and opening one of the windows threw the crumbs on to the roof of the portico. he had scarcely closed the window when two starlings fluttered down and began to eat. philpot watching them furtively from behind the shutter. the afternoon passed uneventfully. from one till five seemed a very long time to most of the hands, but to owen and his mate, who were doing something in which they were able to feel some interest and pleasure, the time passed so rapidly that they both regretted the approach of evening. 'other days,' remarked bert, 'i always keeps on wishin' it was time to go 'ome, but today seems to 'ave gorn like lightnin'!' after leaving off that night, all the men kept together till they arrived down town, and then separated. owen went by himself: easton, philpot, crass and bundy adjourned to the 'cricketers arms' to have a drink together before going home, and slyme, who was a teetotaler, went by himself, although he was now lodging with easton. 'don't wait for me,' said the latter as he went off with crass and the others. 'i shall most likely catch you up before you get there.' 'all right,' replied slyme. this evening slyme did not take the direct road home. he turned into the main street, and, pausing before the window of a toy shop, examined the articles displayed therein attentively. after some minutes he appeared to have come to a decision, and entering the shop he purchased a baby's rattle for fourpence halfpenny. it was a pretty toy made of white bone and coloured wool, with a number of little bells hanging upon it, and a ring of white bone at the end of the handle. when he came out of the shop slyme set out for home, this time walking rapidly. when he entered the house ruth was sitting by the fire with the baby on her lap. she looked up with an expression of disappointment as she perceived that he was alone. 'where's will got to again?' she asked. 'he's gone to 'ave a drink with some of the chaps. he said he wouldn't be long,' replied slyme as he put his food basket on the dresser and went upstairs to his room to wash and to change his clothes. when he came down again, easton had not yet arrived. 'everything's ready, except just to make the tea,' said ruth, who was evidently annoyed at the continued absence of easton, 'so you may as well have yours now.' 'i'm in no hurry. i'll wait a little and see if he comes. he's sure to be here soon.' 'if you're sure you don't mind, i shall be glad if you will wait,' said ruth, 'because it will save me making two lots of tea.' they waited for about half an hour, talking at intervals in a constrained, awkward way about trivial subjects. then as easton did not come, ruth decided to serve slyme without waiting any longer. with this intention she laid the baby in its cot, but the child resented this arrangement and began to cry, so she had to hold him under her left arm while she made the tea. seeing her in this predicament, slyme exclaimed, holding out his hands: 'here, let me hold him while you do that.' 'will you?' said ruth, who, in spite of her instinctive dislike of the man, could not help feeling gratified with this attention. 'well, mind you don't let him fall.' but the instant slyme took hold of the child it began to cry even louder than it did when it was put into the cradle. 'he's always like that with strangers,' apologized ruth as she took him back again. 'wait a minute,' said slyme, 'i've got something upstairs in my pocket that will keep him quiet. i'd forgotten all about it.' he went up to his room and presently returned with the rattle. when the baby saw the bright colours and heard the tinkling of the bells he crowed with delight, and reached out his hands eagerly towards it and allowed slyme to take him without a murmur of protest. before ruth had finished making and serving the tea the man and child were on the very best of terms with each other, so much so indeed that when ruth had finished and went to take him again, the baby seemed reluctant to part from slyme, who had been dancing him in the air and tickling him in the most delightful way. ruth, too, began to have a better opinion of slyme, and felt inclined to reproach herself for having taken such an unreasonable dislike of him at first. he was evidently a very good sort of fellow after all. the baby had by this time discovered the use of the bone ring at the end of the handle of the toy and was biting it energetically. 'it's a very beautiful rattle,' said ruth. 'thank you very much for it. it's just the very thing he wanted.' 'i heard you say the other day that he wanted something of the kind to bite on to help his teeth through,' answered slyme, 'and when i happened to notice that in the shop i remembered what you said and thought i'd bring it home.' the baby took the ring out of its mouth and shaking the rattle frantically in the air laughed and crowed merrily, looking at slyme. 'dad! dad! dad!' he cried, holding out his arms. slyme and ruth burst out laughing. 'that's not your dad, you silly boy,' she said, kissing the child as she spoke. 'your dad ought to be ashamed of himself for staying out like this. we'll give him dad, dad, dad, when he does come home, won't we?' but the baby only shook the rattle and rang the bells and laughed and crowed and laughed again, louder than ever. chapter the filling of the tank viewed from outside, the 'cricketers arms' was a pretentious-looking building with plate-glass windows and a profusion of gilding. the pilasters were painted in imitation of different marbles and the doors grained to represent costly woods. there were panels containing painted advertisements of wines and spirits and beer, written in gold, and ornamented with gaudy colours. on the lintel over the principal entrance was inscribed in small white letters: 'a. harpy. licensed to sell wines, spirits and malt liquor by retail to be consumed either on or off the premises.' the bar was arranged in the usual way, being divided into several compartments. first there was the 'saloon bar': on the glass of the door leading into this was fixed a printed bill: 'no four ale served in this bar.' next to the saloon bar was the jug and bottle department, much appreciated by ladies who wished to indulge in a drop of gin on the quiet. there were also two small 'private' bars, only capable of holding two or three persons, where nothing less than fourpennyworth of spirits or glasses of ale at threepence were served. finally, the public bar, the largest compartment of all. at each end, separating it from the other departments, was a wooden partition, painted and varnished. wooden forms fixed across the partitions and against the walls under the windows provided seating accommodation for the customers. a large automatic musical instrument--a 'penny in the slot' polyphone--resembling a grandfather's clock in shape--stood against one of the partitions and close up to the counter, so that those behind the bar could reach to wind it up. hanging on the partition near the polyphone was a board about fifteen inches square, over the surface of which were distributed a number of small hooks, numbered. at the bottom of the board was a net made of fine twine, extended by means of a semi-circular piece of wire. in this net several india-rubber rings about three inches in diameter were lying. there was no table in the place but jutting out from the other partition was a hinged flap about three feet long by twenty inches wide, which could be folded down when not in use. this was the shove-ha'penny board. the coins--old french pennies--used in playing this game were kept behind the bar and might be borrowed on application. on the partition, just above the shove-ha'penny board was a neatly printed notice, framed and glazed: notice gentlemen using this house are requested to refrain from using obscene language. alongside this notice were a number of gaudily-coloured bills advertising the local theatre and the music-hall, and another of a travelling circus and menagerie, then visiting the town and encamped on a piece of waste ground about half-way on the road to windley. the fittings behind the bar, and the counter, were of polished mahogany, with silvered plate glass at the back of the shelves. on the shelves were rows of bottles and cut-glass decanters, gin, whisky, brandy and wines and liqueurs of different kinds. when crass, philpot, easton and bundy entered, the landlord, a well-fed, prosperous-looking individual in white shirt-sleeves, and a bright maroon fancy waistcoat with a massive gold watch-chain and a diamond ring, was conversing in an affable, friendly way with one of his regular customers, who was sitting on the end of the seat close to the counter, a shabbily dressed, bleary-eyed, degraded, beer-sodden, trembling wretch, who spent the greater part of every day, and all his money, in this bar. he was a miserable-looking wreck of a man about thirty years of age, supposed to be a carpenter, although he never worked at that trade now. it was commonly said that some years previously he had married a woman considerably his senior, the landlady of a third-rate lodging-house. this business was evidently sufficiently prosperous to enable him to exist without working and to maintain himself in a condition of perpetual semi-intoxication. this besotted wretch practically lived at the 'cricketers'. he came regularly very morning and sometimes earned a pint of beer by assisting the barman to sweep up the sawdust or clean the windows. he usually remained in the bar until closing time every night. he was a very good customer; not only did he spend whatever money he could get hold of himself, but he was the cause of others spending money, for he was acquainted with most of the other regular customers, who, knowing his impecunious condition, often stood him a drink 'for the good of the house'. the only other occupant of the public bar--previous to the entrance of crass and his mates--was a semi-drunken man, who appeared to be a house-painter, sitting on the form near the shove-ha'penny board. he was wearing a battered bowler hat and the usual shabby clothes. this individual had a very thin, pale face, with a large, high-bridged nose, and bore a striking resemblance to the portraits of the first duke of wellington. he was not a regular customer here, having dropped in casually about two o'clock and had remained ever since. he was beginning to show the effects of the drink he had taken during that time. as crass and the others came in they were hailed with enthusiasm by the landlord and the besotted wretch, while the semi-drunk workman regarded them with fishy eyes and stupid curiosity. 'wot cheer, bob?' said the landlord, affably, addressing crass, and nodding familiarly to the others. ''ow goes it?' 'all reet me ole dear!' replied crass, jovially. ''ow's yerself?' 'a. ,' replied the 'old dear', getting up from his chair in readiness to execute their orders. 'well, wot's it to be?' inquired philpot of the others generally. 'mine's a pint o' beer,' said crass. 'half for me,' said bundy. 'half o' beer for me too,' replied easton. 'that's one pint, two 'arves, and a pint o' porter for meself,' said philpot, turning and addressing the old dear. while the landlord was serving these drinks the besotted wretch finished his beer and set the empty glass down on the counter, and philpot observing this, said to him: ''ave one along o' me?' 'i don't mind if i do,' replied the other. when the drinks were served, philpot, instead of paying for them, winked significantly at the landlord, who nodded silently and unobtrusively made an entry in an account book that was lying on one of the shelves. although it was only monday and he had been at work all the previous week, philpot was already stony broke. this was accounted for by the fact that on saturday he had paid his landlady something on account of the arrears of board and lodging money that had accumulated while he was out of work; and he had also paid the old dear four shillings for drinks obtained on tick during the last week. 'well, 'ere's the skin orf yer nose,' said crass, nodding to philpot, and taking a long pull at the pint glass which the latter had handed to him. similar appropriate and friendly sentiments were expressed by the others and suitably acknowledged by philpot, the founder of the feast. the old dear now put a penny in the slot of the polyphone, and winding it up started it playing. it was some unfamiliar tune, but when the semi-drunk painter heard it he rose unsteadily to his feet and began shuffling and dancing about, singing: 'oh, we'll inwite you to the wedding, an' we'll 'ave a glorious time! where the boys an' girls is a-dancing, an' we'll all get drunk on wine.' ''ere! that's quite enough o' that!' cried the landlord, roughly. 'we don't want that row 'ere.' the semi-drunk stopped, and looking stupidly at the old dear, sank abashed on to the seat again. 'well, we may as well sit as stand--for a few minutes,' remarked crass, suiting the action to the word. the others followed his example. at frequent intervals the bar was entered by fresh customers, most of them working men on their way home, who ordered and drank their pint or half-pint of ale or porter and left at once. bundy began reading the advertisement of the circus and menageries and a conversation ensued concerning the wonderful performances of the trained animals. the old dear said that some of them had as much sense as human beings, and the manner with which he made this statement implied that he thought it was a testimonial to the sagacity of the brutes. he further said that he had heard--a little earlier in the evening--a rumour that one of the wild animals, a bear or something, had broken loose and was at present at large. this was what he had heard--he didn't know if it were true or not. for his own part he didn't believe it, and his hearers agreed that it was highly improbable. nobody ever knew how these silly yarns got about. presently the besotted wretch got up and, taking the india-rubber rings out of the net with a trembling hand, began throwing them one at a time at the hooks on the board. the rest of the company watched him with much interest, laughing when he made a very bad shot and applauding when he scored. ''e's a bit orf tonight,' remarked philpot aside to easton, 'but as a rule 'e's a fair knockout at it. throws a splendid ring.' the semidrunk regarded the proceedings of the besotted wretch with an expression of profound contempt. 'you can't play for nuts,' he said scornfully. 'can't i? i can play you, anyway.' 'right you are! i'll play you for drinks round!' cried the semi-drunk. for a moment the besotted wretch hesitated. he had not money enough to pay for drinks round. however, feeling confident of winning, he replied: 'come on then. what's it to be? fifty up?' 'anything you like! fifty or a 'undred or a bloody million!' 'better make it fifty for a start.' 'all right!' 'you play first if you like.' 'all right,' agreed the semi-drunk, anxious to distinguish himself. holding the six rings in his left hand, the man stood in the middle of the floor at a distance of about three yards from the board, with his right foot advanced. taking one of the rings between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, and closing his left eye, he carefully 'sighted' the centre hook, no. ; then he slowly extended his arm to its full length in the direction of the board: then bending his elbow, he brought his hand back again until it nearly touched his chin, and slowly extended his arm again. he repeated these movements several times, whilst the others watched with bated breath. getting it right at last he suddenly shot the ring at the board, but it did not go on no. ; it went over the partition into the private bar. this feat was greeted with a roar of laughter. the player stared at the board in a dazed way, wondering what had become of the ring. when someone in the next bar threw it over the partition again, he realized what had happened and, turning to the company with a sickly smile, remarked: 'i ain't got properly used to this board yet: that's the reason of it.' he now began throwing the other rings at the board rather wildly, without troubling to take aim. one struck the partition to the right of the board: one to the left: one underneath: one went over the counter, one on the floor, the other--the last--hit the board, and amid a shout of applause, caught on the centre hook no. , the highest number it was possible to score with a single throw. 'i shall be all right now that i've got the range,' observed the semi-drunk as he made way for his opponent. 'you'll see something now,' whispered philpot to easton. 'this bloke is a dandy!' the besotted wretch took up his position and with an affectation of carelessness began throwing the rings. it was really a remarkable exhibition, for notwithstanding the fact that his hand trembled like the proverbial aspen leaf, he succeeded in striking the board almost in the centre every time; but somehow or other most of them failed to catch on the hooks and fell into the net. when he finished his innings, he had only scored , two of the rings having caught on the no. hook. ''ard lines,' remarked bundy as he finished his beer and put the glass down on the counter. 'drink up and 'ave another,' said easton as he drained his own glass. 'i don't mind if i do,' replied crass, pouring what remained of the pint down his throat. philpot's glass had been empty for some time. 'same again,' said easton, addressing the old dear and putting six pennies on the counter. by this time the semi-drunk had again opened fire on the board, but he seemed to have lost the range, for none of the rings scored. they flew all over the place, and he finished his innings without increasing his total. the besotted wretch now sailed in and speedily piled up . then the semi-drunk had another go, and succeeded in getting . his case appeared hopeless, but his opponent in his next innings seemed to go all to pieces. twice he missed the board altogether, and when he did hit it he failed to score, until the very last throw, when he made . then the semi-drunk went in again and got . the scores were now: besotted wretch ........................ semi-drunk ............................. so far it was impossible to foresee the end. it was anybody's game. crass became so excited that he absentmindedly opened his mouth and shot his second pint down into his stomach with a single gulp, and bundy also drained his glass and called upon philpot and easton to drink up and have another, which they accordingly did. while the semi-drunk was having his next innings, the besotted wretch placed a penny on the counter and called for a half a pint, which he drank in the hope of steadying his nerves for a great effort. his opponent meanwhile threw the rings at the board and missed it every time, but all the same he scored, for one ring, after striking the partition about a foot above the board, fell down and caught on the hook. the other man now began his innings, playing very carefully, and nearly every ring scored. as he played, the others uttered exclamations of admiration and called out the result of every throw. 'one!' 'one again!' 'miss! no! got 'im! two!' 'miss!' 'miss!' 'four!' the semi-drunk accepted his defeat with a good grace, and after explaining that he was a bit out of practice, placed a shilling on the counter and invited the company to give their orders. everyone asked for 'the same again,' but the landlord served easton, bundy and the besotted wretch with pints instead of half-pints as before, so there was no change out of the shilling. 'you know, there's a great deal in not bein' used to the board,' said the semi-drunk. 'there's no disgrace in bein' beat by a man like 'im, mate,' said philpot. ''e's a champion!' 'yes, there's no mistake about it. 'e throws a splendid ring!' said bundy. this was the general verdict. the semi-drunk, though beaten, was not disgraced: and he was so affected by the good feeling manifested by the company that he presently produced a sixpence and insisted on paying for another half-pint all round. crass had gone outside during this conversation, but he returned in a few minutes. 'i feel a bit easier now,' he remarked with a laugh as he took the half-pint glass that the semi-drunk passed to him with a shaking hand. one after the other, within a few minutes, the rest followed crass's example, going outside and returning almost immediately: and as bundy, who was the last to return, came back he exclaimed: 'let's 'ave a game of shove-'a'penny.' 'all right,' said easton, who was beginning to feel reckless. 'but drink up first, and let's 'ave another.' he had only sevenpence left, just enough to pay for another pint for crass and half a pint for everyone else. the shove-ha'penny table was a planed mahogany board with a number of parallel lines scored across it. the game is played by placing the coin at the end of the board--the rim slightly overhanging the edge--and striking it with the back part of the palm of the hand, regulating the force of the blow according to the distance it is desired to drive the coin. 'what's become of alf tonight?' inquired philpot of the landlord whilst easton and bundy were playing. alf was the barman. ''e's doing a bit of a job down in the cellar; some of the valves gone a bit wrong. but the missus is comin' down to lend me a hand presently. 'ere she is now.' the landlady--who at this moment entered through the door at the back of the bar--was a large woman with a highly-coloured countenance and a tremendous bust, incased in a black dress with a shot silk blouse. she had several jewelled gold rings on the fingers of each fat white hand, and a long gold watch guard hung round her fat neck. she greeted crass and philpot with condescension, smiling affably upon them. meantime the game of shove-ha'penny proceeded merrily, the semi-drunk taking a great interest in it and tendering advice to both players impartially. bundy was badly beaten, and then easton suggested that it was time to think of going home. this proposal--slightly modified--met with general approval, the modification being suggested by philpot, who insisted on standing one final round of drinks before they went. while they were pouring this down their throats, crass took a penny from his waistcoat pocket and put it in the slot of the polyphone. the landlord put a fresh disc into it and wound it up and it began to play 'the boys of the bulldog breed.' the semi-drunk happened to know the words of the chorus of this song, and when he heard the music he started unsteadily to his feet and with many fierce looks and gestures began to roar at the top of his voice: 'they may build their ships, my lads, and try to play the game, but they can't build the boys of the bulldog breed, wot made ole hingland's--' ''ere! stop that, will yer?' cried the old dear, fiercely. 'i told you once before that i don't allow that sort of thing in my 'ouse!' the semi-drunk stopped in confusion. 'i don't mean no 'arm,' he said unsteadily, appealing to the company. 'i don't want no chin from you!' said the old dear with a ferocious scowl. 'if you want to make that row you can go somewheres else, and the sooner you goes the better. you've been 'ere long enough.' this was true. the man had been there long enough to spend every penny he had been possessed of when he first came: he had no money left now, a fact that the observant and experienced landlord had divined some time ago. he therefore wished to get rid of the fellow before the drink affected him further and made him helplessly drunk. the semi-drunk listened with indignation and wrath to the landlord's insulting words. 'i shall go when the bloody 'ell i like!' he shouted. 'i shan't ask you nor nobody else! who the bloody 'ell are you? you're nobody! see? nobody! it's orf the likes of me that you gets your bloody livin'! i shall stop 'ere as long as i bloody well like, and if you don't like it you can go to 'ell!' 'oh! yer will, will yer?' said the old dear. 'we'll soon see about that.' and, opening the door at the back of the bar, he roared out: 'alf!' 'yes, sir,' replied a voice, evidently from the basement. 'just come up 'ere.' 'all right,' replied the voice, and footsteps were heard ascending some stairs. 'you'll see some fun in a minute,' gleefully remarked crass to easton. the polyphone continued to play 'the boys of the bulldog breed.' philpot crossed over to the semi-drunk. 'look 'ere, old man,' he whispered, 'take my tip and go 'ome quietly. you'll only git the worse of it, you know.' 'not me, mate,' replied the other, shaking his head doggedly. ''ere i am, and 'ere i'm goin' to bloody well stop.' 'no, you ain't,' replied philpot coaxingly. ''look 'ere. i'll tell you wot we'll do. you 'ave just one more 'arf-pint along of me, and then we'll both go 'ome together. i'll see you safe 'ome.' 'see me safe 'ome! wotcher mean?' indignantly demanded the other. 'do you think i'm drunk or wot?' 'no. certainly not,' replied philpot, hastily. 'you're all right, as right as i am myself. but you know wot i mean. let's go 'ome. you don't want to stop 'ere all night, do you?' by this time alf had arrived at the door of the back of the bar. he was a burly young man about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. 'put it outside,' growled the landlord, indicating the culprit. the barman instantly vaulted over the counter, and, having opened wide the door leading into the street, he turned to the half-drunken man and, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door, said: 'are yer goin'?' 'i'm goin' to 'ave 'arf a pint along of this genelman first--' 'yes. it's all right,' said philpot to the landlord. 'let's 'ave two 'arf-pints, and say no more about it.' 'you mind your own business,' shouted the landlord, turning savagely on him. ''e'll get no more 'ere! i don't want no drunken men in my 'ouse. who asked you to interfere?' 'now then!' exclaimed the barman to the cause of the trouble, 'outside!' 'not me!' said the semi-drunk firmly. 'not before i've 'ad my 'arf--' but before he could conclude, the barman had clutched him by the collar, dragged him violently to the door and shot him into the middle of the road, where he fell in a heap almost under the wheels of a brewer's dray that happened to be passing. this accomplished, alf shut the door and retired behind the counter again. 'serve 'im bloody well right,' said crass. 'i couldn't 'elp laughin' when i seen 'im go flyin' through the bloody door,' said bundy. 'you oughter 'ave more sense than to go interferin' like that,' said crass to philpot. 'it was nothing to do with you.' philpot made no reply. he was standing with his back to the others, peeping out into the street over the top of the window casing. then he opened the door and went out into the street. crass and the others--through the window--watched him assist the semi-drunk to his feet and rub some of the dirt off his clothes, and presently after some argument they saw the two go away together arm in arm. crass and the others laughed, and returned to their half-finished drinks. 'why, old joe ain't drunk 'ardly 'arf of 'is!' cried easton, seeing philpot's porter on the counter. 'fancy going away like that!' 'more fool 'im,' growled crass. 'there was no need for it: the man's all right.' the besotted wretch gulped his beer down as quickly as he could, with his eyes fixed greedily on philpot's glass. he had just finished his own and was about to suggest that it was a pity to waste the porter when philpot unexpectedly reappeared. 'hullo! what 'ave you done with 'im?' inquired crass. 'i think 'e'll be all right,' replied philpot. 'he wouldn't let me go no further with 'im: said if i didn't go away, 'e'd go for me! but i believe 'e'll be all right. i think the fall sobered 'im a bit.' 'oh, 'e's all right,' said crass offhandedly. 'there's nothing the matter with 'im.' philpot now drank his porter, and bidding 'good night' to the old dear, the landlady and the besotted wretch, they all set out for home. as they went along the dark and lonely thoroughfare that led over the hill to windley, they heard from time to time the weird roaring of the wild animals in the menagerie that was encamped in the adjacent field. just as they reached a very gloomy and deserted part, they suddenly observed a dark object in the middle of the road some distance in front of them. it seemed to be a large animal of some kind and was coming slowly and stealthily towards them. they stopped, peering in a half-frightened way through the darkness. the animal continued to approach. bundy stooped down to the ground, groping about in search of a stone, and--with the exception of crass, who was too frightened to move--the others followed his example. they found several large stones and stood waiting for the creature--whatever it was--to come a little nearer so as to get a fair shot at it. they were about to let fly when the creature fell over on its side and moaned as if in pain. observing this, the four men advanced cautiously towards it. bundy struck a match and held it over the prostrate figure. it was the semi-drunk. after parting from philpot, the poor wretch had managed to walk all right for some distance. as philpot had remarked, the fall had to some extent sobered him; but he had not gone very far before the drink he had taken began to affect him again and he had fallen down. finding it impossible to get up, he began crawling along on his hands and knees, unconscious of the fact that he was travelling in the wrong direction. even this mode of progression failed him at last, and he would probably have been run over if they had not found him. they raised him up, and philpot, exhorting him to 'pull himself together' inquired where he lived. the man had sense enough left to be able to tell them his address, which was fortunately at windley, where they all resided. bundy and philpot took him home, separating from crass and easton at the corner of the street where both the latter lived. crass felt very full and satisfied with himself. he had had six and a half pints of beer, and had listened to two selections on the polyphone at a total cost of one penny. easton had but a few yards to go before reaching his own house after parting from crass, but he paused directly he heard the latter's door close, and leaning against a street lamp yielded to the feeling of giddiness and nausea that he had been fighting against all the way home. all the inanimate objects around him seemed to be in motion. the lights of the distant street lamps appeared to be floating about the pavement and the roadway rose and fell like the surface of a troubled sea. he searched his pockets for his handkerchief and having found it wiped his mouth, inwardly congratulating himself that crass was not there to see him. resuming his walk, after a few minutes he reached his own home. as he passed through, the gate closed of itself after him, clanging loudly. he went rather unsteadily up the narrow path that led to his front door and entered. the baby was asleep in the cradle. slyme had gone up to his own room, and ruth was sitting sewing by the fireside. the table was still set for two persons, for she had not yet taken her tea. easton lurched in noisily. ''ello, old girl!' he cried, throwing his dinner basket carelessly on the floor with an affectation of joviality and resting his hands on the table to support himself. 'i've come at last, you see.' ruth left off sewing, and, letting her hands fall into her lap, sat looking at him. she had never seen him like this before. his face was ghastly pale, the eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, the lips tremulous and moist, and the ends of the hair of his fair moustache, stuck together with saliva and stained with beer, hung untidily round his mouth in damp clusters. perceiving that she did not speak or smile, easton concluded that she was angry and became grave himself. 'i've come at last, you see, my dear; better late than never.' he found it very difficult to speak plainly, for his lips trembled and refused to form the words. 'i don't know so much about that,' said ruth, inclined to cry and trying not to let him see the pity she could not help feeling for him. 'a nice state you're in. you ought to be ashamed of yourself.' easton shook his head and laughed foolishly. 'don't be angry, ruth. it's no good, you know.' he walked clumsily towards her, still leaning on the table to steady himself. 'don't be angry,' he mumbled as he stooped over her, putting his arm round her neck and his face close to hers. 'it's no good being angry, you know, dear.' she shrank away, shuddering with involuntary disgust as he pressed his wet lips and filthy moustache upon her mouth. his fetid breath, foul with the smell of tobacco and beer, and the odour of the stale tobacco smoke that exuded from his clothes filled her with loathing. he kissed her repeatedly and when at last he released her she hastily wiped her face with her handkerchief and shivered. easton said he did not want any tea, and went upstairs to bed almost immediately. ruth did not want any tea either now, although she had been very hungry before he came home. she sat up very late, sewing, and when at length she did go upstairs she found him lying on his back, partly undressed on the outside of the bedclothes, with his mouth wide open, breathing stertorously. chapter the forty thieves. the battle: brigands versus bandits this is an even more unusually dull and uninteresting chapter, and introduces several matters that may appear to have nothing to do with the case. the reader is nevertheless entreated to peruse it, because it contains certain information necessary to an understanding of this history. the town of mugsborough was governed by a set of individuals called the municipal council. most of these 'representatives of the people' were well-to-do or retired tradesmen. in the opinion of the inhabitants of mugsborough, the fact that a man had succeeded in accumulating money in business was a clear demonstration of his fitness to be entrusted with the business of the town. consequently, when that very able and successful man of business mr george rushton was put up for election to the council he was returned by a large majority of the votes of the working men who thought him an ideal personage... these brigands did just as they pleased. no one ever interfered with them. they never consulted the ratepayers in any way. even at election time they did not trouble to hold meetings: each one of them just issued a kind of manifesto setting forth his many noble qualities and calling upon the people for their votes: and the latter never failed to respond. they elected the same old crew time after time... the brigands committed their depredations almost unhindered, for the voters were engaged in the battle of life. take the public park for instance. like so many swine around a trough--they were so busily engaged in this battle that most of them had no time to go to the park, or they might have noticed that there were not so many costly plants there as there should have been. and if they had inquired further they would have discovered that nearly all the members of the town council had very fine gardens. there was reason for these gardens being so grand, for the public park was systematically robbed of its best to make them so. there was a lake in the park where large numbers of ducks and geese were kept at the ratepayers' expense. in addition to the food provided for these fowl with public money, visitors to the park used to bring them bags of biscuits and bread crusts. when the ducks and geese were nicely fattened the brigands used to carry them off and devour them at home. when they became tired of eating duck or goose, some of the councillors made arrangements with certain butchers and traded away the birds for meat. one of the most energetic members of the band was mr jeremiah didlum, the house-furnisher, who did a large hire system trade. he had an extensive stock of second-hand furniture that he had resumed possession of when the unfortunate would-be purchasers failed to pay the instalments regularly. other of the second-hand things had been purchased for a fraction of their real value at sheriff's sales or from people whom misfortune or want of employment had reduced to the necessity of selling their household possessions. another notable member of the band was mr amos grinder, who had practically monopolized the greengrocery trade and now owned nearly all the fruiterers' shops in the town. as for the other shops, if they did not buy their stocks from him--or, rather, the company of which he was managing director and principal shareholder--if these other fruiterers and greengrocers did not buy their stuff from his company, he tried to smash them by opening branches in their immediate neighbourhood and selling below cost. he was a self-made man: an example of what may be accomplished by cunning and selfishness. then there was the chief of the band--mr adam sweater, the mayor. he was always the chief, although he was not always mayor, it being the rule that the latter 'honour' should be enjoyed by all the members of the band in turn. a bright 'honour', forsooth! to be the first citizen in a community composed for the most part of ignorant semi-imbeciles, slaves, slave-drivers and psalm-singing hypocrites. mr sweater was the managing director and principal shareholder of a large drapery business in which he had amassed a considerable fortune. this was not very surprising, considering that he paid none of his workpeople fair wages and many of them no wages at all. he employed a great number of girls and young women who were supposed to be learning dressmaking, mantle-making or millinery. these were all indentured apprentices, some of whom had paid premiums of from five to ten pounds. they were 'bound' for three years. for the first two years they received no wages: the third year they got a shilling or eightpence a week. at the end of the third year they usually got the sack, unless they were willing to stay on as improvers at from three shillings to four and sixpence per week. they worked from half past eight in the morning till eight at night, with an interval of an hour for dinner, and at half past four they ceased work for fifteen minutes for tea. this was provided by the firm--half a pint for each girl, but they had to bring their own milk and sugar and bread and butter. few of the girls ever learned their trades thoroughly. some were taught to make sleeves; others cuffs or button-holes, and so on. the result was that in a short time each one became very expert and quick at one thing; and although their proficiency in this one thing would never enable them to earn a decent living, it enabled mr sweater to make money during the period of their apprenticeship, and that was all he cared about. occasionally a girl of intelligence and spirit would insist on the fulfilment of the terms of her indentures, and sometimes the parents would protest. if this were persisted in those girls got on better: but even these were turned to good account by the wily sweater, who induced the best of them to remain after their time was up by paying them what appeared--by contrast with the others girls' money--good wages, sometimes even seven or eight shillings a week! and liberal promises of future advancement. these girls then became a sort of reserve who could be called up to crush any manifestation of discontent on the part of the leading hands. the greater number of the girls, however, submitted tamely to the conditions imposed upon them. they were too young to realize the wrong that was being done them. as for their parents, it never occurred to them to doubt the sincerity of so good a man as mr sweater, who was always prominent in every good and charitable work. at the expiration of the girl's apprenticeship, if the parents complained of her want of proficiency, the pious sweater would attribute it to idleness or incapacity, and as the people were generally poor he seldom or never had any trouble with them. this was how he fulfilled the unctuous promise made to the confiding parents at the time the girl was handed over to his tender mercy--that he would 'make a woman of her'. this method of obtaining labour by false pretences and without payment, which enabled him to produce costly articles for a mere fraction of the price for which they were eventually sold, was adopted in other departments of his business. he procured shop assistants of both sexes on the same terms. a youth was indentured, usually for five years, to be 'made a man of and 'turned out fit to take a position in any house'. if possible, a premium, five, ten, or twenty pounds--according to their circumstances--would be extracted from the parents. for the first three years, no wages: after that, perhaps two or three shillings a week. at the end of the five years the work of 'making a man of him' would be completed. mr sweater would then congratulate him and assure him that he was qualified to assume a 'position' in any house but regret that there was no longer any room for him in his. business was so bad. still, if the man wished he might stay on until he secured a better 'position' and, as a matter of generosity, although he did not really need the man's services, he would pay him ten shillings per week! provided he was not addicted to drinking, smoking, gambling or the stock exchange, or going to theatres, the young man's future was thus assured. even if he were unsuccessful in his efforts to obtain another position he could save a portion of his salary and eventually commence business on his own account. however, the branch of mr sweater's business to which it is desired to especially direct the reader's attention was the homeworkers department. he employed a large number of women making ladies' blouses, fancy aprons and children's pinafores. most of these articles were disposed of wholesale in london and elsewhere, but some were retailed at 'sweaters' emporium' in mugsborough and at the firm's other retail establishments throughout the county. many of the women workers were widows with children, who were glad to obtain any employment that did not take them away from their homes and families. the blouses were paid for at the rate of from two shillings to five shillings a dozen, the women having to provide their own machine and cotton, besides calling for and delivering the work. these poor women were able to clear from six to eight shillings a week: and to earn even that they had to work almost incessantly for fourteen or sixteen hours a day. there was no time for cooking and very little to cook, for they lived principally on bread and margarine and tea. their homes were squalid, their children half-starved and raggedly clothed in grotesque garments hastily fashioned out of the cast-off clothes of charitable neighbours. but it was not in vain that these women toiled every weary day until exhaustion compelled them to cease. it was not in vain that they passed their cheerless lives bending with aching shoulders over the thankless work that barely brought them bread. it was not in vain that they and their children went famished and in rags, for after all, the principal object of their labour was accomplished: the good cause was advanced. mr sweater waxed rich and increased in goods and respectability. of course, none of those women were compelled to engage in that glorious cause. no one is compelled to accept any particular set of conditions in a free country like this. mr trafaim--the manager of sweater's homework department--always put the matter before them in the plainest, fairest possible way. there was the work: that was the figure! and those who didn't like it could leave it. there was no compulsion. sometimes some perverse creature belonging to that numerous class who are too lazy to work did leave it! but as the manager said, there were plenty of others who were only too glad to take it. in fact, such was the enthusiasm amongst these women--especially such of them as had little children to provide for--and such was their zeal for the cause, that some of them have been known to positively beg to be allowed to work! by these and similar means adam sweater had contrived to lay up for himself a large amount of treasure upon earth, besides attaining undoubted respectability; for that he was respectable no one questioned. he went to chapel twice every sunday, his obese figure arrayed in costly apparel, consisting--with other things--of grey trousers, a long garment called a frock-coat, a tall silk hat, a quantity of jewellery and a morocco-bound gilt-edged bible. he was an official of some sort of the shining light chapel. his name appeared in nearly every published list of charitable subscriptions. no starving wretch had ever appealed to him in vain for a penny soup ticket. small wonder that when this good and public-spirited man offered his services to the town--free of charge--the intelligent working men of mugsborough accepted his offer with enthusiastic applause. the fact that he had made money in business was a proof of his intellectual capacity. his much-advertised benevolence was a guarantee that his abilities would be used to further not his own private interests, but the interests of every section of the community, especially those of the working classes, of whom the majority of his constituents was composed. as for the shopkeepers, they were all so absorbed in their own business--so busily engaged chasing their employees, adding up their accounts, and dressing themselves up in feeble imitation of the 'haristocracy'--that they were incapable of taking a really intelligent interest in anything else. they thought of the town council as a kind of paradise reserved exclusively for jerry-builders and successful tradesmen. possibly, some day, if they succeeded in making money, they might become town councillors themselves! but in the meantime public affairs were no particular concern of theirs. so some of them voted for adam sweater because he was a liberal and some of them voted against him for the same 'reason'. now and then, when details of some unusually scandalous proceeding of the council's leaked out, the townspeople--roused for a brief space from their customary indifference--would discuss the matter in a casual, half-indignant, half-amused, helpless sort of way; but always as if it were something that did not directly concern them. it was during some such nine days' wonder that the title of 'the forty thieves' was bestowed on the members of the council by their semi-imbecile constituents, who, not possessing sufficient intelligence to devise means of punishing the culprits, affected to regard the manoeuvres of the brigands as a huge joke. there was only one member of the council who did not belong to the band--councillor weakling, a retired physician; but unfortunately he also was a respectable man. when he saw something going forwards that he did not think was right, he protested and voted against it and then--he collapsed! there was nothing of the low agitator about him. as for the brigands, they laughed at his protests and his vote did not matter. with this one exception, the other members of the band were very similar in character to sweater, rushton, didlum and grinder. they had all joined the band with the same objects, self-glorification and the advancement of their private interests. these were the real reasons why they besought the ratepayers to elect them to the council, but of course none of them ever admitted that such was the case. no! when these noble-minded altruists offered their services to the town they asked the people to believe that they were actuated by a desire to give their time and abilities for the purpose of furthering the interests of others, which was much the same as asking them to believe that it is possible for the leopard to change his spots. owing to the extraordinary apathy of the other inhabitants, the brigands were able to carry out their depredations undisturbed. daylight robberies were of frequent occurrence. for many years these brigands had looked with greedy eyes upon the huge profits of the gas company. they thought it was a beastly shame that those other bandits should be always raiding the town and getting clear away with such rich spoils. at length--about two years ago--after much study and many private consultations, a plan of campaign was evolved; a secret council of war was held, presided over by mr sweater, and the brigands formed themselves into an association called 'the mugsborough electric light supply and installation coy. ltd.', and bound themselves by a solemn oath to do their best to drive the gas works bandits out of the town and to capture the spoils at present enjoyed by the latter for themselves. there was a large piece of ground, the property of the town, that was a suitable site for the works; so in their character of directors of the electric light coy. they offered to buy this land from the municipality--or, in other words, from themselves--for about half its value. at the meeting of the town council when this offer was considered, all the members present, with the solitary exception of dr weakling, being shareholders in the newly formed company, councillor rushton moved a resolution in favour of accepting it. he said that every encouragement should be given to the promoters of the electric light coy., those public-spirited citizens who had come forward and were willing to risk their capital in an undertaking that would be a benefit to every class of residents in the town that they all loved so well. (applause.) there could be no doubt that the introduction of the electric light would be a great addition to the attractions of mugsborough, but there was another and more urgent reason that disposed him to do whatever he could to encourage the company to proceed with this work. unfortunately, as was usual at that time of the year (mr rushton's voice trembled with emotion) the town was full of unemployed. (the mayor, alderman sweater, and all the other councillors shook their heads sadly; they were visibly affected.) there was no doubt that the starting of that work at that time would be an inestimable boon to the working-classes. as the representative of a working-class ward he was in favour of accepting the offer of the company. (hear. hear.) councillor didlum seconded. in his opinion, it would be nothing short of a crime to oppose anything that would provide work for the unemployed. councillor weakling moved that the offer be refused. (shame.) he admitted that the electric light would be an improvement to the town, and in view of the existing distress he would be glad to see the work started, but the price mentioned was altogether too low. it was not more than half the value of the land. (derisive laughter.) councillor grinder said he was astonished at the attitude taken up by councillor weakling. in his (grinder's) opinion it was disgraceful that a member of the council should deliberately try to wreck a project which would do so much towards relieving the unemployed. the mayor, alderman sweater, said that he could not allow the amendment to be discussed until it was seconded: if there were no seconder he would put the original motion. there was no seconder, because everyone except weakling was in favour of the resolution, which was carried amid loud cheers, and the representatives of the ratepayers proceeded to the consideration of the next business. councillor didlum proposed that the duty on all coal brought into the borough be raised from two shillings to three shillings per ton. councillor rushton seconded. the largest consumer of coal was the gas coy., and, considering the great profits made by that company, they were quite justified in increasing the duty to the highest figure the act permitted. after a feeble protest from weakling, who said it would only increase the price of gas and coal without interfering with the profits of the gas coy., this was also carried, and after some other business had been transacted, the band dispersed. that meeting was held two years ago, and since that time the electric light works had been built and the war against the gasworks carried on vigorously. after several encounters, in which they lost a few customers and a portion of the public lighting, the gasworks bandits retreated out of the town and entrenched themselves in a strong position beyond the borough boundary, where they erected a number of gasometers. they were thus enabled to pour gas into the town at long range without having to pay the coal dues. this masterly stratagem created something like a panic in the ranks of the forty thieves. at the end of two years they found themselves exhausted with the protracted campaign, their movements hampered by a lot of worn-out plant and antiquated machinery, and harassed on every side by the lower charges of the gas coy. they were reluctantly constrained to admit that the attempt to undermine the gasworks was a melancholy failure, and that the mugsborough electric light and installation coy. was a veritable white elephant. they began to ask themselves what they should do with it; and some of them even urged unconditional surrender, or an appeal to the arbitration of the bankruptcy court. in the midst of all the confusion and demoralization there was, however, one man who did not lose his presence of mind, who in this dark hour of disaster remained calm and immovable, and like a vast mountain of flesh reared his head above the storm, whose mighty intellect perceived a way to turn this apparently hopeless defeat into a glorious victory. that man was adam sweater, the chief of the band. chapter the reign of terror. the great money trick during the next four weeks the usual reign of terror continued at 'the cave'. the men slaved like so many convicts under the vigilant surveillance of crass, misery and rushton. no one felt free from observation for a single moment. it happened frequently that a man who was working alone--as he thought--on turning round would find hunter or rushton standing behind him: or one would look up from his work to catch sight of a face watching him through a door or a window or over the banisters. if they happened to be working in a room on the ground floor, or at a window on any floor, they knew that both rushton and hunter were in the habit of hiding among the trees that surrounded the house, and spying upon them thus. there was a plumber working outside repairing the guttering that ran round the bottom edge of the roof. this poor wretch's life was a perfect misery: he fancied he saw hunter or rushton in every bush. he had two ladders to work from, and since these ladders had been in use misery had thought of a new way of spying on the men. finding that he never succeeded in catching anyone doing anything wrong when he entered the house by one of the doors, misery adopted the plan of crawling up one of the ladders, getting in through one of the upper windows and creeping softly downstairs and in and out of the rooms. even then he never caught anyone, but that did not matter, for he accomplished his principal purpose--every man seemed afraid to cease working for even an instant. the result of all this was, of course, that the work progressed rapidly towards completion. the hands grumbled and cursed, but all the same every man tore into it for all he was worth. although he did next to nothing himself, crass watched and urged on the others. he was 'in charge of the job': he knew that unless he succeeded in making this work pay he would not be put in charge of another job. on the other hand, if he did make it pay he would be given the preference over others and be kept on as long as the firm had any work. the firm would give him the preference only as long as it paid them to do so. as for the hands, each man knew that there was no chance of obtaining work anywhere else at present; there were dozens of men out of employment already. besides, even if there had been a chance of getting another job somewhere else, they knew that the conditions were more or less the same on every firm. some were even worse than this one. each man knew that unless he did as much as ever he could, crass would report him for being slow. they knew also that when the job began to draw to a close the number of men employed upon it would be reduced, and when that time came the hands who did the most work would be kept on and the slower ones discharged. it was therefore in the hope of being one of the favoured few that while inwardly cursing the rest for 'tearing into it', everyone as a matter of self-preservation went and 'tore into it' themselves. they all cursed crass, but most of them would have been very glad to change places with him: and if any one of them had been in his place they would have been compelled to act in the same way--or lose the job. they all reviled hunter, but most of them would have been glad to change places with him also: and if any one of them had been in his place they would have been compelled to do the same things, or lose the job. they all hated and blamed rushton. yet if they had been in rushton's place they would have been compelled to adopt the same methods, or become bankrupt: for it is obvious that the only way to compete successfully against other employers who are sweaters is to be a sweater yourself. therefore no one who is an upholder of the present system can consistently blame any of these men. blame the system. if you, reader, had been one of the hands, would you have slogged? or would you have preferred to starve and see your family starve? if you had been in crass's place, would you have resigned rather than do such dirty work? if you had had hunter's berth, would you have given it up and voluntarily reduced yourself to the level of the hands? if you had been rushton, would you rather have become bankrupt than treat your 'hands' and your customers in the same way as your competitors treated theirs? it may be that, so placed, you--being the noble-minded paragon that you are--would have behaved unselfishly. but no one has any right to expect you to sacrifice yourself for the benefit of other people who would only call you a fool for your pains. it may be true that if any one of the hands--owen, for instance--had been an employer of labour, he would have done the same as other employers. some people seem to think that proves that the present system is all right! but really it only proves that the present system compels selfishness. one must either trample upon others or be trampled upon oneself. happiness might be possible if everyone were unselfish; if everyone thought of the welfare of his neighbour before thinking of his own. but as there is only a very small percentage of such unselfish people in the world, the present system has made the earth into a sort of hell. under the present system there is not sufficient of anything for everyone to have enough. consequently there is a fight--called by christians the 'battle of life'. in this fight some get more than they need, some barely enough, some very little, and some none at all. the more aggressive, cunning, unfeeling and selfish you are the better it will be for you. as long as this 'battle of life' system endures, we have no right to blame other people for doing the same things that we are ourselves compelled to do. blame the system. but that is just what the hands did not do. they blamed each other; they blamed crass, and hunter, and rushton, but with the great system of which they were all more or less the victims they were quite content, being persuaded that it was the only one possible and the best that human wisdom could devise. the reason why they all believed this was because not one of them had ever troubled to inquire whether it would not be possible to order things differently. they were content with the present system. if they had not been content they would have been anxious to find some way to alter it. but they had never taken the trouble to seriously inquire whether it was possible to find some better way, and although they all knew in a hazy fashion that other methods of managing the affairs of the world had already been proposed, they neglected to inquire whether these other methods were possible or practicable, and they were ready and willing to oppose with ignorant ridicule or brutal force any man who was foolish or quixotic enough to try to explain to them the details of what he thought was a better way. they accepted the present system in the same way as they accepted the alternating seasons. they knew that there was spring and summer and autumn and winter. as to how these different seasons came to be, or what caused them, they hadn't the remotest notion, and it is extremely doubtful whether the question had ever occurred to any of them: but there is no doubt whatever about the fact that none of them knew. from their infancy they had been trained to distrust their own intelligence, and to leave the management of the affairs of the world--and for that matter of the next world too--to their betters; and now most of them were absolutely incapable of thinking of any abstract subject whatever. nearly all their betters--that is, the people who do nothing--were unanimous in agreeing that the present system is a very good one and that it is impossible to alter or improve it. therefore crass and his mates, although they knew nothing whatever about it themselves, accepted it as an established, incontrovertible fact that the existing state of things is immutable. they believed it because someone else told them so. they would have believed anything: on one condition--namely, that they were told to believe it by their betters. they said it was surely not for the like of them to think that they knew better than those who were more educated and had plenty of time to study. as the work in the drawing-room proceeded, crass abandoned the hope that owen was going to make a mess of it. some of the rooms upstairs being now ready for papering, slyme was started on that work, bert being taken away from owen to assist slyme as paste boy, and it was arranged that crass should help owen whenever he needed someone to lend him a hand. sweater came frequently during these four weeks, being interested in the progress of the work. on these occasions crass always managed to be present in the drawing-room and did most of the talking. owen was very satisfied with this arrangement, for he was always ill at ease when conversing with a man like sweater, who spoke in an offensively patronizing way and expected common people to kowtow to and 'sir' him at every second word. crass however, seemed to enjoy doing that kind of thing. he did not exactly grovel on the floor, when sweater spoke to him, but he contrived to convey the impression that he was willing to do so if desired. outside the house bundy and his mates had dug deep trenches in the damp ground in which they were laying new drains. this work, like that of the painting of the inside of the house, was nearly completed. it was a miserable job. owing to the fact that there had been a spell of bad weather the ground was sodden with rain and there was mud everywhere, the men's clothing and boots being caked with it. but the worst thing about the job was the smell. for years the old drain-pipes had been defective and leaky. the ground a few feet below the surface was saturated with fetid moisture and a stench as of a thousand putrefying corpse emanated from the opened earth. the clothing of the men who were working in the trenches became saturated with this fearful odour, and for that matter, so did the men themselves. they said they could smell and taste it all the time, even when they were away from the work at home, and when they were at meals. although they smoked their pipes all the time they were at work, misery having ungraciously given them permission, several times bundy and one or other of his mates were attacked with fits of vomiting. but, as they began to realize that the finish of the job was in sight, a kind of panic seized upon the hands, especially those who had been taken on last and who would therefore be the first to be 'stood still'. easton, however, felt pretty confident that crass would do his best to get him kept on till the end of the job, for they had become quite chummy lately, usually spending a few evenings together at the cricketers every week. 'there'll be a bloody slaughter 'ere soon,' remarked harlow to philpot one day as they were painting the banisters of the staircase. 'i reckon next week will about finish the inside.' 'and the outside ain't goin' to take very long, you know,' replied philpot. 'they ain't got no other work in, have they?' 'not that i knows of,' replied philpot gloomily; 'and i don't think anyone else has either.' 'you know that little place they call the "kiosk" down the grand parade, near the bandstand,' asked harlow after a pause. 'where they used to sell refreshments?' 'yes; it belongs to the corporation, you know.' 'it's been closed up lately, ain't it?' 'yes; the people who 'ad it couldn't make it pay; but i 'eard last night that grinder the fruit-merchant is goin' to open it again. if it's true, there'll be a bit of a job there for someone, because it'll 'ave to be done up.' 'well, i hope it does come orf replied philpot. 'it'll be a job for some poor b--rs.' 'i wonder if they've started anyone yet on the venetian blinds for this 'ouse?' remarked easton after a pause. 'i don't know,' replied philpot. they relapsed into silence for a while. 'i wonder what time it is?' said philpot at length. 'i don't know 'ow you feel, but i begin to want my dinner.' 'that's just what i was thinking; it can't be very far off it now. it's nearly 'arf an hour since bert went down to make the tea. it seems a 'ell of a long morning to me.' 'so it does to me,' said philpot; 'slip upstairs and ask slyme what time it is.' harlow laid his brush across the top of his paint-pot and went upstairs. he was wearing a pair of cloth slippers, and walked softly, not wishing that crass should hear him leaving his work, so it happened that without any intention of spying on slyme, harlow reached the door of the room in which the former was working without being heard and, entering suddenly, surprised slyme--who was standing near the fireplace--in the act of breaking a whole roll of wallpaper across his knee as one might break a stick. on the floor beside him was what had been another roll, now broken into two pieces. when harlow came in, slyme started, and his face became crimson with confusion. he hastily gathered the broken rolls together and, stooping down, thrust the pieces up the flue of the grate and closed the register. 'wot's the bloody game?' inquired harlow. slyme laughed with an affectation of carelessness, but his hands trembled and his face was now very pale. 'we must get our own back somehow, you know, fred,' he said. harlow did not reply. he did not understand. after puzzling over it for a few minutes, he gave it up. 'what's the time?' he asked. 'fifteen minutes to twelve,' said slyme and added, as harlow was going away: 'don't mention anything about that paper to crass or any of the others.' 'i shan't say nothing,' replied harlow. gradually, as he pondered over it, harlow began to comprehend the meaning of the destruction of the two rolls of paper. slyme was doing the paperhanging piecework--so much for each roll hung. four of the rooms upstairs had been done with the same pattern, and hunter--who was not over-skilful in such matters--had evidently sent more paper than was necessary. by getting rid of these two rolls, slyme would be able to make it appear that he had hung two rolls more than was really the case. he had broken the rolls so as to be able to take them away from the house without being detected, and he had hidden them up the chimney until he got an opportunity of so doing. harlow had just arrived at this solution of the problem when, hearing the lower flight of stairs creaking, he peeped over and observed misery crawling up. he had come to see if anyone had stopped work before the proper time. passing the two workmen without speaking, he ascended to the next floor, and entered the room where slyme was. 'you'd better not do this room yet,' said hunter. 'there's to be a new grate and mantelpiece put in.' he crossed over to the fireplace and stood looking at it thoughtfully for a few minutes. 'it's not a bad little grate, you know, is it?' he remarked. 'we'll be able to use it somewhere or other.' 'yes; it's all right,' said slyme, whose heart was beating like a steam-hammer. 'do for a front room in a cottage,' continued misery, stooping down to examine it more closely. 'there's nothing broke that i can see.' he put his hand against the register and vainly tried to push it open. 'h'm, there's something wrong 'ere,' he remarked, pushing harder. 'most likely a brick or some plaster fallen down,' gasped slyme, coming to misery's assistance. 'shall i try to open it?' 'don't trouble,' replied nimrod, rising to his feet. 'it's most likely what you say. i'll see that the new grate is sent up after dinner. bundy can fix it this afternoon and then you can go on papering as soon as you like.' with this, misery went out of the room, downstairs and away from the house, and slyme wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. then he knelt down and, opening the register, he took out the broken rolls of paper and hid them up the chimney of the next room. while he was doing this the sound of crass's whistle shrilled through the house. 'thank gord!' exclaimed philpot fervently as he laid his brushes on the top of his pot and joined in the general rush to the kitchen. the scene here is already familiar to the reader. for seats, the two pairs of steps laid on their sides parallel to each other, about eight feet apart and at right angles to the fireplace, with the long plank placed across; and the upturned pails and the drawers of the dresser. the floor unswept and littered with dirt, scraps of paper, bits of plaster, pieces of lead pipe and dried mud; and in the midst, the steaming bucket of stewed tea and the collection of cracked cups, jam-jam and condensed milk tins. and on the seats the men in their shabby and in some cases ragged clothing sitting and eating their coarse food and cracking jokes. it was a pathetic and wonderful and at the same time a despicable spectacle. pathetic that human beings should be condemned to spend the greater part of their lives amid such surroundings, because it must be remembered that most of their time was spent on some job or other. when 'the cave' was finished they would go to some similar 'job', if they were lucky enough to find one. wonderful, because although they knew that they did more than their fair share of the great work of producing the necessaries and comforts of life, they did not think they were entitled to a fair share of the good things they helped to create! and despicable, because although they saw their children condemned to the same life of degradation, hard labour and privation, yet they refused to help to bring about a better state of affairs. most of them thought that what had been good enough for themselves was good enough for their children. it seemed as if they regarded their own children with a kind of contempt, as being only fit to grow up to be the servants of the children of such people as rushton and sweater. but it must be remembered that they had been taught self-contempt when they were children. in the so-called 'christian' schools they attended then they were taught to 'order themselves lowly and reverently towards their betters', and they were now actually sending their own children to learn the same degrading lessons in their turn! they had a vast amount of consideration for their betters, and for the children of their betters, but very little for their own children, for each other, or for themselves. that was why they sat there in their rags and ate their coarse food, and cracked their coarser jokes, and drank the dreadful tea, and were content! so long as they had plenty of work and plenty of--something--to eat, and somebody else's cast-off clothes to wear, they were content! and they were proud of it. they gloried in it. they agreed and assured each other that the good things of life were not intended for the 'likes of them', or their children. 'wot's become of the professor?' asked the gentleman who sat on the upturned pail in the corner, referring to owen, who had not yet come down from his work. 'p'raps 'e's preparing 'is sermon,' remarked harlow with a laugh. 'we ain't 'ad no lectures from 'im lately, since 'e's been on that room,' observed easton. ''ave we?' 'dam good job too!' exclaimed sawkins. 'it gives me the pip to 'ear 'im, the same old thing over and over again.' 'poor ole frank,' remarked harlow. ''e does upset 'isself about things, don't 'e?' 'more fool 'im!' said bundy. 'i'll take bloody good care i don't go worryin' myself to death like 'e's doin', about such dam rot as that.' 'i do believe that's wot makes 'im look so bad as 'e does,' observed harlow. 'several times this morning i couldn't help noticing the way 'e kept on coughing.' 'i thought 'e seemed to be a bit better lately,' philpot observed; 'more cheerful and happier like, and more inclined for a bit of fun.' 'he's a funny sort of chap, ain't he?' said bundy. 'one day quite jolly, singing and cracking jokes and tellin' yarns, and the next you can't hardly get a word out of 'im.' 'bloody rot, i call it,' chimed in the man on the pail. 'wot the 'ell's the use of the likes of us troublin' our 'eads about politics?' 'oh, i don't see that.' replied harlow. 'we've got votes and we're really the people what control the affairs of the country, so i reckon we ought to take some interest in it, but at the same time i can't see no sense in this 'ere socialist wangle that owen's always talkin' about.' 'nor nobody else neither,' said crass with a jeering laugh. 'even if all the bloody money in the world was divided out equal,' said the man on the pail, profoundly, 'it wouldn't do no good! in six months' time it would be all back in the same 'ands again.' 'of course,' said everybody. 'but 'e 'ad a cuff the other day about money bein' no good at all!' observed easton. 'don't you remember 'e said as money was the principal cause of poverty?' 'so it is the principal cause of poverty,' said owen, who entered at that moment. 'hooray!' shouted philpot, leading off a cheer which the others took up. 'the professor 'as arrived and will now proceed to say a few remarks.' a roar of merriment greeted this sally. 'let's 'ave our bloody dinner first, for christ's sake,' appealed harlow, with mock despair. as owen, having filled his cup with tea, sat down in his usual place, philpot rose solemnly to his feet, and, looking round the company, said: 'genelmen, with your kind permission, as soon as the professor 'as finished 'is dinner 'e will deliver 'is well-known lecture, entitled, "money the principal cause of being 'ard up", proving as money ain't no good to nobody. at the hend of the lecture a collection will be took up to provide the lecturer with a little encouragement.' philpot resumed his seat amid cheers. as soon as they had finished eating, some of the men began to make remarks about the lecture, but owen only laughed and went on reading the piece of newspaper that his dinner had been wrapped in. usually most of the men went out for a walk after dinner, but as it happened to be raining that day they were determined, if possible, to make owen fulfill the engagement made in his name by philpot. 'let's 'oot 'im,' said harlow, and the suggestion was at once acted upon; howls, groans and catcalls filled the air, mingled with cries of 'fraud!' 'imposter!' 'give us our money back!' 'let's wreck the 'all!' and so on. 'come on 'ere,' cried philpot, putting his hand on owen's shoulder. 'prove that money is the cause of poverty.' 'it's one thing to say it and another to prove it,' sneered crass, who was anxious for an opportunity to produce the long-deferred obscurer cutting. 'money is the real cause of poverty,' said owen. 'prove it,' repeated crass. 'money is the cause of poverty because it is the device by which those who are too lazy to work are enabled to rob the workers of the fruits of their labours.' 'prove it,' said crass. owen slowly folded up the piece of newspaper he had been reading and put it into his pocket. 'all right,' he replied. 'i'll show you how the great money trick is worked.' owen opened his dinner basket and took from it two slices of bread but as these were not sufficient, he requested that anyone who had some bread left would give it to him. they gave him several pieces, which he placed in a heap on a clean piece of paper, and, having borrowed the pocket knives they used to cut and eat their dinners with from easton, harlow and philpot, he addressed them as follows: 'these pieces of bread represent the raw materials which exist naturally in and on the earth for the use of mankind; they were not made by any human being, but were created by the great spirit for the benefit and sustenance of all, the same as were the air and the light of the sun.' 'you're about as fair-speakin' a man as i've met for some time,' said harlow, winking at the others. 'yes, mate,' said philpot. 'anyone would agree to that much! it's as clear as mud.' 'now,' continued owen, 'i am a capitalist; or, rather, i represent the landlord and capitalist class. that is to say, all these raw materials belong to me. it does not matter for our present argument how i obtained possession of them, or whether i have any real right to them; the only thing that matters now is the admitted fact that all the raw materials which are necessary for the production of the necessaries of life are now the property of the landlord and capitalist class. i am that class: all these raw materials belong to me.' 'good enough!' agreed philpot. 'now you three represent the working class: you have nothing--and for my part, although i have all these raw materials, they are of no use to me--what i need is--the things that can be made out of these raw materials by work: but as i am too lazy to work myself, i have invented the money trick to make you work for me. but first i must explain that i possess something else beside the raw materials. these three knives represent--all the machinery of production; the factories, tools, railways, and so forth, without which the necessaries of life cannot be produced in abundance. and these three coins'--taking three halfpennies from his pocket--'represent my money capital.' 'but before we go any further,' said owen, interrupting himself, 'it is most important that you remember that i am not supposed to be merely "a" capitalist. i represent the whole capitalist class. you are not supposed to be just three workers--you represent the whole working class.' 'all right, all right,' said crass, impatiently, 'we all understand that. git on with it.' owen proceeded to cut up one of the slices of bread into a number of little square blocks. 'these represent the things which are produced by labour, aided by machinery, from the raw materials. we will suppose that three of these blocks represent--a week's work. we will suppose that a week's work is worth--one pound: and we will suppose that each of these ha'pennies is a sovereign. we'd be able to do the trick better if we had real sovereigns, but i forgot to bring any with me.' 'i'd lend you some,' said philpot, regretfully, 'but i left me purse on our grand pianner.' as by a strange coincidence nobody happened to have any gold with them, it was decided to make shift with the halfpence. 'now this is the way the trick works--' 'before you goes on with it,' interrupted philpot, apprehensively, 'don't you think we'd better 'ave someone to keep watch at the gate in case a slop comes along? we don't want to get runned in, you know.' 'i don't think there's any need for that,' replied owen, 'there's only one slop who'd interfere with us for playing this game, and that's police constable socialism.' 'never mind about socialism,' said crass, irritably. 'get along with the bloody trick.' owen now addressed himself to the working classes as represented by philpot, harlow and easton. 'you say that you are all in need of employment, and as i am the kind-hearted capitalist class i am going to invest all my money in various industries, so as to give you plenty of work. i shall pay each of you one pound per week, and a week's work is--you must each produce three of these square blocks. for doing this work you will each receive your wages; the money will be your own, to do as you like with, and the things you produce will of course be mine, to do as i like with. you will each take one of these machines and as soon as you have done a week's work, you shall have your money.' the working classes accordingly set to work, and the capitalist class sat down and watched them. as soon as they had finished, they passed the nine little blocks to owen, who placed them on a piece of paper by his side and paid the workers their wages. 'these blocks represent the necessaries of life. you can't live without some of these things, but as they belong to me, you will have to buy them from me: my price for these blocks is--one pound each.' as the working classes were in need of the necessaries of life and as they could not eat, drink or wear the useless money, they were compelled to agree to the kind capitalist's terms. they each bought back and at once consumed one-third of the produce of their labour. the capitalist class also devoured two of the square blocks, and so the net result of the week's work was that the kind capitalist had consumed two pounds worth of the things produced by the labour of the others, and reckoning the squares at their market value of one pound each, he had more than doubled his capital, for he still possessed the three pounds in money and in addition four pounds worth of goods. as for the working classes, philpot, harlow and easton, having each consumed the pound's worth of necessaries they had bought with their wages, they were again in precisely the same condition as when they started work--they had nothing. this process was repeated several times: for each week's work the producers were paid their wages. they kept on working and spending all their earnings. the kind-hearted capitalist consumed twice as much as any one of them and his pile of wealth continually increased. in a little while--reckoning the little squares at their market value of one pound each--he was worth about one hundred pounds, and the working classes were still in the same condition as when they began, and were still tearing into their work as if their lives depended upon it. after a while the rest of the crowd began to laugh, and their merriment increased when the kind-hearted capitalist, just after having sold a pound's worth of necessaries to each of his workers, suddenly took their tools--the machinery of production--the knives away from them, and informed them that as owing to over production all his store-houses were glutted with the necessaries of life, he had decided to close down the works. 'well, and wot the bloody 'ell are we to do now?' demanded philpot. 'that's not my business,' replied the kind-hearted capitalist. 'i've paid you your wages, and provided you with plenty of work for a long time past. i have no more work for you to do at present. come round again in a few months' time and i'll see what i can do for you.' 'but what about the necessaries of life?' demanded harlow. 'we must have something to eat.' 'of course you must,' replied the capitalist, affably; 'and i shall be very pleased to sell you some.' 'but we ain't got no bloody money!' 'well, you can't expect me to give you my goods for nothing! you didn't work for me for nothing, you know. i paid you for your work and you should have saved something: you should have been thrifty like me. look how i have got on by being thrifty!' the unemployed looked blankly at each other, but the rest of the crowd only laughed; and then the three unemployed began to abuse the kind-hearted capitalist, demanding that he should give them some of the necessaries of life that he had piled up in his warehouses, or to be allowed to work and produce some more for their own needs; and even threatened to take some of the things by force if he did not comply with their demands. but the kind-hearted capitalist told them not to be insolent, and spoke to them about honesty, and said if they were not careful he would have their faces battered in for them by the police, or if necessary he would call out the military and have them shot down like dogs, the same as he had done before at featherstone and belfast. 'of course,' continued the kind-hearted capitalist, 'if it were not for foreign competition i should be able to sell these things that you have made, and then i should be able to give you plenty of work again: but until i have sold them to somebody or other, or until i have used them myself, you will have to remain idle.' 'well, this takes the bloody biskit, don't it?' said harlow. 'the only thing as i can see for it,' said philpot mournfully, 'is to 'ave a unemployed procession.' 'that's the idear,' said harlow, and the three began to march about the room in indian file, singing: 'we've got no work to do-oo-oo' we've got no work to do-oo-oo! just because we've been workin' a dam sight too hard, now we've got no work to do.' as they marched round, the crowd jeered at them and made offensive remarks. crass said that anyone could see that they were a lot of lazy, drunken loafers who had never done a fair day's work in their lives and never intended to. 'we shan't never get nothing like this, you know,' said philpot. 'let's try the religious dodge.' 'all right,' agreed harlow. 'what shall we give 'em?' 'i know!' cried philpot after a moment's deliberation. '"let my lower lights be burning." that always makes 'em part up.' the three unemployed accordingly resumed their march round the room, singing mournfully and imitating the usual whine of street-singers: 'trim your fee-bil lamp me brither-in, some poor sail-er tempest torst, strugglin' 'ard to save the 'arb-er, hin the dark-niss may be lorst, so let try lower lights be burning, send 'er gleam acrost the wave, some poor shipwrecked, struggling seaman, you may rescue, you may save.' 'kind frens,' said philpot, removing his cap and addressing the crowd, 'we're hall honest british workin' men, but we've been hout of work for the last twenty years on account of foreign competition and over-production. we don't come hout 'ere because we're too lazy to work; it's because we can't get a job. if it wasn't for foreign competition, the kind'earted hinglish capitalists would be able to sell their goods and give us plenty of work, and if they could, i assure you that we should hall be perfectly willing and contented to go on workin' our bloody guts out for the benefit of our masters for the rest of our lives. we're quite willin' to work: that's hall we arst for--plenty of work--but as we can't get it we're forced to come out 'ere and arst you to spare a few coppers towards a crust of bread and a night's lodgin'.' as philpot held out his cap for subscriptions, some of them attempted to expectorate into it, but the more charitable put in pieces of cinder or dirt from the floor, and the kind-hearted capitalist was so affected by the sight of their misery that he gave them one of the sovereigns he had in us pocket: but as this was of no use to them they immediately returned it to him in exchange for one of the small squares of the necessaries of life, which they divided and greedily devoured. and when they had finished eating they gathered round the philanthropist and sang, 'for he's a jolly good fellow,' and afterwards harlow suggested that they should ask him if he would allow them to elect him to parliament. chapter the phrenologist the following morning--saturday--the men went about their work in gloomy silence; there were but few attempts at conversation and no jests or singing. the tenor of the impending slaughter pervaded the house. even those who were confident of being spared and kept on till the job was finished shared the general depression, not only out of sympathy for the doomed, but because they knew that a similar fate awaited themselves a little later on. they all waited anxiously for nimrod to come, but hour after hour dragged slowly by and he did not arrive. at half past eleven some of those who had made up their minds that they were to be 'stood still' began to hope that the slaughter was to be deferred for a few days: after all, there was plenty of work still to be done: even if all hands were kept on, the job could scarcely be finished in another week. anyhow, it would not be very long now before they would know one way or the other. if he did not come before twelve, it was all right: all the hands were paid by the hour and were therefore entitled to an hour's notice. easton and harlow were working together on the staircase, finishing the doors and other woodwork with white enamel. the men had not been allowed to spend the time necessary to prepare this work in a proper manner, it had not been rubbed down smooth or properly filled up, and it had not had a sufficient number of coats of paint to make it solid white. now that the glossy enamel was put on, the work looked rather rough and shady. 'it ain't 'arf all right, ain't it?' remarked harlow, sarcastically, indicating the door he had just finished. easton laughed: 'i can't understand how people pass such work,' he said. 'old sweater did make some remark about it the other day,' replied harlow, 'and i heard misery tell 'im it was impossible to make a perfect job of such old doors.' 'i believe that man's the biggest liar gord ever made,' said easton, an opinion in which harlow entirely concurred. 'i wonder what the time is?' said the latter after a pause. 'i don't know exactly,' replied easton, 'but it can't be far off twelve.' ''e don't seem to be comin', does 'e?' harlow continued. 'no: and i shouldn't be surprised if 'e didn't turn up at all, now. p'raps 'e don't mean to stop nobody today after all.' they spoke in hushed tones and glanced cautiously about them fearful of being heard or observed. 'this is a bloody life, ain't it?' harlow said, bitterly. 'workin' our guts out like a lot of slaves for the benefit of other people, and then as soon as they've done with you, you're chucked aside like a dirty rag.' 'yes: and i begin to think that a great deal of what owen says is true. but for my part i can't see 'ow it's ever goin' to be altered, can you?' blowed if i know, mate. but whether it can be altered or not, there's one thing very certain; it won't be done in our time.' neither of them seemed to think that if the 'alteration' they spoke of were to be accomplished at all they themselves would have to help to bring it about. 'i wonder what they're doin' about the venetian blinds?' said easton. 'is there anyone doin' em yet?' 'i don't know; ain't 'eard nothing about 'em since the boy took 'em to the shop.' there was quite a mystery about these blinds. about a month ago they were taken to the paint-shop down at the yard to be repainted and re-harnessed, and since then nothing had been heard of them by the men working at the 'cave'. 'p'hap's a couple of us will be sent there to do 'em next week,' remarked harlow. 'p'hap's so. most likely they'll 'ave to be done in a bloody 'urry at the last minute.' presently harlow--who was very anxious to know what time it was--went downstairs to ask slyme. it was twenty minutes to twelve. from the window of the room where slyme was papering, one could see into the front garden. harlow paused a moment to watch bundy and the labourers, who were still working in the trenches at the drains, and as he looked out he saw hunter approaching the house. harlow drew back hastily and returned to his work, and as he went he passed the word to the other men, warning them of the approach of misery. hunter entered in his usual manner and, after crawling quietly about the house for about ten minutes, he went into the drawing room. 'i see you're putting the finishing touches on at last,' he said. 'yes,' replied owen. 'i've only got this bit of outlining to do now.' 'ah, well, it looks very nice, of course,' said misery in a voice of mourning, 'but we've lost money over it. it's taken you a week longer to do than we allowed for; you said three weeks and it's taken you a month; and we only allowed for fifteen books of gold, but you've been and used twenty-three.' 'you can hardly blame me for that, you know,' answered owen. 'i could have got it done in the three weeks, but mr rushton told me not to hurry for the sake of a day or two, because he wanted a good job. he said he would rather lose a little over it than spoil it; and as for the extra gold, that was also his order.' 'well, i suppose it can't be helped,' whined misery. 'anyhow, i'm very glad it's done, because this kind of work don't pay. we'll 'ave you back on the brush on monday morning; we want to get outside done next week if it keeps fine.' the 'brush' alluded to by nimrod was the large 'pound' brush used in ordinary painting. misery now began wandering about the house, in and out of the rooms, sometimes standing for several minutes silently watching the hands as they worked. as he watched them the men became nervous and awkward, each one dreading that he might be one of those who were to be paid off at one o'clock. at about five minutes to twelve hunter went down to the paint-shop--the scullery--where crass was mixing some colour, and getting ready some 'empties' to be taken to the yard. 'i suppose the b--r's gone to ask crass which of us is the least use,' whispered harlow to easton. 'i wouldn't be surprised if it was you and me, for two,' replied the latter in the same tone. 'you can't trust crass you know, for all 'e seems so friendly to our faces. you never know what 'e ses behind our backs.' 'you may be sure it won't be sawkins or any of the other light-weights, because nimrod won't want to pay us sixpence ha'penny for painting guttering and rainpipes when they can do it near enough for fourpence ha'penny and fivepence. they won't be able to do the sashes, though, will they?' 'i don't know so much about that,' replied easton. 'anything seems to be good enough for hunter.' 'look out! ere 'e comes!' said harlow, and they both relapsed into silence and busied themselves with their work. misery stood watching them for some time without speaking, and then went out of the house. they crept cautiously to the window of a room that overlooked the garden and, peeping furtively out, they saw him standing on the brink of one of the trenches, moodily watching bundy and his mates as they toiled at the drains. then, to their surprise and relief, he turned and went out of the gate! they just caught sight of one of the wheels of his bicycle as he rode away. the slaughter was evidently to be put off until next week! it seemed too good to be true. 'p'hap's 'e's left a message for some of us with crass?' suggested easton. 'i don't think it's likely, but it's just possible.' 'well, i'm goin' down to ask 'im,' said harlow, desperately. 'we may as well know the worst at once.' he returned in a few minutes with the information that hunter had decided not to stop anyone that day because he wanted to get the outside finished during the next week, if possible. the hands received this intelligence with mixed feelings, because although it left them safe for the present, it meant that nearly everybody would certainly be stopped next saturday, if not before; whereas if a few had been sacked today it would have made it all the better for the rest. still, this aspect of the business did not greatly interfere with the relief that they all felt at knowing that the immediate danger was over; and the fact that it was saturday--pay-day--also served to revive their drooping spirits. they all felt pretty certain that misery would return no more that day, and presently harlow began to sing the old favourite. 'work! for the night is coming!' the refrain of which was soon taken up by nearly everyone in the house: 'work! for the night is coming, work in the morning hours. work! for the night is coming, work 'mid springing flowers. 'work while the dew is sparkling, work in the noonday sun! work! for the night is coming when man's work is done!' when this hymn was finished, someone else, imitating the whine of a street-singer, started, 'oh, where is my wandering boy tonight?' and then harlow--who by some strange chance had a penny--took it out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor, the ringing of the coin being greeted with shouts of 'thank you, kind lady,' from several of the singers. this little action of harlow's was the means of bringing a most extraordinary circumstance to light. although it was saturday morning, several of the others had pennies or half-pence! and at the conclusion of each verse they all followed harlow's example and the house resounded with the ringing of falling coins, cries of 'thank you, kind lady,' 'thank you, sir,' and 'gord bless you,' mingled with shouts of laughter. 'my wandering boy' was followed by a choice selection of choruses of well-known music-hall songs, including 'goodbye, my bluebell', 'the honeysuckle and the bee', 'i've got 'em!' and 'the church parade', the whole being tastefully varied and interspersed with howls, shrieks, curses, catcalls, and downward explosions of flatulence. in the midst of the uproar crass came upstairs. ''ere!' he shouted. 'for christ's sake make less row! suppose nimrod was to come back!' 'oh, he ain't comin' any more today,' said harlow, recklessly. 'besides, what if 'e does come?' cried easton. 'oo cares for 'im?' 'well, we never know; and for that matter rushton or sweater might come at any minit.' with this, crass went muttering back to the scullery, and the men relapsed into their usual silence. at ten minutes to one they all ceased work, put away their colours and locked up the house. there were a number of 'empties' to be taken away and left at the yard on their way to the office; these crass divided amongst the others--carrying nothing himself--and then they all set out for the office to get their money, cracking jokes as they went along. harlow and easton enlivened the journey by coughing significantly whenever they met a young woman, and audibly making some complimentary remark about her personal appearance. if the girl smiled, each of them eagerly claimed to have 'seen her first', but if she appeared offended or 'stuck up', they suggested that she was cross-cut or that she had been eating vinegar with a fork. now and then they kissed their hands affectionately to servant-girls whom they saw looking out of windows. some of these girls laughed, others looked indignant, but whichever way they took it was equally amusing to crass and the rest, who were like a crowd of boys just let out of school. it will be remembered that there was a back door to rushton's office; in this door was a small sliding panel or trap-door with a little shelf at the bottom. the men stood in the road on the pavement outside the closed door, their money being passed out to them through the sliding panel. as there was no shelter, when it rained they occasionally got wet through while waiting to be paid. with some firms it is customary to call out the names of the men and pay them in order of seniority or ability, but there was no such system here; the man who got to the aperture first was paid first, and so on. the result was that there was always a sort of miniature 'battle of life', the men pushing and struggling against each other as if their lives depended upon their being paid by a certain time. on the ledge of the little window through which their money was passed there was always a hospital collection-box. every man put either a penny or twopence into this box. of course, it was not compulsory to do so, but they all did, because they felt that any man who omitted to contribute might be 'marked'. they did not all agree with contributing to the hospital, for several reasons. they knew that the doctors at the hospital made a practice of using the free patients to make experiments upon, and they also knew that the so-called 'free' patients who contribute so very largely directly to the maintenance of such institutions, get scant consideration when they apply for the 'free' treatment, and are plainly given to understand that they are receiving 'charity'. some of the men thought that, considering the extent to which they contributed, they should be entitled to attention as a right. after receiving their wages, crass, easton, bundy, philpot, harlow and a few others adjourned to the cricketers for a drink. owen went away alone, and slyme also went on by himself. there was no use waiting for easton to come out of the public house, because there was no knowing how long he would be; he might stay half an hour or two hours. on his way home, in accordance with his usual custom, slyme called at the post office to put some of his wages in the bank. like most other 'christians', he believed in taking thought for the morrow, what he should eat and drink and wherewithal he was to be clothed. he thought it wise to layup for himself as much treasure upon earth as possible. the fact that jesus said that his disciples were not to do these things made no more difference to slyme's conduct than it does to the conduct of any other 'christian'. they are all agreed that when jesus said this he meant something else: and all the other inconvenient things that jesus said are disposed of in the same way. for instance, these 'disciples' assure us that when jesus said, 'resist not evil', 'if a man smite thee upon he right cheek turn unto him also the left', he really meant 'turn on to him a maxim gun; disembowel him with a bayonet or batter in his skull with the butt end of a rifle!' when he said, 'if one take thy coat, give him thy cloak also,' the 'christians' say that what he really meant was: 'if one take thy coat, give him six months' hard labour. a few of the followers of jesus admit that he really did mean just what he said, but they say that the world would never be able to go on if they followed out his teachings! that is true. it is probably the effect that jesus intended his teachings to produce. it is altogether improbable that he wished the world to continue along its present lines. but, if these pretended followers really think--as they say that they do--that the teachings of jesus are ridiculous and impracticable, why continue the hypocritical farce of calling themselves 'christians' when they don't really believe in or follow him at all? as jesus himself pointed out, there's no sense in calling him 'lord, lord' when they do not the things that he said. this banking transaction finished, slyme resumed his homeward way, stopping only to purchase some sweets at a confectioner's. he spent a whole sixpence at once in this shop on a glass jar of sweets for the baby. ruth was not surprised when she saw him come in alone; it was the usual thing since easton had become so friendly with crass. she made no reference to his absence, but slyme noticed with secret chagrin that she was annoyed and disappointed. she was just finishing scrubbing the kitchen floor and little freddie was sitting up in a baby's high chair that had a little shelf or table fixed in front of it. to keep him amused while she did her work, ruth had given him a piece of bread and raspberry jam, which the child had rubbed all over his face and into his scalp, evidently being under the impression that it was something for the improvement of the complexion, or a cure for baldness. he now looked as if he had been in a fight or a railway accident. the child hailed the arrival of slyme with enthusiasm, being so overcome with emotion that he began to shed tears, and was only pacified when the man gave him the jar of sweets and took him out of the chair. slyme's presence in the house had not proved so irksome as easton and ruth had dreaded it would be. indeed, at first, he made a point of retiring to his own room after tea every evening, until they invited him to stay downstairs in the kitchen. nearly every wednesday and saturday he went to a meeting, or an open-air preaching, when the weather permitted, for he was one of a little zealous band of people connected with the shining light chapel who carried on the 'open-air' work all the year round. after a while, the eastons not only became reconciled to his presence in the house, but were even glad of it. ruth especially would often have been very lonely if he had not been there, for it had lately become easton's custom to spend a few evenings every week with crass at the cricketers. when at home slyme passed his time playing a mandolin or making fretwork photo frames. ruth had the baby's photograph taken a few weeks after slyme came, and the frame he made for it was now one of the ornaments of the sitting-room. the instinctive, unreasoning aversion she had at first felt for him had passed away. in a quiet, unobtrusive manner he did her so many little services that she found it impossible to dislike him. at first, she used to address him as 'mr' but after a time she fell naturally into easton's practice of calling him by his first name. as for the baby, he made no secret of his affection for the lodger, who nursed and played with him for hours at a stretch. 'i'll serve your dinner now, alf,' said ruth when she had finished scrubbing the floor, 'but i'll wait for mine for a little while. will may come.' 'i'm in no hurry,' replied slyme. 'i'll go and have a wash; he may be here then.' as he spoke, slyme--who had been sitting by the fire nursing the baby--who was trying to swallow the jar of sweets--put the child back into the high chair, giving him one of the sticks of sweet out of the jar to keep him quiet; and went upstairs to his own room. he came down again in about a quarter of an hour, and ruth proceeded to serve his dinner, for easton was still absent. 'if i was you, i wouldn't wait for will,' said slyme, 'he may not come for another hour or two. it's after two o'clock now, and i'm sure you must be hungry.' 'i suppose i may as well,' replied ruth, hesitatingly. 'he'll most likely get some bread and cheese at the "cricketers", same as he did last saturday.' 'almost sure to,' responded slyme. the baby had had his face washed while slyme was upstairs. directly he saw his mother eating he threw away the sugar-stick and began to cry, holding out his arms to her. she had to take him on her lap whilst she ate her dinner, and feed him with pieces from her plate. slyme talked all the time, principally about the child. he was very fond of children, he said, and always got on well with them, but he had really never known such an intelligent child--for his age--as freddie. his fellow-workmen would have been astonished had they been present to hear him talking about the shape of the baby's head. they would have been astonished at the amount of knowledge he appeared to possess of the science of phrenology. ruth, at any rate, thought he was very clever. after a time the child began to grow fretful and refused to eat; when his mother gave him a fresh piece of sugar-stick out of the jar he threw it peevishly on the floor and began to whimper, rubbing his face against his mother's bosom and pulling at her dress with his hands. when slyme first came ruth had made a practice of withdrawing from the room if he happened to be present when she wanted to nurse the child, but lately she had been less sensitive. she was sitting with her back to the window and she partly covered the baby's face with a light shawl that she wore. by the time they finished dinner the child had dozed off to sleep. slyme got up from his chair and stood with his back to the fire, looking down at them; presently he spoke, referring, of course, to the baby: 'he's very like you, isn't he?' 'yes,' replied ruth. 'everyone says he takes after me.' slyme moved a little closer, bending down to look at the slumbering infant. 'you know, at first i thought he was a girl,' he continued after a pause. 'he seems almost too pretty for a boy, doesn't he?' ruth smiled. 'people always take him for a girl at first,' she said. 'yesterday i took him with me to the monopole stores to buy some things, and the manager would hardly believe it wasn't a girl.' the man reached out his hand and stroked the baby's face. although slyme's behaviour had hitherto always been very correct, yet there was occasionally an indefinable something in his manner when they were alone that made ruth feel conscious and embarrassed. now, as she glanced up at him and saw the expression on his face she crimsoned with confusion and hastily lowered her eyes without replying to his last remark. he did not speak again either, and they remained for several minutes in silence, as if spellbound, ruth oppressed with instinctive dread, and slyme scarcely less agitated, his face flushed and his heart beating wildly. he trembled as he stood over her, hesitating and afraid. and then the silence was suddenly broken by the creaking and clanging of the front gate, heralding the tardy coming of easton. slyme went out into the scullery and, taking down the blacking brushes from the shelf, began cleaning his boots. it was plain from easton's appearance and manner that he had been drinking, but ruth did not reproach him in any way; on the contrary, she seemed almost feverishly anxious to attend to his comfort. when slyme finished cleaning his boots he went upstairs to his room, receiving a careless greeting from easton as he passed through the kitchen. he felt nervous and apprehensive that ruth might say something to easton, and was not quite able to reassure himself with the reflection that, after all, there was nothing to tell. as for ruth, she had to postpone the execution of her hastily formed resolution to tell her husband of slyme's strange behaviour, for easton fell asleep in his chair before he had finished his dinner, and she had some difficulty in waking him sufficiently to persuade him to go upstairs to bed, where he remained until tea-time. probably he would not have come down even then if it had not been for the fact that he had made an appointment to meet crass at the cricketers. whilst easton was asleep, slyme had been downstairs in the kitchen, making a fretwork frame. he played with freddie while ruth prepared the tea, and he appeared to her to be so unconscious of having done anything unusual that she began to think that she must have been mistaken in imagining that he had intended anything wrong. after tea, slyme put on his best clothes to go to his usual 'open-air' meeting. as a rule easton and ruth went out marketing together every saturday night, but this evening he could not wait for her because he had promised to meet crass at seven o'clock; so he arranged to see her down town at eight. chapter the 'open-air' during the last few weeks ever since he had been engaged on the decoration of the drawing-room, owen had been so absorbed in his work that he had no time for other things. of course, all he was paid for was the time he actually worked, but really every waking moment of his time was given to the task. now that it was finished he felt something like one aroused from a dream to the stern realities and terrors of life. by the end of next week, the inside of the house and part of the outside would be finished, and as far as he knew the firm had nothing else to do at present. most of the other employers in the town were in the same plight, and it would be of no use to apply even to such of them as had something to do, for they were not likely to take on a fresh man while some of their regular hands were idle. for the last month he had forgotten that he was ill; he had forgotten that when the work at 'the cave' was finished he would have to stand off with the rest of the hands. in brief, he had forgotten for the time being that, like the majority of his fellow workmen, he was on the brink of destitution, and that a few weeks of unemployment or idleness meant starvation. as far as illness was concerned, he was even worse off than most others, for the greater number of them were members of some sick benefit club, but owen's ill-health rendered him ineligible for membership of such societies. as he walked homewards after being paid, feeling unutterably depressed and weary, he began once more to think of the future; and the more he thought of it the more dreadful it appeared. even looking at it in the best possible light--supposing he did not fall too ill to work, or lose his employment from some other cause--what was there to live for? he had been working all this week. these few coins that he held in his hand were the result, and he laughed bitterly as he thought of all they had to try to do with this money, and of all that would have to be left undone. as he turned the corner of kerk street he saw frankie coming to meet him, and the boy catching sight of him at the same moment began running and leapt into his arms with a joyous whoop. 'mother told me to tell you to buy something for dinner before you come home, because there's nothing in the house.' 'did she tell you what i was to get?' she did tell me something, but i forget what it was. but i know she said to get anything you like if you couldn't get what she told me to tell you.' 'well, we'll go and see what we can find,' said owen. 'if i were you, i'd get a tin of salmon or some eggs and bacon,' suggested frankie as he skipped along holding his father's hand. 'we don't want anything that's a lot of trouble to cook, you know, because mum's not very well today.' 'is she up?' she's been up all the morning, but she's lying down now. we've done all the work, though. while she was making the beds i started washing up the cups and saucers without telling her, but when she came in and saw what a mess i'd made on the floor, she had to stop me doing it, and she had to change nearly all my clothes as well, because i was almost wet through; but i managed the wiping up all right when she did the washing, and i swept the passage and put all my things tidy and made the cat's bed. and that just reminds me: will you please give me my penny now? i promised the cat that i'd bring him back some meat.' owen complied with the boy's request, and while the latter went to the butcher's for the meat, owen went into the grocer's to get something for dinner, it being arranged that they were to meet again at the corner of the street. owen was at the appointed place first and after waiting some time and seeing no sign of the boy he decided to go towards the butcher's to meet him. when he came in sight of the shop he saw the boy standing outside in earnest conversation with the butcher, a jolly-looking stoutly built man, with a very red face. owen perceived at once that the child was trying to explain something, because frankie had a habit of holding his head sideways and supplementing his speech by spreading out his fingers and making quaint gestures with his hands whenever he found it difficult to make himself understood. the boy was doing this now, waving one hand about with the fingers and thumb extended wide, and with the other flourishing a paper parcel which evidently contained the pieces of meat. presently the man laughed heartily and after shaking hands with frankie went into the shop to attend to a customer, and frankie rejoined his father. 'that butcher's a very decent sort of chap, you know, dad,' he said. 'he wouldn't take a penny for the meat.' 'is that what you were talking to him about?' no; we were talking about socialism. you see, this is the second time he wouldn't take the money, and the first time he did it i thought he must be a socialist, but i didn't ask him then. but when he did it again this time i asked him if he was. so he said, no. he said he wasn't quite mad yet. so i said, "if you think that socialists are all mad, you're very much mistaken, because i'm a socialist myself, and i'm quite sure i'm not mad." so he said he knew i was all right, but he didn't understand anything about socialism himself--only that it meant sharing out all the money so that everyone could have the same. so then i told him that's not socialism at all! and when i explained it to him properly and advised him to be one, he said he'd think about it. so i said if he'd only do that he'd be sure to change over to our side; and then he laughed and promised to let me know next time he sees me, and i promised to lend him some literature. you won't mind, will you, dad?' 'of course not; when we get home we'll have a look through what we've got and you can take him some of them.' 'i know!' cried frankie eagerly. 'the two very best of all. happy britain and england for the english.' he knew that these were 'two of the best' because he had often heard his father and mother say so, and he had noticed that whenever a socialist friend came to visit them, he was also of the same opinion. as a rule on saturday evenings they all three went out together to do the marketing, but on this occasion, in consequence of nora being unwell, owen and frankie went by themselves. the frequent recurrence of his wife's illness served to increase owen's pessimism with regard to the future, and the fact that he was unable to procure for her the comforts she needed was not calculated to dispel the depression that filled his mind as he reflected that there was no hope of better times. in the majority of cases, for a workman there is no hope of advancement. after he has learnt his trade and become a 'journeyman' all progress ceases. he is at the goal. after he has been working ten or twenty years he commands no more than he did at first--a bare living wage--sufficient money to purchase fuel to keep the human machine working. as he grows older he will have to be content with even less; and all the time he holds his employment at the caprice and by the favour of his masters, who regard him merely as a piece of mechanism that enables them to accumulate money--a thing which they are justified in casting aside as soon as it becomes unprofitable. and the workman must not only be an efficient money-producing machine, but he must also be the servile subject of his masters. if he is not abjectly civil and humble, if he will not submit tamely to insult, indignity, and every form of contemptuous treatment that occasion makes possible, he can be dismissed, and replaced in a moment by one of the crowd of unemployed who are always waiting for his job. this is the status of the majority of the 'heirs of all the ages' under the present system. as he walked through the crowded streets holding frankie by the hand, owen thought that to voluntarily continue to live such a life as this betokened a degraded mind. to allow one's child to grow up to suffer it in turn was an act of callous, criminal cruelty. in this matter he held different opinions from most of his fellow workmen. the greater number of them were quite willing and content that their children should be made into beasts of burden for the benefit of other people. as he looked down upon the little, frail figure trotting along by his side, owen thought for the thousandth time that it would be far better for the child to die now: he would never be fit to be a soldier in the ferocious christian battle of life. then he remembered nora. although she was always brave, and never complained, he knew that her life was one of almost incessant physical suffering; and as for himself he was tired and sick of it all. he had been working like a slave all his life and there was nothing to show for it--there never would be anything to show for it. he thought of the man who had killed his wife and children. the jury had returned the usual verdict, 'temporary insanity'. it never seemed to occur to these people that the truth was that to continue to suffer hopelessly like this was evidence of permanent insanity. but supposing that bodily death was not the end. suppose there was some kind of a god? if there were, it wasn't unreasonable to think that the being who was capable of creating such a world as this and who seemed so callously indifferent to the unhappiness of his creatures, would also be capable of devising and creating the other hell that most people believed in. although it was december the evening was mild and clear. the full moon deluged the town with silvery light, and the cloudless sky was jewelled with myriads of glittering stars. looking out into the unfathomable infinity of space, owen wondered what manner of being or power it was that had originated and sustained all this? considered as an explanation of the existence of the universe, the orthodox christian religion was too absurd to merit a second thought. but then, every other conceivable hypothesis was also--ultimately--unsatisfactory and even ridiculous. to believe that the universe as it is now has existed from all eternity without any cause is surely ridiculous. but to say that it was created by a being who existed without a cause from all eternity is equally ridiculous. in fact, it was only postponing the difficulty one stage. evolution was not more satisfactory, because although it was undoubtedly true as far as it went, it only went part of the way, leaving the great question still unanswered by assuming the existence--in the beginning--of the elements of matter, without a cause! the question remained unanswered because it was unanswerable. regarding this problem man was but-- 'an infant crying in the night, an infant crying for the light and with no language but a cry.' all the same, it did not follow, because one could not explain the mystery oneself, that it was right to try to believe an unreasonable explanation offered by someone else. but although he reasoned like this, owen could not help longing for something to believe, for some hope for the future; something to compensate for the unhappiness of the present. in one sense, he thought, how good it would be if christianity were true, and after all the sorrow there was to be an eternity of happiness such as it had never entered into the heart of man to conceive? if only that were true, nothing else would matter. how contemptible and insignificant the very worst that could happen here would be if one knew that this life was only a short journey that was to terminate at the beginning of an eternity of joy? but no one really believed this; and as for those who pretended to do so--their lives showed that they did not believe it at all. their greed and inhumanity--their ferocious determination to secure for themselves the good things of this world--were conclusive proofs of their hypocrisy and infidelity. 'dad,' said frankie, suddenly, 'let's go over and hear what that man's saying.' he pointed across the way to where--a little distance back from the main road, just round the corner of a side street--a group of people were standing encircling a large lantern fixed on the top of a pole about seven feet high, which was being held by one of the men. a bright light was burning inside this lantern and on the pane of white, obscured glass which formed the sides, visible from where owen and frankie were standing, was written in bold plain letters that were readable even at that distance, the text: 'be not deceived: god is not mocked!' the man whose voice had attracted frankie's attention was reading out a verse of a hymn: 'i heard the voice of jesus say, behold, i freely give, the living water, thirsty one, stoop down and drink, and live. i came to jesus and i drank of that life giving stream, my thirst was quenched, my soul revived, and now i live in him.' the individual who gave out this hymn was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his round-shouldered, bony form. his long, thin legs--about which the baggy trousers hung in ungraceful folds--were slightly knock-kneed, and terminated in large, flat feet. his arms were very long even for such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted. regardless of the season, he had removed his bowler hat, revealing his forehead, which was high, flat and narrow. his nose was a large, fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the drooping moustache that concealed his mouth when he was not speaking, but the vast extent of which was perceptible now as he opened it to call out the words of the hymn. his chin was large and extraordinarily long: the eyes were pale blue, very small and close together, surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible eyebrows with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. his head--covered with thick, coarse brown hair--was very large, especially at the back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. if one were to make a full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage, it would be found that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin. as owen and frankie drew near, the boy tugged at his father's hand and whispered: 'dad! that's the teacher at the sunday school where i went that day with charley and elsie.' owen looked quickly and saw that it was hunter. as hunter ceased reading out the words of the hymn, the little company of evangelists began to sing, accompanied by the strains of a small but peculiarly sweet-toned organ. a few persons in the crowd joined in, the words being familiar to them. during the singing their faces were a study, they all looked so profoundly solemn and miserable, as if they were a gang of condemned criminals waiting to be led forth to execution. the great number of the people standing around appeared to be listening more out of idle curiosity than anything else, and two well-dressed young men--evidently strangers and visitors to the town--amused themselves by making audible remarks about the texts on the lantern. there was also a shabbily dressed, semi-drunken man in a battered bowler hat who stood on the inner edge of the crowd, almost in the ring itself, with folded arms and an expression of scorn. he had a very thin, pale face with a large, high-bridged nose, and bore a striking resemblance to the first duke of wellington. as the singing proceeded, the scornful expression faded from the visage of the semi-drunk, and he not only joined in, but unfolded his arms and began waving them about as if he were conducting the music. by the time the singing was over a considerable crowd had gathered, and then one of the evangelists, the same man who had given out the hymn, stepped into the middle of the ring. he had evidently been offended by the unseemly conduct of the two well-dressed young men, for after a preliminary glance round upon the crowd, he fixed his gaze upon the pair, and immediately launched out upon a long tirade against what he called 'infidelity'. then, having heartily denounced all those who--as he put it--'refused' to believe, he proceeded to ridicule those half-and-half believers, who, while professing to believe the bible, rejected the doctrine of hell. that the existence of a place of eternal torture is taught in the bible, he tried to prove by a long succession of texts. as he proceeded he became very excited, and the contemptuous laughter of the two unbelievers seemed to make him worse. he shouted and raved, literally foaming at the mouth and glaring in a frenzied manner around upon the faces of the crowd. 'there is a hell!' he shouted. 'and understand this clearly--"the wicked shall be turned into hell"--"he that believeth not shall be damned."' 'well, then, you'll stand a very good chance of being damned also,' exclaimed one of the two young men. ''ow do you make it out?' demanded the preacher, wiping the froth from his lips and the perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. 'why, because you don't believe the bible yourselves.' nimrod and the other evangelists laughed, and looked pityingly at the young man. 'ah, my dear brother,' said misery. 'that's your delusion. i thank god i do believe it, every word!' 'amen,' fervently ejaculated slyme and several of the other disciples. 'oh no, you don't,' replied the other. 'and i can prove you don't.' 'prove it, then,' said nimrod. 'read out the th and th verses of the xvith chapter of mark,' said the disturber of the meeting. the crowd began to close in on the centre, the better to hear the dispute. misery, standing close to the lantern, found the verse mentioned and read aloud as follows: 'and these signs shall follow them that believe. in my name shall they cast out devils: they shall speak with new tongues. they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them: they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.' 'well, you can't heal the sick, neither can you speak new languages or cast out devils: but perhaps you can drink deadly things without suffering harm.' the speaker here suddenly drew from his waistcoat pocket a small glass bottle and held it out towards misery, who shrank from it with horror as he continued: 'i have here a most deadly poison. there is in this bottle sufficient strychnine to kill a dozen unbelievers. drink it! and if it doesn't harm you, we'll know that you really are a believer and that what you believe is the truth!' ''ear, 'ear!' said the semi-drunk, who had listened to the progress of the argument with great interest. ''ear, 'ear! that's fair enough. git it acrost yer chest.' some of the people in the crowd began to laugh, and voices were heard from several quarters calling upon misery to drink the strychnine. 'now, if you'll allow me, i'll explain to you what that there verse means,' said hunter. 'if you read it carefully--with the context--' 'i don't want you to tell me what it means,' interrupted the other. 'i am able to read for myself. whatever you may say, or pretend to think it means, i know what it says.' 'hear, hear,' shouted several voices, and angry cries of 'why don't you drink the poison?' began to be heard from the outskirts of the crowd. 'are you going to drink it or not?' demanded the man with the bottle. 'no! i'm not such a fool!' retorted misery, fiercely, and a loud shout of laughter broke from the crowd.' 'p'haps some of the other "believers" would like to,' said the young man sneeringly, looking round upon the disciples. as no one seemed desirous of availing himself of this offer, the man returned the bottle regretfully to his pocket. 'i suppose,' said misery, regarding the owner of the strychnine with a sneer, 'i suppose you're one of them there hired critics wot's goin' about the country doin' the devil's work?' 'wot i wants to know is this 'ere,' said the semi-drunk, suddenly advancing into the middle of the ring and speaking in a loud voice. 'where did cain get 'is wife from?' 'don't answer 'im, brother 'unter,' said mr didlum, one of the disciples. this was rather an unnecessary piece of advice, because misery did not know the answer. an individual in a long black garment--the 'minister'--now whispered something to miss didlum, who was seated at the organ, whereupon she began to play, and the 'believers' began to sing, as loud as they could so as to drown the voices of the disturbers of the meeting, a song called 'oh, that will be glory for me!' after this hymn the 'minister' invited a shabbily dressed 'brother'--a working-man member of the psa, to say a 'few words', and the latter accordingly stepped into the centre of the ring and held forth as follows: 'my dear frens, i thank gord tonight that i can stand 'ere tonight, hout in the hopen hair and tell hall you dear people tonight of hall wot's been done for me. ho my dear frens hi ham so glad tonight as i can stand 'ere tonight and say as hall my sins is hunder the blood tonight and wot 'e's done for me 'e can do for you tonight. if you'll honly do as i done and just acknowledge yourself a lost sinner--' 'yes! that's the honly way!' shouted nimrod. 'amen,' cried all the other believers. '--if you'll honly come to 'im tonight in the same way as i done you'll see wot 'e's done for me 'e can do for you. ho my dear frens, don't go puttin' it orf from day to day like a door turnin' on its 'inges, don't put orf to some more convenient time because you may never 'ave another chance. 'im that bein' orfen reproved 'ardeneth 'is neck shall be suddenly cut orf and that without remedy. ho come to 'im tonight, for 'is name's sake and to 'im we'll give hall the glory. amen.' 'amen,' said the believers, fervently, and then the man who was dressed in the long garment entreated all those who were not yet true believers--and doers--of the word to join earnestly and meaningly in the singing of the closing hymn, which he was about to read out to them. the semi-drunk obligingly conducted as before, and the crowd faded away with the last notes of the music. chapter ruth as has already been stated, hitherto slyme had passed the greater number of his evenings at home, but during the following three weeks a change took place in his habits in this respect. he now went out nearly every night and did not return until after ten o'clock. on meeting nights he always changed his attire, dressing himself as on sundays, but on the other occasions he went out in his week-day clothes. ruth often wondered where he went on those nights, but he never volunteered the information and she never asked him. easton had chummed up with a lot of the regular customers at the 'cricketers', where he now spent most of his spare time, drinking beer, telling yarns or playing shove-ha'penny or hooks and rings. when he had no cash the old dear gave him credit until saturday. at first, the place had not had much attraction for him, and he really went there only for the purpose of 'keeping in' with crass: but after a time he found it a very congenial way of passing his evenings... one evening, ruth saw slyme meet crass as if by appointment and as the two men went away together she returned to her housework wondering what it meant. meantime, crass and slyme proceeded on their way down town. it was about half past six o'clock: the shops and streets were brilliantly lighted, and as they went along they saw numerous groups of men talking together in a listless way. most of them were artisans and labourers out of employment and evidently in no great hurry to go home. some of them had neither tea nor fire to go to, and stayed away from home as long as possible so as not to be compelled to look upon the misery of those who were waiting for them there. others hung about hoping against all probability that they might even yet--although it was so late--hear of some job to be started somewhere or other. as they passed one of these groups they recognized and nodded to newman and old jack linden, and the former left the others and came up to crass and slyme, who did not pause, so newman walked along with them. 'anything fresh in, bob?' he asked. 'no; we ain't got 'ardly anything,' replied crass. 'i reckon we shall finish up at "the cave" next week, and then i suppose we shall all be stood orf. we've got several plumbers on, and i believe there's a little gas-fitting work in, but next to nothing in our line.' 'i suppose you don't know of any other firm what's got anything?' 'no, i don't, mate. between you and me, i don't think any of 'em has; they're all in about the same fix.' 'i've not done anything since i left, you know,' said newman, 'and we've just about got as far as we can get, at home.' slyme and crass said nothing in reply to this. they wished that newman would take himself off, because they did not want him to know where they were going. however, newman continued to accompany them and an awkward silence succeeded. he seemed to wish to say something more, and they both guessed what it was. so they walked along as rapidly as possible in order not to give him any encouragement. at last newman blurted out: 'i suppose--you don't happen--either of you--to have a tanner you could lend me? i'll let you have it back--when i get a job.' 'i ain't mate,' replied crass. 'i'm sorry; if i 'ad one on me, you should 'ave it, with pleasure.' slyme also expressed his regret that he had no money with him, and at the corner of the next street newman--ashamed of having asked--wished them 'good night' and went away. slyme and crass hurried along and presently arrived at rushton & co.'s shop. the windows were lit up with electric light, displaying an assortment of wallpapers, gas and electric light fittings, glass shades, globes, tins of enamel, paint and varnish. several framed show-cards--'estimates free', 'first class work only, at moderate charges', 'only first class workmen employed' and several others of the same type. on one side wall of the window was a large shield-shaped board covered with black velvet on which a number of brass fittings for coffins were arranged. the shield was on an oak mount with the inscription: 'funerals conducted on modern principles'. slyme waited outside while crass went in. mr budd, the shopman, was down at the far end near the glazed partition which separated mr rushton's office from the front shop. as crass entered, budd--who was a pale-faced, unhealthy-looking, undersized youth about twenty years of age--looked round and, with a grimace, motioned him to walk softly. crass paused, wondering what the other meant; but the shopman beckoned him to advance, grinning and winking and jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the office. crass hesitated, fearing that possibly the miserable budd had gone--or been driven--out of his mind; but as the latter continued to beckon and grin and point towards the office crass screwed up his courage and followed him behind one of the showcases, and applying his eye to a crack in the woodwork of the partition indicated by budd, he could see mr rushton in the act of kissing and embracing miss wade, the young lady clerk. crass watched them for some time and then whispered to budd to call slyme, and when the latter came they all three took turns at peeping through the crack in the partition. when they had looked their fill they came out from behind the showcase, almost bursting with suppressed merriment. budd reached down a key from where it was hanging on a hook on the wall and gave it to crass and the two resumed their interrupted journey. but before they had proceeded a dozen yards from the shop, they were accosted by a short, elderly man with grey hair and a beard. this man looked about sixty-five years of age, and was very shabbily dressed. the ends of the sleeves of his coat were frayed and ragged, and the elbows were worn threadbare. his boots were patched, broken, and down at heel, and the knees and bottoms of the legs of his trousers were in the same condition as the sleeves of his coat. this man's name was latham; he was a venetian blind maker and repairer. with his son, he was supposed to be 'in business' on his own account, but as most of their work was done for 'the trade', that is, for such firms as rushton & co., they would be more correctly described as men who did piecework at home. he had been 'in business'--as he called it--for about forty years working, working, always working; and ever since his son became old enough to labour he had helped his father in the philanthropic task of manufacturing profits for the sweaters who employed them. they had been so busy running after work, and working for the benefit of others, that they had overlooked the fact that they were only earning a bare living for themselves and now, after forty years' hard labour, the old man was clothed in rags and on the verge of destitution. 'is rushton there?' he asked. 'yes, i think so,' replied crass, attempting to pass on; but the old man detained him. 'he promised to let us know about them blinds for "the cave". we gave 'im a price for 'em about a month ago. in fact, we gave 'im two prices, because he said the first was too high. five and six a set i asked 'im! take 'em right through the 'ole 'ouse! one with another--big and little. two coats of paint, and new tapes and cords. that wasn't too much, was it?' 'no,' said crass, walking on; 'that was cheap enough!' he said it was too much,' continued latham. 'said as 'e could get 'em done cheaper! but i say as no one can't do it and make a living.' as he walked along, talking, between crass and slyme, the old man became very excited. 'but we 'adn't nothing to do to speak of, so my son told 'im we'd do 'em for five bob a set, and 'e said 'e'd let us know, but we ain't 'eard nothing from 'im yet, so i thought i'd try and see 'im tonight.' well, you'll find 'im in there now,' said slyme with a peculiar look, and walking faster. 'good night.' 'i won't take 'em on for no less!' cried the old man as he turned back. i've got my livin' to get, and my son's got 'is wife and little 'uns to keep. we can't work for nothing!' 'certainly not,' said crass, glad to get away at last. 'good night, and good luck to you.' as soon as they were out of hearing, they both burst out laughing at the old man's vehemence. 'seemed quite upset about it,' said slyme; and they laughed again. they now left the main road and pursued their way through a number of badly lighted, mean-looking streets, and finally turning down a kind of alley, arrived at their destination. on one side of this street was a row of small houses; facing these were a number of buildings of a miscellaneous description--sheds and stables; and beyond these a plot of waste ground on which could be seen, looming weirdly through the dusk, a number of empty carts and waggons with their shafts resting on the ground or reared up into the air. threading their way carefully through these and avoiding as much as possible the mud, pools of water, and rubbish which covered the ground, they arrived at a large gate fastened with a padlock. applying the key, crass swung back the gate and they found themselves in a large yard filled with building materials and plant, ladders, huge tressels, planks and beams of wood, hand-carts, and wheelbarrows, heaps of sand and mortar and innumerable other things that assumed strange fantastic shapes in the semi-darkness. crates and packing cases, lengths of iron guttering and rain-pipes, old door-frames and other woodwork that had been taken from buildings where alterations had been made. and over all these things, a gloomy, indistinct and shapeless mass, rose the buildings and sheds that comprised rushton & co.'s workshop. crass struck a match, and slyme, stooping down, drew a key from a crevice in the wall near one of the doors, which he unlocked, and they entered. crass struck another match and lit the gas at the jointed bracket fixed to the wall. this was the paint-shop. at one end was a fireplace without a grate but with an iron bar fixed across the blackened chimney for the purpose of suspending pails or pots over the fire, which was usually made of wood on the hearthstone. all round the walls of the shop--which had once been whitewashed, but were now covered with smears of paint of every colour where the men had 'rubbed out' their brushes--were rows of shelves with kegs of paint upon them. in front of the window was a long bench covered with an untidy litter of dirty paint-pots, including several earthenware mixing vessels or mortars, the sides of these being thickly coated with dried paint. scattered about the stone floor were a number of dirty pails, either empty or containing stale whitewash; and standing on a sort of low platform or shelf at one end of the shop were four large round tanks fitted with taps and labelled 'boiled oil', 'turps', 'linseed oil', 'turps substitute'. the lower parts of the walls were discoloured with moisture. the atmosphere was cold and damp and foul with the sickening odours of the poisonous materials. it was in this place that bert--the apprentice--spent most of his time, cleaning out pots and pails, during slack periods when there were no jobs going on outside. in the middle of the shop, under a two-armed gas pendant, was another table or bench, also thickly coated with old, dried paint, and by the side of this were two large stands on which were hanging up to dry some of the lathes of the venetian blinds belonging to 'the cave', which crass and slyme were painting--piecework--in their spare time. the remainder of the lathes were leaning against the walls or piled in stacks on the table. crass shivered with cold as he lit the two gas-jets. 'make a bit of a fire, alf, he said, 'while i gets the colour ready.' slyme went outside and presently returned with his arms full of old wood, which he smashed up and threw into the fireplace; then he took an empty paint-pot and filled it with turpentine from the big tank and emptied it over the wood. amongst the pots on the mixing bench he found one full of old paint, and he threw this over the wood also, and in a few minutes he had made a roaring fire. meantime, crass had prepared the paint and brushes and taken down the lathes from the drying frames. the two men now proceeded with the painting of the blinds, working rapidly, each lathe being hung on the wires of the drying frame after being painted. they talked freely as they worked, having no fear of being overheard by rushton or nimrod. this job was piecework, so it didn't matter whether they talked or not. they waxed hilarious over old latham's discomfiture and wondered what he would say if he could see them now. then the conversation drifted to the subject of the private characters of the other men who were employed by rushton & co., and an impartial listener--had there been one there--would have been forced to come to the same conclusion as crass and slyme did: namely, that they themselves were the only two decent fellows on the firm. there was something wrong or shady about everybody else. that bloke barrington, for instance--it was a very funny business, you know, for a chap like 'im to be workin' as a labourer, it looked very suspicious. nobody knowed exactly who 'e was or where 'e come from, but anyone could tell 'e'd been a toff. it was very certain 'e'd never bin brought up to work for 'is livin'. the most probable explanation was that 'e'd committed some crime and bin disowned by 'is family--pinched some money, or forged a cheque or something like that. then there was that sawkins. he was no class whatever. it was a well-known fact that he used to go round to misery's house nearly every night to tell him every little thing that had happened on the job during the day! as for payne, the foreman carpenter, the man was a perfect fool: he'd find out the difference if ever he got the sack from rushton's and went to work for some other firm! he didn't understand his trade, and he couldn't make a coffin properly to save 'is life! then there was that rotter owen; there was a bright specimen for yer! an atheist! didn't believe in no god or devil or nothing else. a pretty state of things there would be if these socialists could have their own way: for one thing, nobody would be allowed to work overtime! crass and slyme worked and talked in this manner till ten o'clock, and then they extinguished the fire by throwing some water on it--put out the gas and locked up the shop and the yard, dropping the key of the latter into the letter-box at rushton's office on their way home. in this way they worked at the blinds nearly every night for three weeks. when saturday arrived the men working at 'the cave' were again surprised that nobody was sacked, and they were divided in opinion as to the reason, some thinking that nimrod was determined to keep them all on till the job was finished, so as to get it done as quickly as possible; and others boldly asserting the truth of a rumour that had been going about for several days that the firm had another big job in. mr sweater had bought another house; rushton had to do it up, and they were all to be kept on to start this other work as soon as 'the cave' was finished. crass knew no more than anyone else and he maintained a discreet silence, but the fact that he did not contradict the rumour served to strengthen it. the only foundation that existed for this report was that rushton and misery had been seen looking over the garden gate of a large empty house near 'the cave'. but although it had such an insignificant beginning, the rumour had grown and increased in detail and importance day by day. that very morning at breakfast-time, the man on the pail had announced that he had heard on the very best authority that mr sweater had sold all his interest in the great business that bore his name and was about to retire into private life, and that he intended to buy up all the house property in the neighbourhood of 'the cave'. another individual--one of the new hands--said that he had heard someone else--in a public house--say that rushton was about to marry one of sweater's daughters, and that sweater intended to give the couple a house to live in, as a wedding present: but the fact that rushton was already married and the father of four children, rather knocked the bottom out of this story, so it was regretfully dismissed. whatever the reason, the fact remained that nobody had been discharged, and when pay-time arrived they set out for the office in high spirits. that evening, the weather being fine, slyme went out as usual to his open-air meeting, but easton departed from his usual custom of rushing off to the 'cricketers' directly he had had his tea, having on this occasion promised to wait for ruth and to go with her to do the marketing. the baby was left at home alone, asleep in the cradle. by the time they had made all their purchases they had a fairly heavy load. easton carried the string-bag containing the potatoes and other vegetables, and the meat, and ruth, the groceries. on their way home, they had to pass the 'cricketers' and just before they reached that part of their journey they met mr and mrs crass, who were also out marketing. they both insisted on easton and ruth going in to have a drink with them. ruth did not want to go, but she allowed herself to be persuaded for she could see that easton was beginning to get angry with her for refusing. crass had on a new overcoat and a new hat, with dark grey trousers and yellow boots, and a 'stand-up' collar with a bright blue tie. his wife--a fat, vulgar-looking, well-preserved woman about forty--was arrayed in a dark red 'motor' costume, with hat to match. both easton and ruth--whose best clothes had all been pawned to raise the money to pay the poor rate--felt very mean and shabby before them. when they got inside, crass paid for the first round of drinks, a pint of old six for himself; the same for easton, half a pint for mrs easton and threepenny-worth of gin for mrs crass. the besotted wretch was there, just finishing a game of hooks and rings with the semi-drunk--who had called round on the day after he was thrown out, to apologize for his conduct to the old dear, and had since then become one of the regular customers. philpot was absent. he had been there that afternoon, so the old dear said, but he had gone home about five o'clock, and had not been back since. he was almost sure to look in again in the course of the evening. although the house was not nearly so full as it would have been if times had been better, there was a large number of people there, for the 'cricketers' was one of the most popular houses in the town. another thing that helped to make them busy was the fact that two other public houses in the vicinity had recently been closed up. there were people in all the compartments. some of the seats in the public bar were occupied by women, some young and accompanied by their husbands, some old and evidently sodden with drink. in one corner of the public bar, drinking beer or gin with a number of young fellows, were three young girls who worked at a steam laundry in the neighbourhood. two large, fat, gipsy-looking women: evidently hawkers, for on the floor beside them were two baskets containing bundles of flowers--chrysanthemums and michaelmas daisies. there were also two very plainly and shabbily dressed women about thirty-five years of age, who were always to be found there on saturday nights, drinking with any man who was willing to pay for them. the behaviour of these two women was very quiet and their manners unobtrusive. they seemed to realize that they were there only on sufferance, and their demeanour was shamefaced and humble. the majority of the guests were standing. the floor was sprinkled with sawdust which served to soak up the beer that slopped out of the glasses of those whose hands were too unsteady to hold them upright. the air was foul with the smell of beer, spirits and tobacco smoke, and the uproar was deafening, for nearly everyone was talking at the same time, their voices clashing discordantly with the strains of the polyphone, which was playing 'the garden of your heart'. in one corner a group of men convulsed with laughter at the details of a dirty story related by one of their number. several impatient customers were banging the bottoms of their empty glasses or pewters on the counter and shouting their orders for more beer. oaths, curses and obscene expressions resounded on every hand, coming almost as frequently from the women as the men. and over all the rattle of money, the ringing of the cash register. the clinking and rattling of the glasses and pewter pots as they were being washed, and the gurgling noise made by the beer as it poured into the drinking vessels from the taps of the beer engine, whose handles were almost incessantly manipulated by the barman, the old dear and the glittering landlady, whose silken blouse, bejewelled hair, ears, neck and fingers scintillated gloriously in the blaze of the gaslight. the scene was so novel and strange to ruth that she felt dazed and bewildered. previous to her marriage she had been a total abstainer, but since then she had occasionally taken a glass of beer with easton for company's sake with their sunday dinner at home; but it was generally easton who went out and bought the beer in a jug. once or twice she had bought it herself at an off licence beer-shop near where they lived, but she had never before been in a public house to drink. she was so confused and ill at ease that she scarcely heard or understood mrs crass, who talked incessantly, principally about their other residents in north street where they both resided; and about mr crass. she also promised ruth to introduce her presently--if he came in, as he was almost certain to do--to mr partaker, one of her two lodgers a most superior young man, who had been with them now for over three years and would not leave on any account. in fact, he had been their lodger in their old house, and when they moved he came with them to north street, although it was farther away from his place of business than their former residence. mrs crass talked a lot more of the same sort of stuff, to which ruth listened like one in a dream, and answered with an occasional yes or no. meantime, crass and easton--the latter had deposited the string-bag on the seat at ruth's side--and the semi-drunk and the besotted wretch, arranged to play a match of hooks and rings, the losers to pay for drinks for all the party, including the two women. crass and the semi-drunk tossed up for sides. crass won and picked the besotted wretch, and the game began. it was a one-sided affair from the first, for easton and the semi-drunk were no match for the other two. the end of it was that easton and his partner had to pay for the drinks. the four men had a pint each of four ale, and mrs crass had another threepennyworth of gin. ruth protested that she did not want any more to drink, but the others ridiculed this, and both the besotted wretch and the semi-drunk seemed to regard her unwillingness as a personal insult, so she allowed them to get her another half-pint of beer, which she was compelled to drink, because she was conscious that the others were watching her to see that she did so. the semi-drunk now suggested a return match. he wished to have his revenge. he was a little out of practice, he said, and was only just getting his hand in as they were finishing the other game. crass and his partner readily assented, and in spite of ruth's whispered entreaty that they should return home without further delay, easton insisted on joining the game. although they played more carefully than before, and notwithstanding the fact that the besotted wretch was very drunk, easton and his partner were again beaten and once more had to pay for the drinks. the men had a pint each as before. mrs crass--upon whom the liquor so far seemed to have no effect--had another threepennyworth of gin; and ruth consented to take another glass of beer on condition that easton would come away directly their drinks were finished. easton agreed to do so, but instead of keeping his word he began to play a four-handed game of shove-ha'penny with the other three, the sides and stakes being arranged as before. the liquor was by this time beginning to have some effect upon ruth: she felt dizzy and confused. whenever it was necessary to reply to mrs crass's talk she found some difficulty in articulating the words and she knew she was not answering very intelligently. even when mrs crass introduced her to the interesting mr partaker, who arrived about this time, she was scarcely able to collect herself sufficiently to decline that fascinating gentleman's invitation to have another drink with himself and mrs crass. after a time a kind of terror took possession of her, and she resolved that if easton would not come when he had finished the game he was playing, she would go home without him. meantime the game of shove-ha'penny proceeded merrily, the majority of the male guests crowding round the board, applauding or censuring the players as occasion demanded. the semi-drunk was in high glee, for crass was not much of a hand at this game, and the besotted wretch, although playing well, was not able to make up for his partner's want of skill. as the game drew near its end and it became more and more certain that his opponents would be defeated, the joy of the semi-drunk was unbounded, and he challenged them to make it double or quits--a generous offer which they wisely declined, and shortly afterwards, seeing that their position was hopeless, they capitulated and prepared to pay the penalty of the vanquished. crass ordered the drinks and the besotted wretch paid half the damage--a pint of four ale for each of the men and the same as before for the ladies. the old dear executed the order, but by mistake, being very busy, he served two 'threes' of gin instead of one. ruth did not want any more at all, but she was afraid to say so, and she did not like to make any fuss about it being the wrong drink, especially as they all assured her that the spirits would do her more good than beer. she did not want either; she wanted to get away, and would have liked to empty the stuff out of the glass on the floor, but she was afraid that mrs crass or one of the others might see her doing so, and there might be some trouble about it. anyway, it seemed easier to drink this small quantity of spirits and water than a big glass of beer, the very thought of which now made her feel ill. she drank the stuff which easton handed to her at a single draught and, handing back the empty glass with a shudder, stood up resolutely. 'are you coming home now? you promised you would,' she said. 'all right: presently,' replied easton. 'there's plenty of time; it's not nine yet.' 'that doesn't matter; it's quite late enough. you know we've left the child at home alone in the house. you promised you'd come as soon as you'd finished that other game.' 'all right, all right,' answered easton impatiently. 'just wait a minute, i want to see this, and then i'll come.' 'this' was a most interesting problem propounded by crass, who had arranged eleven matches side by side on the shove-ha'penny board. the problem was to take none away and yet leave only nine. nearly all the men in the bar were crowding round the shove-ha'penny board, some with knitted brows and drunken gravity trying to solve the puzzle and others waiting curiously for the result. easton crossed over to see how it was done, and as none of the crowd were able to do the trick, crass showed that it could be accomplished by simply arranging the eleven matches so as to form the word nine. everybody said it was very good indeed, very clever and interesting. but the semi-drunk and the besotted wretch were reminded by this trick of several others equally good, and they proceeded to do them; and then the men had another pint each all round as a reviver after the mental strain of the last few minutes. easton did not know any tricks himself, but he was an interested spectator of those done by several others until ruth came over and touched his arm. 'aren't you coming?' 'wait a minute, can't you?' cried easton roughly. 'what's your hurry?' 'i don't want to stay here any longer,' said ruth, hysterically. 'you said you'd come as soon as you saw that trick. if you don't come, i shall go home by myself. i don't want to stay in this place any longer.' 'well, go by yourself if you want to!' shouted easton fiercely, pushing her away from him. 'i shall stop 'ere as long as i please, and if you don't like it you can do the other thing.' ruth staggered and nearly fell from the force of the push he gave her, and the man turned again to the table to watch the semi-drunk, who was arranging six matches so as to form the numeral xii, and who said he could prove that this was equal to a thousand. ruth waited a few minutes longer, and then as easton took no further notice of her, she took up the string-bag and the other parcels, and without staying to say good night to mrs crass--who was earnestly conversing with the interesting partaker--she with some difficulty opened the door and went out into the street. the cold night air felt refreshing and sweet after the foul atmosphere of the public house, but after a little while she began to feel faint and dizzy, and was conscious also that she was walking unsteadily, and she fancied that people stared at her strangely as they passed. the parcels felt very heavy and awkward to carry, and the string-bag seemed as if it were filled with lead. although under ordinary circumstances it was only about ten minutes' walk home from here, she resolved to go by one of the trams which passed by the end of north street. with this intention, she put down her bag on the pavement at the stopping-place, and waited, resting her hand on the iron pillar at the corner of the street, where a little crowd of people were standing evidently with the same object as herself. two trains passed without stopping, for they were already full of passengers, a common circumstance on saturday nights. the next one stopped, and several persons alighted, and then ensued a fierce struggle amongst the waiting crowd for the vacant seats. men and women pushed, pulled and almost fought, shoving their fists and elbows into each other's sides and breasts and faces. ruth was quickly thrust aside and nearly knocked down, and the tram, having taken aboard as many passengers as it had accommodation for, passed on. she waited for the next one, and the same scene was enacted with the same result for her, and then, reflecting that if she had not stayed for these trams she might have been home by now, she determined to resume her walk. the parcels felt heavier than ever, and she had not proceeded very far before she was compelled to put the bag down again upon the pavement, outside an empty house. leaning against the railings, she felt very tired and ill. everything around her--the street, the houses, the traffic--seemed vague and shadowy and unreal. several people looked curiously at her as they passed, but by this time she was scarcely conscious of their scrutiny. slyme had gone that evening to the usual 'open-air' conducted by the shining light mission. the weather being fine, they had a most successful meeting, the disciples, including hunter, rushton, sweater, didlum, and mrs starvem--ruth's former mistress--assembled in great force so as to be able to deal more effectively with any infidels or hired critics or drunken scoffers who might try to disturb the proceedings; and--possibly as an evidence of how much real faith there was in them--they had also arranged to have a police officer in attendance, to protect them from what they called the 'powers of darkness'. one might be excused for thinking that--if they really believed--they would have relied rather upon those powers of light which they professed to represent on this planet to protect them without troubling to call in the aid of such a 'worldly' force as the police. however, it came to pass that on this occasion the only infidels present were those who were conducting the meeting, but as these consisted for the most part of members of the chapel, it will be seen that the infidel fraternity was strongly represented. on his way home after the meeting slyme had to pass by the 'cricketers' and as he drew near the place he wondered if easton was there, but he did not like to go and look in, because he was afraid someone might see him coming away and perhaps think he had been in to drink. just as he arrived opposite the house another man opened the door of the public bar and entered, enabling slyme to catch a momentary glimpse of the interior, where he saw easton and crass with a number of others who were strangers to him, laughing and drinking together. slyme hurried away; it had turned very cold, and he was anxious to get home. as he approached the place where the trams stopped to take up passengers and saw that there was a tram in sight he resolved to wait for it and ride home: but when the tram arrived and there were only one or two seats vacant, and although he did his best to secure one of these he was unsuccessful, and after a moment's hesitation he decided that it would be quicker to walk than to wait for the next one. he accordingly resumed his journey, but he had not gone very far when he saw a small crowd of people on the pavement on the other side of the road outside an unoccupied house, and although he was in a hurry to get home he crossed over to see what was the matter. there were about twenty people standing there, and in the centre close to the railing there were three or four women whom slyme could not see although he could hear their voices. 'what's up?' he inquired of a man on the edge of the crowd. 'oh, nothing much,' returned the other. 'some young woman; she's either ill, come over faint, or something--or else she's had a drop too much.' 'quite a respectable-looking young party, too,' said another man. several young fellows in the crowd were amusing themselves by making suggestive jokes about the young woman and causing some laughter by the expressions of mock sympathy. 'doesn't anyone know who she is?' said the second man who had spoken in reply to slyme's inquiry. 'no,' said a woman who was standing a little nearer the middle of the crowd. 'and she won't say where she lives.' 'she'll be all right now she's had that glass of soda,' said another man, elbowing his way out of the crowd. as this individual came out, slyme managed to work himself a little further into the group of people, and he uttered an involuntary cry of astonishment as he caught sight of ruth, very pale, and looking very ill, as she stood clasping one of the railings with her left hand and holding the packages of groceries in the other. she had by this time recovered sufficiently to feel overwhelmed with shame and confusion before the crowd of strangers who hemmed her in on every side, and some of whom she could hear laughing and joking about her. it was therefore with a sensation of intense relief and gratitude that she saw slyme's familiar face and heard his friendly voice as he forced his way through to her side. 'i can walk home all right now,' she stammered in reply to his anxious questioning. 'if you wouldn't mind carrying some of these things for me.' he insisted on taking all the parcels, and the crowd, having jumped to the conclusion that he was the young woman's husband began to dwindle away, one of the jokers remarking 'it's all over!' in a loud voice as he took himself off. it was only about seven minutes' walk home from there, and as the streets along which they had to pass were not very brilliantly lighted, ruth was able to lean on slyme's arm most of the way. when they arrived home, after she had removed her hat, he made her sit down in the armchair by the fire, which was burning brightly, and the kettle was singing on the hob, for she had banked up the fire with cinders and small coal before she went out. the baby was still asleep in the cradle, but his slumbers had evidently not been of the most restful kind, for he had kicked all the bedclothes off him and was lying all uncovered. ruth obeyed passively when slyme told her to sit down, and, lying back languidly in the armchair, she watched him through half-closed eyes and with a slight flush on her face as he deftly covered the sleeping child with the bedclothes and settled him more comfortably in the cot. slyme now turned his attention to the fire, and as he placed the kettle upon it he remarked: 'as soon as the water boils i'll make you some strong tea.' during their walk home she had acquainted slyme with the cause of her being in the condition in which he found her in the street, and as she reclined in the armchair, drowsily watching him, she wondered what would have happened to her if he had not passed by when he did. 'are you feeling better?' he asked, looking down at her. 'yes, thanks. i feel quite well now; but i'm afraid i've given you a lot of trouble.' 'no, you haven't. nothing i can do for you is a trouble to me. but don't you think you'd better take your jacket off? here, let me help you.' it took a very long time to get this jacket off, because whilst he was helping her, slyme kissed her repeatedly and passionately as she lay limp and unresisting in his arms. chapter the oblong during the following week the work at 'the cave' progressed rapidly towards completion, although, the hours of daylight being so few, the men worked only from a.m. till p.m. and they had their breakfasts before they came. this made hours a week, so that those who were paid sevenpence an hour earned £ . . . those who got sixpence-halfpenny drew £ . . . those whose wages were fivepence an hour were paid the princely sum of / d. for their week's hard labour, and those whose rate was fourpence-halfpenny 'picked up' /-. and yet there are people who have the insolence to say that drink is the cause of poverty. and many of the persons who say this, spend more money than that on drink themselves--every day of their useless lives. by tuesday night all the inside was finished with the exception of the kitchen and scullery. the painting of the kitchen had been delayed owing to the non-arrival of the new cooking range, and the scullery was still used as the paint shop. the outside work was also nearly finished: all the first coating was done and the second coating was being proceeded with. according to the specification, all the outside woodwork was supposed to have three coats, and the guttering, rain-pipes and other ironwork two coats, but crass and hunter had arranged to make two coats do for most of the windows and woodwork, and all the ironwork was to be made to do with one coat only. the windows were painted in two colours: the sashes dark green and the frames white. all the rest--gables, doors, railings, guttering, etc.--was dark green; and all the dark green paint was made with boiled linseed oil and varnish; no turpentine being allowed to be used on this part of the work. 'this is some bloody fine stuff to 'ave to use, ain't it?' remarked harlow to philpot on wednesday morning. 'it's more like a lot of treacle than anything else.' 'yes: and it won't arf blister next summer when it gets a bit of sun on it,' replied philpot with a grin. 'i suppose they're afraid that if they was to put a little turps in, it wouldn't bear out, and they'd 'ave to give it another coat.' 'you can bet yer life that's the reason,' said philpot. 'but all the same i mean to pinch a drop to put in mine as soon as crass is gorn.' 'gorn where?' 'why, didn't you know? there's another funeral on today? didn't you see that corfin plate what owen was writing in the drorin'-room last saturday morning?' 'no, i wasn't 'ere. don't you remember i was sent away to do a ceilin' and a bit of painting over at windley?' 'oh, of course; i forgot,' exclaimed philpot. 'i reckon crass and slyme must be making a small fortune out of all these funerals,' said harlow. 'this makes the fourth in the last fortnight. what is it they gets for 'em?' 'a shillin' for taking' 'ome the corfin and liftin' in the corpse, and four bob for the funeral--five bob altogether.' 'that's a bit of all right, ain't it?' said harlow. 'a couple of them in a week besides your week's wages, eh? five bob for two or three hours work!' 'yes, the money's all right, mate, but they're welcome to it for my part. i don't want to go messin' about with no corpses,' replied philpot with a shudder. 'who is this last party what's dead?' asked harlow after a pause. 'it's a parson what used to belong to the "shining light" chapel. he'd been abroad for 'is 'ollerdays--to monte carlo. it seems 'e was ill before 'e went away, but the change did 'im a lot of good; in fact, 'e was quite recovered, and 'e was coming back again. but while 'e was standin' on the platform at monte carlo station waitin' for the train, a porter runned into 'im with a barrer load o' luggage, and 'e blowed up.' 'blowed up?' 'yes,' repeated philpot. 'blowed up! busted! exploded! all into pieces. but they swep' 'em all up and put it in a corfin and it's to be planted this afternoon.' harlow maintained an awestruck silence, and philpot continued: 'i had a drink the other night with a butcher bloke what used to serve this parson with meat, and we was talkin' about what a strange sort of death it was, but 'e said 'e wasn't at all surprised to 'ear of it; the only thing as 'e wondered at was that the man didn't blow up long ago, considerin' the amount of grub as 'e used to make away with. he ses the quantities of stuff as 'e's took there and seen other tradesmen take was something chronic. tons of it!' 'what was the parson's name?' asked harlow. 'belcher. you must 'ave noticed 'im about the town. a very fat chap,' replied philpot. 'i'm sorry you wasn't 'ere on saturday to see the corfin plate. frank called me in to see the wordin' when 'e'd finished it. it had on: "jonydab belcher. born january st, . ascended, december th, --"' 'oh, i know the bloke now!' cried harlow. 'i remember my youngsters bringin' 'ome a subscription list what they'd got up at the sunday school to send 'im away for a 'ollerday because 'e was ill, and i gave 'em a penny each to put on their cards because i didn't want 'em to feel mean before the other young 'uns.' 'yes, it's the same party. two or three young 'uns asked me to give 'em something to put on at the time. and i see they've got another subscription list on now. i met one of newman's children yesterday and she showed it to me. it's for an entertainment and a christmas tree for all the children what goes to the sunday school, so i didn't mind giving just a trifle for anything like that.'... 'seems to be gettin' colder, don't it?' 'it's enough to freeze the ears orf a brass monkey!' remarked easton as he descended from a ladder close by and, placing his pot of paint on the pound, began to try to warm his hands by rubbing and beating them together. he was trembling, and his teeth were chattering with cold. 'i could just do with a nice pint of beer, now,' he said as he stamped his feet on the pound. 'that's just what i was thinkin',' said philpot, wistfully, 'and what's more, i mean to 'ave one, too, at dinner-time. i shall nip down to the "cricketers". even if i don't get back till a few minutes after one, it won't matter, because crass and nimrod will be gorn to the funeral.' 'will you bring me a pint back with you, in a bottle?' asked easton. 'yes, certainly,' said philpot. harlow said nothing. he also would have liked a pint of beer, but, as was usual with him, he had not the necessary cash. having restored the circulation to a certain extent, they now resumed their work, and only just in time, for a few minutes afterwards they observed misery peeping round the corner of the house at them and they wondered how long he had been there, and whether he had overheard their conversation. at twelve o'clock crass and slyme cleared off in a great hurry, and a little while afterwards, philpot took off his apron and put on his coat to go to the 'cricketers'. when the others found out where he was going, several of them asked him to bring back a drink for them, and then someone suggested that all those who wanted some beer should give twopence each. this was done: one shilling and fourpence was collected and given to philpot, who was to bring back a gallon of beer in a jar. he promised to get back as soon as ever he could, and some of the shareholders decided not to drink any tea with their dinners, but to wait for the beer, although they knew that it would be nearly time to resume work before he could get back. it would be a quarter to one at the very earliest. the minutes dragged slowly by, and after a while the only man on the job who had a watch began to lose his temper and refused to answer any more inquiries concerning the time. so presently bert was sent up to the top of the house to look at a church clock which was visible therefrom, and when he came down he reported that it was ten minutes to one. symptoms of anxiety now began to manifest themselves amongst the shareholders, several of whom went down to the main road to see if philpot was yet in sight, but each returned with the same report--they could see nothing of him. no one was formally 'in charge' of the job during crass's absence, but they all returned to their work promptly at one because they feared that sawkins or some other sneak might report any irregularity to crass or misery. at a quarter-past one, philpot was still missing and the uneasiness of the shareholders began to develop into a panic. some of them plainly expressed the opinion that he had gone on the razzle with the money. as the time wore on, this became the general opinion. at two o'clock, all hope of his return having been abandoned, two or three of the shareholders went and drank some of the cold tea. their fears were only too well founded, for they saw no more of philpot till the next morning, when he arrived looking very sheepish and repentant and promised to refund all the money on saturday. he also made a long, rambling statement from which it appeared that on his way to the 'cricketers' he met a couple of chaps whom he knew who were out of work, and he invited them to come and have a drink. when they got to the pub, they found there the semi-drunk and the besotted wretch. one drink led to another, and then they started arguing, and he had forgotten all about the gallon of beer until he woke up this morning. whilst philpot was making this explanation they were putting on their aprons and blouses, and crass was serving out the lots of colour. slyme took no part in the conversation, but got ready as quickly as possible and went outside to make a start. the reason for this haste soon became apparent to some of the others, for they noticed that he had selected and commenced painting a large window that was so situated as to be sheltered from the keen wind that was blowing. the basement of the house was slightly below the level of the ground and there was a sort of a trench or area about three feet deep in front of the basement windows. the banks of this trench were covered with rose trees and evergreens, and the bottom was a mass of slimy, evil-smelling, rain-sodden earth, foul with the excrement of nocturnal animals. to second-coat these basement windows, philpot and harlow had to get down into and stand in all this filth, which soaked through the worn and broken soles of their boots. as they worked, the thorns of the rose trees caught and tore their clothing and lacerated the flesh of their half-frozen hands. owen and easton were working on ladders doing the windows immediately above philpot and harlow, sawkins, on another ladder, was painting one of the gables, and the other men were working at different parts of the outside of the house. the boy bert was painting the iron railings of the front fence. the weather was bitterly cold, the sun was concealed by the dreary expanse of grey cloud that covered the wintry sky. as they stood there working most of the time they were almost perfectly motionless, the only part of their bodies that were exercised being their right arms. the work they were now doing required to be done very carefully and deliberately, otherwise the glass would be 'messed up' or the white paint of the frames would 'run into' the dark green of the sashes, both colours being wet at the same time, each man having two pots of paint and two sets of brushes. the wind was not blowing in sudden gusts, but swept by in a strong, persistent current that penetrated their clothing and left them trembling and numb with cold. it blew from the right; and it was all the worse on that account, because the right arm, being in use, left that side of the body fully exposed. they were able to keep their left hands in their trousers pockets and the left arm close to the side most of the time. this made a lot of difference. another reason why it is worse when the wind strikes upon one from the right side is that the buttons on a man's coat are always on the right side, and consequently the wind gets underneath. philpot realized this all the more because some of the buttons on his coat and waistcoat were missing. as they worked on, trembling with cold, and with their teeth chattering, their faces and hands became of that pale violet colour generally seen on the lips of a corpse. their eyes became full of water and the lids were red and inflamed. philpot's and harlow's boots were soon wet through, with the water they absorbed from the damp ground, and their feet were sore and intensely painful with cold. their hands, of course, suffered the most, becoming so numbed that they were unable to feel the brushes they held; in fact, presently, as philpot was taking a dip of colour, the brush fell from his hand into the pot; and then, finding that he was unable to move his fingers, he put his hand into his trousers pocket to thaw, and began to walk about, stamping his feet upon the ground. his example was quickly followed by owen, easton and harlow, and they all went round the corner to the sheltered side of the house where slyme was working, and began walking up and down, rubbing their hands, stamping their feet and swinging their arms to warm themselves. 'if i thought nimrod wasn't comin', i'd put my overcoat on and work in it,' remarked philpot, 'but you never knows when to expect the b--r, and if 'e saw me in it, it would mean the bloody push.' 'it wouldn't interfere with our workin' if we did wear 'em,' said easton; 'in fact, we'd be able to work all the quicker if we wasn't so cold.' 'even if misery didn't come, i suppose crass would 'ave something to say if we did put 'em on,' continued philpot. 'well, yer couldn't blame 'im if 'e did say something, could yer?' said slyme, offensively. 'crass would get into a row 'imself if 'unter came and saw us workin' in overcoats. it would look ridiclus.' slyme suffered less from the cold than any of them, not only because he had secured the most sheltered window, but also because he was better clothed than most of the rest. 'what's crass supposed to be doin' inside?' asked easton as he tramped up and down, with his shoulders hunched up and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. 'blowed if i know,' replied philpot. 'messin' about touchin' up or makin' colour. he never does 'is share of a job like this; 'e knows 'ow to work things all right for 'isself.' 'what if 'e does? we'd be the same if we was in 'is place, and so would anybody else,' said slyme, and added sarcastically: 'or p'haps you'd give all the soft jobs to other people and do all the rough yerself!' slyme knew that, although they were speaking of crass, they were also alluding to himself, and as he replied to philpot he looked slyly at owen, who had so far taken no part in the conversation. 'it's not a question of what we would do,' chimed in harlow. 'it's a question of what's fair. if it's not fair for crass to pick all the soft jobs for 'imself and leave all the rough for others, the fact that we might do the same if we 'ad the chance don't make it right.' 'no one can be blamed for doing the best he can for himself under existing circumstances,' said owen in reply to slyme's questioning look. that is the principle of the present system--every man for himself and the devil take the rest. for my own part i don't pretend to practise unselfishness. i don't pretend to guide my actions by the rules laid down in the sermon on the mount. but it's certainly surprising to hear you who profess to be a follower of christ--advocating selfishness. or, rather, it would be surprising if it were not that the name of "christian" has ceased to signify one who follows christ, and has come to mean only liar and hypocrite.' slyme made no answer. possibly the fact that he was a true believer enabled him to bear this insult with meekness and humility. 'i wonder what time it is?' interposed philpot. slyme looked at his watch. it was nearly ten o'clock. 'jesus christ! is that all?' growled easton as they returned to work. 'two hours more before dinner!' only two more hours, but to these miserable, half-starved, ill-clad wretches, standing here in the bitter wind that pierced their clothing and seemed to be tearing at their very hearts and lungs with icy fingers, it appeared like an eternity. to judge by the eagerness with which they longed for dinner-time, one might have thought they had some glorious banquet to look forward to instead of bread and cheese and onions, or bloaters--and stewed tea. two more hours of torture before dinner; and three more hours after that. and then, thank god, it would be too dark to see to work any longer. it would have been much better for them if, instead of being 'freemen', they had been slaves, and the property, instead of the hirelings, of mr rushton. as it was, he would not have cared if one or all of them had become ill or died from the effects of exposure. it would have made no difference to him. there were plenty of others out of work and on the verge of starvation who would be very glad to take their places. but if they had been rushton's property, such work as this would have been deferred until it could be done without danger to the health and lives of the slaves; or at any rate, even if it were proceeded with during such weather, their owner would have seen to it that they were properly clothed and fed; he would have taken as much care of them as he would of his horse. people always take great care of their horses. if they were to overwork a horse and make it ill, it would cost something for medicine and the veterinary surgeon, to say nothing of the animal's board and lodging. if they were to work their horses to death, they would have to buy others. but none of these considerations applies to workmen. if they work a man to death they can get another for nothing at the corner of the next street. they don't have to buy him; all they have to do is to give him enough money to provide him with food and clothing--of a kind--while he is working for them. if they only make him ill, they will not have to feed him or provide him with medical care while he is laid up. he will either go without these things or pay for them himself. at the same time it must be admitted that the workman scores over both the horse and the slave, inasmuch as he enjoys the priceless blessing of freedom. if he does not like the hirer's conditions he need not accept them. he can refuse to work, and he can go and starve. there are no ropes on him. he is a free man. he is the heir of all the ages. he enjoys perfect liberty. he has the right to choose freely which he will do--submit or starve. eat dirt or eat nothing. the wind blew colder and colder. the sky, which at first had shown small patches of blue through rifts in the masses of clouds, had now become uniformly grey. there was every indication of an impending fall of snow. the men perceived this with conflicting feelings. if it did commence to snow, they would not be able to continue this work, and therefore they found themselves involuntarily wishing that it would snow, or rain, or hail, or anything that would stop the work. but on the other hand, if the weather prevented them getting on with the outside, some of them would have to 'stand off', because the inside was practically finished. none of them wished to lose any time if they could possibly help it, because there were only ten days more before christmas. the morning slowly wore away and the snow did not fall. the hands worked on in silence, for they were in no mood for talking, and not only that, but they were afraid that hunter or rushton or crass might be watching them from behind some bush or tree, or through some of the windows. this dread possessed them to such an extent that most of them were almost afraid even to look round, and kept steadily on at work. none of them wished to spoil his chance of being kept on to help to do the other house that it was reported rushton & co. were going to 'do up' for mr sweater. twelve o'clock came at last, and crass's whistle had scarcely ceased to sound before they all assembled in the kitchen before the roaring fire. sweater had sent in two tons of coal and had given orders that fires were to be lit every day in nearly every room to make the house habitable by christmas. 'i wonder if it's true as the firm's got another job to do for old sweater?' remarked harlow as he was toasting a bloater on the end of the pointed stick. 'true? no!' said the man on the pail scornfully. 'it's all bogy. you know that empty 'ouse as they said sweater 'ad bought--the one that rushton and nimrod was seen lookin' at?' 'yes,' replied harlow. the other men listened with evident interest. 'well, they wasn't pricing it up after all! the landlord of that 'ouse is abroad, and there was some plants in the garden as rushton thought 'e'd like, and 'e was tellin' misery which ones 'e wanted. and afterwards old pontius pilate came up with ned dawson and a truck. they made two or three journeys and took bloody near everything in the garden as was worth takin'. what didn't go to rushton's place went to 'unter's.' the disappointment of their hopes for another job was almost forgotten in their interest in this story. 'who told you about it?' said harlow. 'ned dawson 'imself. it's right enough what i say. ask 'im.' ned dawson, usually called 'bundy's mate', had been away from the house for a few days down at the yard doing odd jobs, and had only come back to the 'cave' that morning. on being appealed to, he corroborated dick wantley's statement. 'they'll be gettin' theirselves into trouble if they ain't careful,' remarked easton. 'oh, no they won't, rushton's too artful for that. it seems the agent is a pal of 'is, and they worked it between 'em.' 'wot a bloody cheek, though!' exclaimed harlow. 'oh, that's nothing to some of the things i've known 'em do before now,' said the man on the pail. 'why, don't you remember, back in the summer, that carved hoak hall table as rushton pinched out of that 'ouse on grand parade?' 'yes; that was a bit of all right too, wasn't it?' cried philpot, and several of the others laughed. 'you know, that big 'ouse we did up last summer--no. ,' wantley continued, for the benefit of those not 'in the know'. 'well, it 'ad bin empty for a long time and we found this 'ere table in a cupboard under the stairs. a bloody fine table it was too. one of them bracket tables what you fix to the wall, without no legs. it 'ad a 'arf-round marble top to it, and underneath was a carved hoak figger, a mermaid, with 'er arms up over 'er 'ead 'oldin' up the table top--something splendid!' the man on the pail waxed enthusiastic as he thought of it. 'must 'ave been worth at least five quid. well, just as we pulled this 'ere table out, who should come in but rushton, and when 'e seen it, 'e tells crass to cover it over with a sack and not to let nobody see it. and then 'e clears orf to the shop and sends the boy down with the truck and 'as it took up to 'is own 'ouse, and it's there now, fixed in the front 'all. i was sent up there a couple of months ago to paint and varnish the lobby doors and i seen it meself. there's a pitcher called "the day of judgement" 'angin' on the wall just over it--thunder and lightning and earthquakes and corpses gettin' up out o' their graves--something bloody 'orrible! and underneath the picture is a card with a tex out of the bible--"christ is the 'ead of this 'ouse: the unknown guest at every meal. the silent listener to every conversation." i was workin' there for three or four days and i got to know it orf by 'eart.' 'well, that takes the biskit, don't it?' said philpot. 'yes: but the best of it was,' the man on the pail proceeded, 'the best of it was, when ole misery 'eard about the table, 'e was so bloody wild because 'e didn't get it 'imself that 'e went upstairs and pinched one of the venetian blinds and 'ad it took up to 'is own 'ouse by the boy, and a few days arterwards one of the carpenters 'ad to go and fix it up in 'is bedroom.' 'and wasn't it never found out?' inquired easton. 'well, there was a bit of talk about it. the agent wanted to know where it was, but pontius pilate swore black and white as there 'adn't been no blind in that room, and the end of it was that the firm got the order to supply a new one.' 'what i can't understand is, who did the table belong to?' said harlow. 'it was a fixture belongin' to the 'ouse,' replied wantley. 'but i suppose the former tenants had some piece of furniture of their own that they wanted to put in the 'all where this table was fixed, so they took it down and stored it away in this 'ere cupboard, and when they left the 'ouse i suppose they didn't trouble to put it back again. anyway, there was the mark on the wall where it used to be fixed, but when we did the staircase down, the place was papered over, and i suppose the landlord or the agent never give the table a thought. anyhow, rushton got away with it all right.' a number of similar stories were related by several others concerning the doings of different employers they had worked for, but after a time the conversation reverted to the subject that was uppermost in their thoughts--the impending slaughter, and the improbability of being able to obtain another job, considering the large number of men who were already out of employment. 'i can't make it out, myself,' remarked easton. 'things seems to get worse every year. there don't seem to be 'arf the work about that there used to be, and even what there is is messed up anyhow, as if the people who 'as it done can't afford to pay for it.' 'yes,' said harlow; 'that's true enough. why, just look at the work that's in one o' them 'ouses on the grand parade. people must 'ave 'ad more money to spend in those days, you know; all those massive curtain cornishes over the drawing- and dining-room winders--gilded solid! why, nowadays they'd want all the bloody 'ouse done down right through--inside and out, for the money it cost to gild one of them.' 'it seems that nearly everybody is more or less 'ard up nowadays,' said philpot. 'i'm jiggered if i can understand it, but there it is.' 'you should ast owen to explain it to yer,' remarked crass with a jeering laugh. ''e knows all about wot's the cause of poverty, but 'e won't tell nobody. 'e's been goin' to tell us wot it is for a long time past, but it don't seem to come orf.' crass had not yet had an opportunity of producing the obscurer cutting, and he made this remark in the hope of turning the conversation into a channel that would enable him to do so. but owen did not respond, and went on reading his newspaper. 'we ain't 'ad no lectures at all lately, 'ave we?' said harlow in an injured tone. 'i think it's about time owen explained what the real cause of poverty is. i'm beginning to get anxious about it.' the others laughed. when philpot had finished eating his dinner he went out of the kitchen and presently returned with a small pair of steps, which he opened and placed in a corner of the room, with the back of the steps facing the audience. 'there you are, me son!' he exclaimed to owen. 'there's a pulpit for yer.' 'yes! come on 'ere!' cried crass, feeling in his waistcoat pocket for the cutting. 'tell us wot's the real cause of poverty.' ''ear, 'ear,' shouted the man on the pail. 'git up into the bloody pulpit and give us a sermon.' as owen made no response to the invitations, the crowd began to hoot and groan. 'come on, man,' whispered philpot, winking his goggle eye persuasively at owen. 'come on, just for a bit of turn, to pass the time away.' owen accordingly ascended the steps--much to the secret delight of crass--and was immediately greeted with a round of enthusiastic applause. 'there you are, you see,' said philpot, addressing the meeting. 'it's no use booin' and threatenin', because 'e's one of them lecturers wot can honly be managed with kindness. if it 'adn't a bin for me, 'e wouldn't 'ave agreed to speak at all.' philpot having been unanimously elected chairman, proposed by harlow and seconded by the man on the pail, owen commenced: 'mr chairman and gentlemen: 'unaccustomed as i am to public speaking, it is with some degree of hesitation that i venture to address myself to such a large, distinguished, fashionable, and intelligent looking audience as that which i have the honour of seeing before me on the present occasion.' (applause.) 'one of the finest speakers i've ever 'eard!' remarked the man on the pail in a loud whisper to the chairman, who motioned him to be silent. owen continued: 'in some of my previous lectures i have endeavoured to convince you that money is in itself of no value and of no real use whatever. in this i am afraid i have been rather unsuccessful.' 'not a bit of it, mate,' cried crass, sarcastically. 'we all agrees with it.' ''ear, 'ear,' shouted easton. 'if a bloke was to come in 'ere now and orfer to give me a quid--i'd refuse it!' 'so would i,' said philpot. 'well, whether you agree or not, the fact remains. a man might possess so much money that, in england, he would be comparatively rich, and yet if he went to some country where the cost of living is very high he would find himself in a condition of poverty. or one might conceivably be in a place where the necessaries of life could not be bought for money at all. therefore it is more conducive to an intelligent understanding of the subject if we say that to be rich consists not necessarily in having much money, but in being able to enjoy an abundance of the things that are made by work; and that poverty consists not merely in being without money, but in being short of the necessaries and comforts of life--or in other words in being short of the benefits of civilization, the things that are all, without exception, produced by work. whether you agree or not with anything else that i say, you will all admit that that is our condition at the present time. we do not enjoy a full share of the benefits of civilization--we are all in a state of more or less abject poverty.' 'question!' cried crass, and there were loud murmurs of indignant dissent from several quarters as owen proceeded: 'how does it happen that we are so short of the things that are made by work?' 'the reason why we're short of the things that's made by work,' interrupted crass, mimicking owen's manner, 'is that we ain't got the bloody money to buy 'em.' 'yes,' said the man on the pail; 'and as i said before, if all the money in the country was shared out equal today according to owen's ideas--in six months' time it would be all back again in the same 'ands as it is now, and what are you goin' to do then?' 'share again, of course.' this answer came derisively from several places at the same instant, and then they all began speaking at once, vying with each other in ridiculing the foolishness of 'them there socialists', whom they called 'the sharers out'. barrington was almost the only one who took no part in the conversation. he was seated in his customary place and, as usual, silently smoking, apparently oblivious to his surroundings. 'i never said anything about "sharing out all the money",' said owen during a lull in the storm, 'and i don't know of any socialist who advocates anything of the kind. can any of you tell me the name of someone who proposes to do so?' no one answered, as owen repeated his inquiry, this time addressing himself directly to crass, who had been one of the loudest in denouncing and ridiculing the 'sharers out'. thus cornered, crass--who knew absolutely nothing about the subject--for a few moments looked rather foolish. then he began to talk in a very loud voice: 'why, it's a well-known fact. everybody knows that's what they wants. but they take bloody good care they don't act up to it theirselves, though. look at them there labour members of parliament--a lot of b--rs what's too bloody lazy to work for their livin'! what the bloody 'ell was they before they got there? only workin' men, the same as you and me! but they've got the gift o' the gab and--' 'yes, we know all about that,' said owen, 'but what i'm asking you is to tell us who advocates taking all the money in the country and sharing it out equally?' 'and i say that everybody knows that's what they're after!' shouted crass. 'and you know it as well as i do. a fine thing!' he added indignantly. 'accordin' to that idear, a bloody scavenger or a farm labourer ought to get as much wages as you or me!' 'we can talk about that some other time. what i want to know at present is--what authority have you for saying that socialists believe in sharing out all the money equally amongst all the people?' 'well, that's what i've always understood they believed in doing,' said crass rather lamely. 'it's a well-known fact,' said several others. 'come to think of it,' continued crass as he drew the obscurer cutting from his waistcoat pocket, 'i've got a little thing 'ere that i've been goin' to read to yer. it's out of the obscurer. i'd forgotten all about it.' remarking that the print was too small for his own eyes, he passed the slip of paper to harlow, who read aloud as follows: prove your principles: or, look at both sides 'i wish i could open your eyes to the true misery of our condition: injustice, tyranny and oppression!' said a discontented hack to a weary-looking cob as they stood side by side in unhired cabs. 'i'd rather have them opened to something pleasant, thank you,' replied the cob. 'i am sorry for you. if you could enter into the noble aspirations--' the hack began. 'talk plain. what would you have?' said the cob, interrupting him. 'what would i have? why, equality, and share and share alike all over the world,' said the hack. 'you mean that?' said the cob. 'of course i do. what right have those sleek, pampered hunters and racers to their warm stables and high feed, their grooms and jockeys? it is really heart-sickening to think of it,' replied the hack. 'i don't know but you may be right,' said the cob, 'and to show i'm in earnest, as no doubt you are, let me have half the good beans you have in your bag, and you shall have half the musty oats and chaff i have in mine. there's nothing like proving one's principles.' original parables. by mrs prosier. 'there you are!' cried several voices. 'what does that mean?' cried crass, triumphantly. 'why don't you go and share your wages with the chaps what's out of work?' 'what does it mean?' replied owen contemptuously. 'it means that if the editor of the obscurer put that in his paper as an argument against socialism, either he is of feeble intellect himself or else he thinks that the majority of his readers are. that isn't an argument against socialism--it's an argument against the hypocrites who pretend to be christians--the people who profess to "love their neighbours as themselves"--who pretend to believe in universal brotherhood, and that they do not love the world or the things of the world and say that they are merely "pilgrims on their way to a better land". as for why i don't do it--why should i? i don't pretend to be a christian. but you're all "christians"--why don't you do it?' 'we're not talkin' about religion,' exclaimed crass, impatiently. 'then what are you talking about? i never said anything about "sharing out" or "bearing one another's burdens". i don't profess to "give to everyone who asks of me" or to "give my cloak to the man who take away my coat". i have read that christ taught that his followers must do all these things, but as i do not pretend to be one of his followers i don't do them. but you believe in christianity: why don't you do the things that he said?' as nobody seemed to know the answer to this question, the lecturer proceeded: 'in this matter the difference between so-called "christians" and socialists is this: christ taught the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of men. those who today pretend to be christ's followers hypocritically profess to carry out those teachings now. but they don't. they have arranged "the battle of life" system instead! 'the socialist--very much against his will--finds himself in the midst of this horrible battle, and he appeals to the other combatants to cease from fighting and to establish a system of brotherly love and mutual helpfulness, but he does not hypocritically pretend to practise brotherly love towards those who will not agree to his appeal, and who compel him to fight with them for his very life. he knows that in this battle he must either fight or go under. therefore, in self-defiance, he fights; but all the time he continues his appeal for the cessation of the slaughter. he pleads for the changing of the system. he advocates co-operation instead of competition: but how can he co-operate with people who insist on competing with him? no individual can practise co-operation by himself! socialism can only be practised by the community--that is the meaning of the word. at present, the other members of the community--the "christians"--deride and oppose the socialist's appeal. 'it is these pretended christians who do not practise what they preach, because, all the time they are singing their songs of brotherhood and love, they are fighting with each other, and strangling each other and trampling each other underfoot in their horrible "battle of life"! 'no socialist suggests "sharing out" money or anything else in the manner you say. and another thing: if you only had a little more sense you might be able to perceive that this stock "argument" of yours is really an argument against the present system, inasmuch as it proves that money is in itself of no use whatever. supposing all the money was shared out equally; and suppose there was enough of it for everyone to have ten thousand pounds; and suppose they then all thought they were rich and none of them would work. what would they live on? their money? could they eat it or drink it or wear it? it wouldn't take them very long to find out that this wonderful money--which under the present system is the most powerful thing in existence--is really of no more use than so much dirt. they would speedily perish, not from lack of money, but from lack of wealth--that is, from lack of things that are made by work. and further, it is quite true that if all the money were distributed equally amongst all the people tomorrow, it would all be up in heaps again in a very short time. but that only proves that while the present money system remains, it will be impossible to do away with poverty, for heaps in some places mean little or nothing in other places. therefore while the money system lasts we are bound to have poverty and all the evils it brings in its train.' 'oh, of course everybody's an idjit except you,' sneered crass, who was beginning to feel rather fogged. 'i rise to a pint of order,' said easton. 'and i rise to order a pint,' cried philpot. 'order what the bloody 'ell you like,' remarked harlow, 'so long as i 'aven't got to pay for it.' 'mine's a pint of porter,' observed the man on the pail. 'the pint is,' proceeded easton, 'when does the lecturer intend to explain to us what is the real cause of poverty.' ''ear, 'ear,' cried harlow. 'that's what i want to know, too.' 'and what i should like to know is, who is supposed to be givin' this 'ere lecture?' inquired the man on the pail. 'why, owen, of course,' replied harlow. 'well, why don't you try to keep quiet for a few minutes and let 'im get on with it?' 'the next b--r wot interrupts,' cried philpot, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and glaring threateningly round upon the meeting. 'the next b--r wot interrupts goes out through the bloody winder!' at this, everybody pretended to be very frightened, and edged away as far as possible from philpot. easton, who was sitting next to him, got up and crossed over to owen's vacant seat. the man on the pail was the only one who did not seem nervous; perhaps he felt safer because he was, as usual, surrounded by a moat. 'poverty,' resumed the lecturer, consists in a shortage of the necessaries of life--or rather, of the benefits of civilization.' 'you've said that about a 'undred times before,' snarled crass. 'i know i have; and i have no doubt i shall have to say it about five hundred times more before you understand what it means.' 'get on with the bloody lecture,' shouted the man on the pail. 'never mind arguin' the point.' 'well, keep horder, can't you?' cried philpot, fiercely, 'and give the man a chance.' 'all these things are produced in the same way,' proceeded owen. 'they are made from the raw materials by those who work--aided by machinery. when we inquire into the cause of the present shortage of these things, the first question we should ask is--are there not sufficient of the raw materials in existence to enable us to produce enough to satisfy the needs of all? 'the answer to this question is--there are undoubtedly more than sufficient of all the raw materials. 'insufficiency of raw material is therefore not the cause. we must look in another direction. 'the next question is--are we short of labour? is there not a sufficient number of people able and willing to work? or is there not enough machinery? 'the answers to these questions are--there are plenty of people able and willing to work, and there is plenty of machinery! 'these things being so, how comes this extraordinary result? how is it that the benefits of civilization are not produced in sufficient quantity to satisfy the needs of all? how is it that the majority of the people always have to go without most of the refinements, comforts, and pleasures of life, and very often without even the bare necessaries of existence? 'plenty of materials--plenty of labour--plenty of machinery--and, nearly everybody going short of nearly everything! 'the cause of this extraordinary state of affairs is that although we possess the means of producing more than abundance for all, we also have an imbecile system of managing our affairs. 'the present money system prevents us from doing the necessary work, and consequently causes the majority of the population to go short of the things that can be made by work. they suffer want in the midst of the means of producing abundance. they remain idle because they are bound and fettered with a chain of gold. 'let us examine the details of this insane, idiotic, imbecile system.' owen now asked philpot to pass him a piece of charred wood from under the grate, and having obtained what he wanted, he drew upon the wall a quadrangular figure about four feet in length and one foot deep. the walls of the kitchen had not yet been cleaned off, so it did not matter about disfiguring them. +------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | | | | | | | | | this represents the whole of the adult population of the country | | | | | | | | | | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+ 'to find out the cause of the shortage in this country of the things that can be made by work it is first of all necessary to find out how people spend their time. now this square represents the whole of the adult population of this country. there are many different classes of people, engaged in a great number of different occupations. some of them are helping to produce the benefits of civilization, and some are not. all these people help to consume these things, but when we inquire into their occupations we shall find that although the majority are workers, only a comparatively small number are engaged in actually producing either the benefits of civilization or the necessaries of life.'... order being once more restored, the lecturer turned again to the drawing on the wall and stretched out his hand, evidently with the intention of making some addition to it, but instead of doing so he paused irresolutely, and faltering, let his arm drop down again by his side. an absolute, disconcerting silence reigned. his embarrassment and nervousness increased. he knew that they were unwilling to hear or talk or think about such subjects as the cause of poverty at all. they preferred to make fun of and ridicule them. he knew they would refuse to try to see the meaning of what he wished to say if it were at all difficult or obscure. how was he to put it to them so that they would have to understand it whether they wished to or not. it was almost impossible. it would be easy enough to convince them if they would only take a little trouble and try to understand, but he knew that they certainly would not 'worry' themselves about such a subject as this; it was not as if it were some really important matter, such as a smutty story, a game of hooks and rings or shove-ha'penny, something concerning football or cricket, horse-racing or the doings of some royal personage or aristocrat. the problem of the cause of poverty was only something that concerned their own and their children's future welfare. such an unimportant matter, being undeserving of any earnest attention, must be put before them so clearly and plainly that they would be compelled to understand it at a glance; and it was almost impossible to do it. observing his hesitation, some of the men began to snigger. ''e seems to 'ave got 'isself into a bit of a fog,' remarked crass in a loud whisper to slyme, who laughed. the sound roused owen, who resumed: 'all these people help to consume the things produced by labour. we will now divide them into separate classes. those who help to produce; those who do nothing, those who do harm, and those who are engaged in unnecessary work.' 'and,' sneered crass, 'those who are engaged in unnecessary talk.' 'first we will separate those who not only do nothing, but do not even pretend to be of any use; people who would consider themselves disgraced if they by any chance did any useful work. this class includes tramps, beggars, the "aristocracy", "society" people, great landowners, and generally all those possessed of hereditary wealth.' as he spoke he drew a vertical line across one end of the oblong. +------------+-----------------------------------------------------+ | tramps | | | beggars | | | society | | | people | | | aristoc- | | | racy | | | great | | | landowners | | | all those | | | possessed | | | of | | | hereditary | | | wealth | | +------------+-----------------------------------------------------+ 'these people do absolutely nothing except devour or enjoy the things produced by the labours of others. 'our next division represents those who do work of a kind--"mental" work if you like to call it so--work that benefits themselves and harms other people. employers--or rather exploiters of labour; thieves, swindlers, pickpockets; profit seeking share-holders; burglars; bishops; financiers; capitalists, and those persons humorously called "ministers" of religion. if you remember that the word "minister" means "servant" you will be able to see the joke. +------------+-------------+---------------------------------------+ | tramps | exploiters | | | beggars | of labour | | | society | thieves | | | people | swindlers | | | aristoc- | pickpockets | | | racy | burglars | | | great | bishops | | | landowners | financiers | | | all those | capitalists | | | possessed | share- | | | of | holders | | | hereditary | ministers | | | wealth | of religion | | +------------+-------------+---------------------------------------+ 'none of these people produce anything themselves, but by means of cunning and scheming they contrive between them to obtain possession of a very large portion of the things produced by the labour of others. 'number three stands for those who work for wages or salaries, doing unnecessary work. that is, producing things or doing things which--though useful and necessary to the imbecile system--cannot be described as the necessaries of life or the benefits of civilization. this is the largest section of all. it comprises commercial travellers, canvassers, insurance agents, commission agents, the great number of shop assistants, the majority of clerks, workmen employed in the construction and adornment of business premises, people occupied with what they call "business", which means being very busy without producing anything. then there is a vast army of people engaged in designing, composing, painting or printing advertisements, things which are for the most part of no utility whatever, the object of most advertisements is merely to persuade people to buy from one firm rather than from another. if you want some butter it doesn't matter whether you buy it from brown or jones or robinson.' +------------+-------------+-------------+-------------------------+ | tramps | exploiters | all those | | | beggars | of labour | engaged in | | | society | thieves | unnecessary | | | people | swindlers | work | | | aristoc- | pickpockets | | | | racy | burglars | | | | great | bishops | | | | landowners | financiers | | | | all those | capitalists | | | | possessed | share- | | | | of | holders | | | | hereditary | ministers | | | | wealth | of religion | | | +------------+-------------+-------------+-------------------------+ during the delivery of this pert of the lecture, the audience began to manifest symptoms of impatience and dissent. perceiving this, owen, speaking very rapidly, continued: 'if you go down town, you will see half a dozen drapers' shops within a stone's-throw of each other--often even next door to each other--all selling the same things. you can't possibly think that all those shops are really necessary? you know that one of them would serve the purpose for which they are all intended--to store and serve as a centre for the distribution of the things that are made by work. if you will admit that five out of the six shops are not really necessary, you must also admit that the men who built them, and the salesmen and women or other assistants engaged in them, and the men who design and write and print their advertisements are all doing unnecessary work; all really wasting their time and labour, time and labour that might be employed in helping to produce these things that we are at present short of. you must admit that none of these people are engaged in producing either the necessaries of life or the benefits of civilization. they buy them, and sell them, and handle them, and haggle over, them, and display them, in the plate glass windows of "stores" and "emporiums" and make profit out of them, and use them, but these people themselves produce nothing that is necessary to life or happiness, and the things that some of them do produce are only necessary to the present imbecile system.' 'what the 'ell sort of a bloody system do you think we ought to 'ave, then?' interrupted the man on the pail. 'yes: you're very good at finding fault,' sneered slyme, 'but why don't you tell us 'ow it's all going to be put right?' 'well, that's not what we're talking about now, is it?' replied owen. 'at present we're only trying to find out how it is that there is not sufficient produced for everyone to have enough of the things that are made by work. although most of the people in number three work very hard, they produce nothing.' 'this is a lot of bloody rot!' exclaimed crass, impatiently. 'even if there is more shops than what's actually necessary,' cried harlow, 'it all helps people to get a livin'! if half of 'em was shut up, it would just mean that all them what works there would be out of a job. live and let live, i say: all these things makes work.' ''ear, 'ear,' shouted the man behind the moat. 'yes, i know it makes "work",' replied owen, 'but we can't live on mere "work", you know. to live in comfort we need a sufficiency of the things that can be made by work. a man might work very hard and yet be wasting his time if he were not producing something necessary or useful. 'why are there so many shops and stores and emporiums? do you imagine they exist for the purpose of giving those who build them, or work in them, a chance to earn a living? nothing of the sort. they are carried on, and exorbitant prices are charged for the articles they sell, to enable the proprietors to amass fortunes, and to pay extortionate rents to the landlords. that is why the wages and salaries of nearly all those who do the work created by these businesses are cut down to the lowest possible point.' 'we knows all about that,' said crass, 'but you can't get away from it that all these things makes work; and that's what we wants--plenty of work.' cries of ''ear, 'ear,' and expressions of dissent from the views expressed by the lecturer resounded through the room, nearly everyone speaking at the same time. after a while, when the row had in some measure subsided, owen resumed: 'nature has not provided ready-made all the things necessary for the life and happiness of mankind. in order to obtain these things we have to work. the only rational labour is that which is directed to the creation of those things. any kind of work which does not help us to attain this object is a ridiculous, idiotic, criminal, imbecile, waste of time. 'that is what the great army of people represented by division number three are doing at present: they are all very busy--working very hard--but to all useful intents and purposes they are doing nothing.' 'well, all right,' said harlow. ''ave it yer own way, but there's no need to keep on repeating the same thing over an' over again.' 'the next division,' resumed owen, 'stands for those who are engaged in really useful work--the production of the benefits of civilization--the necessaries, refinements and comforts of life.' +------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+ | tramps | exploiters | all those | all those | | | beggars | of labour | engaged in | engaged in | | | society | thieves | unnecessary | necessary | u | | people | swindlers | work | work--the | n | | aristoc- | pickpockets | | production | e | | racy | burglars | | of the | m | | great | bishops | | benefits | p | | landowners | financiers | | of | l | | all those | capitalists | | civiliz- | o | | possessed | share- | | ation | y | | of | holders | | | e | | hereditary | ministers | | | d | | wealth | of religion | | | | +------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+ 'hooray!' shouted philpot, leading off a cheer which was taken up enthusiastically by the crowd, 'hooray! this is where we comes in,' he added, nodding his head and winking his goggle eyes at the meeting. 'i wish to call the chairman to horder,' said the man on the pail. when owen had finished writing in the list of occupations several members of the audience rose to point out that those engaged in the production of beer had been omitted. owen rectified this serious oversight and proceeded: 'as most of the people in number four are out of work at least one quarter of their time, we must reduce the size of this division by one fourth--so. the grey part represents the unemployed.' 'but some of those in number three are often unemployed as well,' said harlow. yes: but as they produce nothing even when they are at work we need not trouble to classify them unemployed, because our present purpose is only to discover the reason why there is not enough produced for everyone to enjoy abundance; and this--the present system of conducting our affairs--is the reason of the shortage--the cause of poverty. when you reflect that all the other people are devouring the things produced by those in number four--can you wonder that there is not plenty for all?' '"devouring" is a good word,' said philpot, and the others laughed. the lecturer now drew a small square upon the wall below the other drawing. this square he filled in solid black. +------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+ | tramps | exploiters | all those | all those | | | beggars | of labour | engaged in | engaged in | | | society | thieves | unnecessary | necessary | u | | people | swindlers | work | work--the | n | | aristoc- | pickpockets | | production | e | | racy | burglars | | of the | m | | great | bishops | | benefits | p | | landowners | financiers | | of | l | | all those | capitalists | | civiliz- | o | | possessed | share- | | ation | y | | of | holders | | | e | | hereditary | ministers | | | d | | wealth | of religion | | | | +------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+ ############## ############## ############## this represents the total ############## of the things produced by ############## the people in division . ############## 'this represents the total amount of the benefits of civilization and necessaries of life produced by the people in number four. we now proceed to "share out" the things in the same way as they are actually divided amongst the different classes of the population under the present imbecile system. 'as the people in divisions one and two are universally considered to be the most worthy and deserving we give them--two-thirds of the whole. 'the remainder we give to be "shared out" amongst the people represented by divisions three and four. +------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+ | tramps | exploiters | all those | all those | | | beggars | of labour | engaged in | engaged in | | | society | thieves | unnecessary | necessary | u | | people | swindlers | work | work--the | n | | aristoc- | pickpockets | | production | e | | racy | burglars | | of the | m | | great | bishops | | benefits | p | | landowners | financiers | | of | l | | all those | capitalists | | civiliz- | o | | possessed | share- | | ation | y | | of | holders | | | e | | hereditary | ministers | | | d | | wealth | of religion | | | | +------------+-------------+-------------+------------+------------+ \___________ ____________/ \___________ ___________/ \/ \/ ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### ######### ##### how the things produced by the people in division are 'shared out' amongst the different classes of the population. 'now you mustn't run away with the idea that the people in three and four take their share quietly and divide the things equally between them. not at all. some get very little, some none, some more than a fair share. it is in these two divisions that the ferocious "battle of life" rages most fiercely; and of course in this battle the weak and the virtuous fare the worst. even those whose exceptional abilities or opportunities enable them to succeed, are compelled to practise selfishness, because a man of exceptional ability who was not selfish would devote his abilities to relieving the manifest sufferings of others, and not to his own profit, and if he did the former he would not be successful in the sense that the world understands the word. all those who really seek to "love their neighbour as themselves", or to return good for evil, the gentle, the kind, and all those who refrain from doing to others the things they would not like to suffer themselves; all these are of necessity found amongst the vanquished; because only the worst--only those who are aggressive, cunning, selfish and mean are fitted to survive. and all these people in numbers three and four are so fully occupied in this dreadful struggle to secure a little, that but few of them pause to inquire why there are not more of the things they are fighting for, or why it is necessary to fight like this at all!' for a few minutes silence prevailed, each man's mind being busy trying to think of some objection to the lecturer's arguments. 'how could the small number of people in number one and two consume as much as you've given 'em in your drorin'?' demanded crass. 'they don't actually consume all of it,' replied owen. 'much of it is wantonly wasted. they also make fortunes by selling some of it in foreign countries; but they consume a great part of it themselves, because the amount of labour expended on the things enjoyed by these people is greater than that expended in the production of the things used by the workers. most of the people who do nothing get the best of everything. more than three-quarters of the time of the working classes is spent in producing the things used by the wealthy. compare the quality and quantity of the clothing possessed by the wife or daughter of a rich man with that of the wife or daughter of a worker. the time and labour spent on producing the one is twenty times greater in one case than in the other; and it's the same with everything else. their homes, their clothing, boots, hats, jewellery, and their food. everything must be of the very best that art or long and painful labour can produce. but for most of those whose labour produces all these good things--anything is considered good enough. for themselves, the philanthropic workers manufacture shoddy cloth--that is, cheap cloth made of old rags and dirt; and shoddy, uncomfortable ironclad boots. if you see a workman wearing a really good suit of clothes you may safely conclude that he is either leading an unnatural life--that is, he is not married--or that he has obtained it from a tallyman on the hire system and has not yet paid for it--or that it is someone else's cast-off suit that he has bought second-hand or had given to him by some charitable person. it's the same with the food. all the ducks and geese, pheasants, partridges, and all the very best parts of the very best meat--all the soles and the finest plaice and salmon and trout--' ''ere chuck it,' cried harlow, fiercely. 'we don't want to 'ear no more of it,' and several others protested against the lecturer wasting time on such mere details. '--all the very best of everything is reserved exclusively for the enjoyment of the people in divisions one and two, while the workers subsist on block ornaments, margarine, adulterated tea, mysterious beer, and are content--only grumbling when they are unable to obtain even such fare as this.' owen paused and a gloomy silence followed, but suddenly crass brightened up. he detected a serious flaw in the lecturer's argument. 'you say the people in one and two gets all the best of everything, but what about the tramps and beggars? you've got them in division one.' 'yes, i know. you see, that's the proper place for them. they belong to a loafer class. they are no better mentally or morally than any of the other loafers in that division; neither are they of any more use. of course, when we consider them in relation to the amount they consume of the things produced by others, they are not so harmful as the other loafers, because they consume comparatively little. but all the same they are in their right place in that division. all those people don't get the same share. the section represents not individuals--but the loafer class.' 'but i thought you said you was goin' to prove that money was the cause of poverty,' said easton. 'so it is,' said owen. 'can't you see that it's money that's caused all these people to lose sight of the true purpose of labour--the production of the things we need? all these people are suffering from the delusion that it doesn't matter what kind of work they do--or whether they merely do nothing--so long as they get money for doing it. under the present extraordinary system, that's the only object they have in view--to get money. their ideas are so topsy-turvey that they regard with contempt those who are engaged in useful work! with the exception of criminals and the poorer sort of loafers, the working classes are considered to be the lowest and least worthy in the community. those who manage to get money for doing something other than productive work are considered more worthy of respect on that account. those who do nothing themselves, but get money out of the labour of others, are regarded as being more worthy still! but the ones who are esteemed most of all and honoured above all the rest, are those who obtain money for doing absolutely nothing!' 'but i can't see as that proves that money is the cause of poverty,' said easton. 'look here,' said owen. 'the people in number four produce everything, don't they?' 'yes; we knows all about that,' interrupted harlow. 'but they gets paid for it, don't they? they gets their wages.' 'yes, and what does their wages consist of?' said owen. 'why, money, of course,' replied harlow, impatiently. and what do they do with their money when they get it? do they eat it, or drink it, or wear it?' at this apparently absurd question several of those who had hitherto been attentive listeners laughed derisively; it was really very difficult to listen patiently to such nonsense. 'of course they don't,' answered harlow scornfully. 'they buy the things they want with it.' 'do you think that most of them manage to save a part of their wages--put it away in the bank.' 'well, i can speak for meself,' replied harlow amid laughter. 'it takes me all my bloody time to pay my rent and other expenses and to keep my little lot in shoe leather, and it's dam little i spend on beer; p'r'aps a tanner or a bob a week at the most.' 'a single man can save money if he likes,' said slyme. 'i'm not speaking of single men,' replied owen. 'i'm referring to those who live natural lives.' 'what about all the money what's in the post office savings bank, and building and friendly societies?' said crass. 'a very large part of that belongs to people who are in business, or who have some other source of income than their own wages. there are some exceptionally fortunate workers who happen to have good situations and higher wages than the ordinary run of workmen. then there are some who are so placed--by letting lodgings, for instance--that they are able to live rent free. others whose wives go out to work; and others again who have exceptional jobs and work a lot of overtime--but these are all exceptional cases.' 'i say as no married workin' man can save any money at all!' shouted harlow, 'not unless 'e goes without some of even the few things we are able to get--and makes 'is wife and kids go without as well.' ''ear, 'ear,' said everybody except crass and slyme, who were both thrifty working men, and each of them had some money saved in one or other of the institutions mentioned. 'then that means,' said owen, 'that means that the wages the people in division four receive is not equivalent to the work they do.' 'wotcher mean, equivalent?' cried crass. 'why the 'ell don't yer talk plain english without draggin' in a lot of long words wot nobody can't understand?' 'i mean this,' replied owen, speaking very slowly. 'everything is produced by the people in number four. in return for their work they are given--money, and the things they have made become the property of the people who do nothing. then, as the money is of no use, the workers go to shops and give it away in exchange for some of the things they themselves have made. they spend--or give back--all their wages; but as the money they got as wages is not equal in value to the things they produced, they find that they are only able to buy back a very small part. so you see that these little discs of metal--this money--is a device for enabling those who do not work to rob the workers of the greater part of the fruits of their toil.' the silence that ensued was broken by crass. 'it sounds very pretty,' he sneered, 'but i can't make no 'ead or tail of it, meself.' 'look here!' cried owen. 'the producing class--these people in number four are supposed to be paid for their work. their wages are supposed to be equal in value to their work. but it's not so. if it were, by spending all their wages, the producing class would be able to buy back all they had produced.' owen ceased speaking and silence once more ensued. no one gave any sign of understanding, or of agreeing or of disagreeing with what he had said. their attitude was strictly neutral. barrington's pipe had gone out during the argument. he relit it from the fire with a piece of twisted paper. 'if their wages were really equal in value to the product of their labour,' owen repeated, 'they would be able to buy back not a small part--but the whole.'... at this, a remark from bundy caused a shout of laughter, and when wantley added point to the joke by making a sound like the discharge of a pistol the merriment increased tenfold. 'well, that's done it,' remarked easton, as he got up and opened the window. 'it's about time you was buried, if the smell's anything to go by,' said harlow, addressing wantley, who laughed and appeared to think he had distinguished himself. 'but even if we include the whole of the working classes,' continued owen, 'that is, the people in number three as well as those in number four, we find that their combined wages are insufficient to buy the things made by the producers. the total value of the wealth produced in this country during the last year was £ , , , , and the total amount paid in wages during the same period was only £ , , . in other words, by means of the money trick, the workers were robbed of two-thirds of the value of their labour. all the people in numbers three and four are working and suffering and starving and fighting in order that the rich people in numbers one and two may live in luxury, and do nothing. these are the wretches who cause poverty: they not only devour or waste or hoard the things made by the worker, but as soon as their own wants are supplied--they compel the workers to cease working and prevent them producing the things they need. most of these people!' cried owen, his usually pale face flushing red and his eyes shining with sudden anger, 'most of these people do not deserve to be called human beings at all! they're devils! they know that whilst they are indulging in pleasures of every kind--all around them men and women and little children are existing in want or dying of hunger.' the silence which followed was at length broken by harlow: 'you say the workers is entitled to all they produce, but you forget there's the raw materials to pay for. they don't make them, you know.' 'of course the workers don't create the raw materials,' replied owen. 'but i am not aware that the capitalists or the landlords do so either. the raw materials exist in abundance in and on the earth, but they are of no use until labour has been applied to them.' 'but then, you see, the earth belongs to the landlords!' cried crass, unguardedly. 'i know that; and of course you think it's right that the whole country should belong to a few people--' 'i must call the lecturer to horder,' interrupted philpot. 'the land question is not before the meeting at present.' 'you talk about the producers being robbed of most of the value of what they produce,' said harlow, 'but you must remember that it ain't all produced by hand labour. what about the things what's made by machinery?' 'the machines themselves were made by the workers,' returned owen, 'but of course they do not belong to the workers, who have been robbed of them by means of the money trick.' 'but who invented all the machinery?' cried crass. 'that's more than you or i or anyone else can say,' returned owen, 'but it certainly wasn't the wealthy loafer class, or the landlords, or the employers. most of the men who invented the machinery lived and died unknown, in poverty and often in actual want. the inventors too were robbed by the exploiter-of-labour class. there are no men living at present who can justly claim to have invented the machinery that exists today. the most they can truthfully say is that they have added to or improved upon the ideas of those who lived and worked before them. even watt and stevenson merely improved upon steam engines and locomotives already existing. your question has really nothing to do with the subject we are discussing: we are only trying to find out why the majority of people have to go short of the benefits of civilization. one of the causes is--the majority of the population are engaged in work that does not produce those things; and most of what is produced is appropriated and wasted by those who have no right to it. 'the workers produce everything! if you walk through the streets of a town or a city, and look around, everything that you can see--factories, machinery, houses, railways, tramways, canals, furniture, clothing, food and the very road or pavement you stand upon were all made by the working class, who spend all their wages in buying back only a very small part of the things they produce. therefore what remains in the possession of their masters represents the difference between the value of the work done and the wages paid for doing it. this systematic robbery has been going on for generations, the value of the accumulated loot is enormous, and all of it, all the wealth at present in the possession of the rich, is rightly the property of the working class--it has been stolen from them by means of the money trick.'... for some moments an oppressive silence prevailed. the men stared with puzzled, uncomfortable looks alternately at each other and at the drawings on the wall. they were compelled to do a little thinking on their own account, and it was a process to which they were unaccustomed. in their infancy they had been taught to distrust their own intelligence and to leave 'thinking' to their 'pastors' and masters and to their 'betters' generally. all their lives they had been true to this teaching, they had always had blind, unreasoning faith in the wisdom and humanity of their pastors and masters. that was the reason why they and their children had been all their lives on the verge of starvation and nakedness, whilst their 'betters'--who did nothing but the thinking--went clothed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. several men had risen from their seats and were attentively studying the diagrams owen had drawn on the wall; and nearly all the others were making the same mental efforts--they were trying to think of something to say in defence of those who robbed them of the fruits of their toil. 'i don't see no bloody sense in always runnin' down the rich,' said harlow at last. 'there's always been rich and poor in the world and there always will be.' 'of course,' said slyme. 'it says in the bible that the poor shall always be with us.' 'what the bloody 'ell kind of system do you think we ought to 'ave?' demanded crass. 'if everything's wrong, 'ow's it goin' to be altered?' at this, everybody brightened up again, and exchanged looks of satisfaction and relief. of course! it wasn't necessary to think about these things at all! nothing could ever be altered: it had always been more or less the same, and it always would be. 'it seems to me that you all hope it is impossible to alter it,' said owen. 'without trying to find out whether it could be done, you persuade yourselves that it is impossible, and then, instead of being sorry, you're glad!' some of them laughed in a silly, half-ashamed way. 'how do you reckon it could be altered?' said harlow. 'the way to alter it is, first to enlighten the people as to the real cause of their sufferings, and then--' 'well,' interrupted crass, with a self-satisfied chuckle, 'it'll take a better bloody man than you to enlighten me!' 'i don't want to be henlightened into darkness!' said slyme piously. 'but what sort of system do you propose, then?' repeated harlow. 'after you've got 'em all enlightened--if you don't believe in sharing out all the money equal, how are you goin' to alter it?' 'i don't know 'ow 'e's goin' to alter it,' sneered crass, looking at his watch and standing up, 'but i do know what the time is--two minits past one!' 'the next lecture,' said philpot, addressing the meeting as they all prepared to return to work, 'the next lecture will be postponded till tomorrer at the usual time, when it will be my painful dooty to call upon mr owen to give 'is well-known and most hobnoxious address entitled "work and how to avoid it." hall them as wants to be henlightened kindly attend.' 'or hall them as don't get the sack tonight,' remarked easton grimly. chapter the slaughter during the afternoon, rushton and sweater visited the house, the latter having an appointment to meet there a gardener to whom he wished to give instructions concerning the laying out of the grounds, which had been torn up for the purpose of putting in the new drains. sweater had already arranged with the head gardener of the public park to steal some of the best plants from that place and have them sent up to 'the cave'. these plants had been arriving in small lots for about a week. they must have been brought there either in the evening after the men left off or very early in the morning before they came. the two gentlemen remained at the house for about half an hour and as they went away the mournful sound of the town hall bell--which was always tolled to summon meetings of the council--was heard in the distance, and the hands remarked to each other that another robbery was about to be perpetrated. hunter did not come to the job again that day: he had been sent by rushton to price some work for which the firm was going to tender an estimate. there was only one person who felt any regret at his absence, and that was mrs white--bert's mother, who had been working at 'the cave' for several days, scrubbing the floors. as a rule, hunter paid her wages every night, and on this occasion she happened to need the money even more than usual. as leaving off time drew near, she mentioned the matter to crass, who advised her to call at the office on her way home and ask the young lady clerk for the money. as hunter did not appear, she followed the foreman's advice. when she reached the shop rushton was just coming out. she explained to him what she wanted and he instructed mr budd to tell miss wade to pay her. the shopman accordingly escorted her to the office at the back of the shop, and the young lady book-keeper--after referring to former entries to make quite certain of the amount, paid her the sum that hunter had represented as her wages, the same amount that miss wade had on the previous occasions given him to pay the charwoman. when mrs white got outside she found that she held in her hand half a crown instead of the two shillings she usually received from mr hunter. at first she felt inclined to take it back, but after some hesitation she thought it better to wait until she saw hunter, when she could tell him about it; but the next morning when she saw the disciple at 'the cave' he broached the subject first, and told her that miss wade had made a mistake. and that evening when he paid her, he deducted the sixpence from the usual two shillings. the lecture announced by philpot was not delivered. anxiously awaiting the impending slaughter the men kept tearing into it as usual, for they generally keep working in the usual way, each one trying to outdo the others so as not to lose his chance of being one of the lucky one... misery now went round and informed all the men with the exception of crass, owen, slyme and sawkins--that they would have to stand off that night. he told them that the firm had several jobs in view--work they had tendered for and hoped to get, and said they could look round after christmas and he might--possibly--be able to start some of them again. they would be paid at the office tomorrow--saturday--at one o'clock as usual, but if any of them wished they could have their money tonight. the men thanked him, and most of them said they would come for their wages at the usual pay-time, and would call round as he suggested, after the holidays, to see if there was anything to do. in all, fifteen men--including philpot, harlow, easton and ned dawson, were to 'stand off' that night. they took their dismissal stolidly, without any remark, some of them even with an affectation of indifference, but there were few attempts at conversation afterwards. the little work that remained to be done they did in silence, every man oppressed by the same terror--the dread of the impending want, the privation and unhappiness that they knew they and their families would have to suffer during the next few months. bundy and his mate dawson were working in the kitchen fixing the new range in place of the old one which they had taken out. they had been engaged on this job all day, and their hands and faces and clothes were covered with soot, which they had also contrived to smear and dab all over the surfaces of the doors and other woodwork in the room, much to the indignation of crass and slyme, who had to wash it all off before they could put on the final coat of paint. 'you can't help makin' a little mess on a job of this kind, you know,' remarked bundy, as he was giving the finishing touches to the work, making good the broken parts of the wall with cement, whilst his mate was clearing away the debris. 'yes; but there's no need to claw 'old of the bloody doors every time you goes in and out,' snarled crass, 'and you could 'ave put yer tools on the floor instead of makin' a bench of the dresser.' 'you can 'ave the bloody place all to yerself in about five minutes,' replied bundy, as he assisted to lift a sack of cement weighing about two hundredweight on to dawson's back. 'we're finished now.' when they had cleared away all the dirt and fragments of bricks and mortar, while crass and slyme proceeded with the painting, bundy and dawson loaded up their hand-cart with the old range and the bags of unused cement and plaster, which they took back to the yard. meantime, misery was wandering about the house and gounds like an evil spirit seeking rest and finding none. he stood for some time gloomily watching the four gardeners, who were busily at work laying strips of turf, mowing the lawn, rolling the gravel paths and trimming the trees and bushes. the boy bert, philpot, harlow, easton and sawkins were loading a hand-cart with ladders and empty paint-pots to return to the yard. just as they were setting out, misery stopped them, remarking that the cart was not half loaded--he said it would take a month to get all the stuff away if they went on like that; so by his directions they placed another long ladder on top of the pile and once more started on their way, but before they had gone two dozen yards one of the wheels of the cart collapsed and the load was scattered over the roadway. bert was at the same side of the cart as the wheel that broke and he was thrown violently to the ground, where he lay half stunned, in the midst of the ladders and planks. when they got him out they were astonished to find that, thanks to the special providence that watches over all small boys, he was almost unhurt--just a little dazed, that was all; and by the time sawkins returned with another cart, bert was able to help to gather up the fallen paint-pots and to accompany the men with the load to the yard. at the corner of the road they paused to take a last look at the 'job'. 'there it stands!' said harlow, tragically, extending his arm towards the house. 'there it stands! a job that if they'd only have let us do it properly, couldn't 'ave been done with the number of 'ands we've 'ad, in less than four months; and there it is, finished, messed up, slobbered over and scamped, in nine weeks!' 'yes, and now we can all go to 'ell,' said philpot, gloomily. at the yard they found bundy and his mate, ned dawson, who helped them to hang up the ladders in their usual places. philpot was glad to get out of assisting to do this, for he had contracted a rather severe attack of rheumatism when working outside at the 'cave'. whilst the others were putting the ladders away he assisted bert to carry the paint-pots and buckets into the paint shop, and while there he filled a small medicine bottle he had brought with him for the purpose, with turpentine from the tank. he wanted this stuff to rub into his shoulders and legs, and as he secreted the bottle in the inner pocket of his coat, he muttered: 'this is where we gets some of our own back.' they took the key of the yard to the office and as they separated to go home bundy suggested that the best thing they could do would be to sew their bloody mouths up for a few months, because there was not much probability of their getting another job until about march. the next morning while crass and slyme were finishing inside, owen wrote the two gates. on the front entrance 'the cave' and on the back 'tradesmens entrance', in gilded letters. in the meantime, sawkins and bert made several journeys to the yard with the hand-cart. crass--working in the kitchen with slyme--was very silent and thoughtful. ever since the job was started, every time mr sweater had visited the house to see what progress was being made, crass had been grovelling to him in the hope of receiving a tip when the work was finished. he had been very careful to act upon any suggestions that sweater had made from time to time and on several occasions had taken a lot of trouble to get just the right tints of certain colours, making up a number of different shades and combinations, and doing parts of the skirtings or mouldings of rooms in order that mr sweater might see exactly--before they went on with it--what it would look like when finished. he made a great pretence of deferring to sweater's opinion, and assured him that he did not care how much trouble he took as long as he--sweater--was pleased. in fact, it was no trouble at all: it was a pleasure. as the work neared completion, crass began to speculate upon the probable amount of the donation he would receive as the reward of nine weeks of cringing, fawning, abject servility. he thought it quite possible that he might get a quid: it would not be too much, considering all the trouble he had taken. it was well worth it. at any rate, he felt certain that he was sure to get ten bob; a gentleman like mr sweater would never have the cheek to offer less. the more he thought about it the more improbable it appeared that the amount would be less than a quid, and he made up his mind that whatever he got he would take good care that none of the other men knew anything about it. he was the one who had had all the worry of the job, and he was the only one entitled to anything there was to be had. besides, even if he got a quid, by the time you divided that up amongst a dozen--or even amongst two or three--it would not be worth having. at about eleven o'clock mr sweater arrived and began to walk over the house, followed by crass, who carried a pot of paint and a small brush and made believe to be 'touching up' and finishing off parts of the work. as sweater went from one room to another crass repeatedly placed himself in the way in the hope of being spoken to, but sweater took no notice of him whatever. once or twice crass's heart began to beat quickly as he furtively watched the great man and saw him thrust his thumb and finger into his waistcoat pocket, but on each occasion sweater withdrew his hand with nothing in it. after a while, observing that the gentleman was about to depart without having spoken, crass determined to break the ice himself. 'it's a little better weather we're 'avin' now, sir.' 'yes,' replied sweater. 'i was beginnin' to be afraid as i shouldn't be hable to git heverything finished in time for you to move in before christmas, sir,' crass continued, 'but it's hall done now, sir.' sweater made no reply. 'i've kept the fire agoin' in hall the rooms has you told me, sir,' resumed crass after a pause. 'i think you'll find as the place is nice and dry, sir; the honly places as is a bit damp is the kitchen and scullery and the other rooms in the basement, sir, but of course that's nearly halways the case, sir, when the rooms is partly hunderground, sir. 'but of course it don't matter so much about the basement, sir, because it's honly the servants what 'as to use it, sir, and even down there it'll be hall right hin the summer, sir.' one would scarcely think, from the contemptuous way in which he spoke of 'servants' that crass's own daughter was 'in service', but such was the case. 'oh, yes, there's no doubt about that,' replied sweater as he moved towards the door; 'there's no doubt it will be dry enough in the summer. good morning.' 'good morning to you, sir,' said crass, following him. 'i 'opes as you're pleased with all the work, sir; everything satisfactory, sir.' 'oh, yes. i think it looks very nice; very nice indeed; i'm very pleased with it,' said sweater affably. 'good morning.' 'good morning, sir,' replied the foreman with a sickly smile as sweater departed. when the other was gone, crass sat down dejectedly on the bottom step of the stairs, overwhelmed with the ruin of his hopes and expectations. he tried to comfort himself with the reflection that all hope was not lost, because he would have to come to the house again on monday and tuesday to fix the venetian blinds; but all the same he could not help thinking that it was only a very faint hope, for he felt that if sweater had intended giving anything he would have done so today; and it was very improbable that he would see sweater on monday or tuesday at all, for the latter did not usually visit the job in the early part of the week. however, crass made up his mind to hope for the best, and, pulling himself together, he presently returned to the kitchen, where he found slyme and sawkins waiting for him. he had not mentioned his hopes of a tip to either of them, but they did not need any telling and they were both determined to have their share of whatever he got. they eyed him keenly as he entered. 'what did 'e give yer?' demanded sawkins, going straight to the point. 'give me?' replied crass. 'nothing!' slyme laughed in a sneering, incredulous way, but sawkins was inclined to be abusive. he averred that he had been watching crass and sweater and had seen the latter put his thumb and finger into his waistcoat pocket as he walked into the dining-room, followed by crass. it took the latter a long time to convince his two workmates of the truth of his own account, but he succeeded at last, and they all three agreed that old sweater was a sanguinary rotter, and they lamented over the decay of the good old-fashioned customs. 'why, at one time o' day,' said crass, 'only a few years ago, if you went to a gentleman's 'ouse to paint one or two rooms you could always be sure of a bob or two when you'd finished.' by half past twelve everything was squared up, and, having loaded up the hand-cart with all that remained of the materials, dirty paint-pots and plant, they all set out together for the yard, to put all the things away before going to the office for their money. sawkins took the handle of the cart, slyme and crass walked at one side and owen and bert at the other. there was no need to push, for the road was downhill most of the way; so much so that they had all to help to hold back the cart, which travelled so rapidly that bert found it difficult to keep pace with the others and frequently broke into a trot to recover lost ground, and crass--being fleshy and bloated with beer, besides being unused to much exertion--began to perspire and soon appealed to the others not to let it go so fast--there was no need to get done before one o'clock. chapter the march of the imperialists it was an unusually fine day for the time of year, and as they passed along the grand parade--which faced due south--they felt quite warm. the parade was crowded with richly dressed and bejewelled loafers, whose countenances in many instances bore unmistakable signs of drunkenness and gluttony. some of the females had tried to conceal the ravages of vice and dissipation by coating their faces with powder and paint. mingling with and part of this crowd were a number of well-fed-looking individuals dressed in long garments of black cloth of the finest texture, and broad-brimmed soft felt hats. most of these persons had gold rings on their soft white fingers and glove-like kid or calfskin boots on their feet. they belonged to the great army of imposters who obtain an easy living by taking advantage of the ignorance and simplicity of their fellow-men, and pretending to be the 'followers' and 'servants' of the lowly carpenter of nazareth--the man of sorrows, who had not where to lay his head. none of these black-garbed 'disciples' were associating with the groups of unemployed carpenters, bricklayers, plasterers, and painters who stood here and there in the carriage-way dressed in mean and shabby clothing and with faces pale with privation. many of these latter were known to our friends with the cart, and nodded to them as they passed. now and then some of them came over and walked a little distance by their side, inquiring whether there was any news of another job at rushton's. when they were about half-way down the parade, just near the fountain, crass and his mates encountered a number of men on whose arms were white bands with the word 'collector' in black letters. they carried collecting boxes and accosted the people in the street, begging for money for the unemployed. these men were a kind of skirmishers for the main body, which could be seen some distance behind. as the procession drew near, sawkins steered the cart into the kerb and halted as they went past. there were about three hundred men altogether, marching four abreast. they carried three large white banners with black letters, 'thanks to our subscribers' 'in aid of genuine unemployed', 'the children must be fed'. although there were a number of artisans in the procession, the majority of the men belonged to what is called the unskilled labourer class. the skilled artisan does not as a rule take part in such a procession except as a very last resource... and all the time he strives to keep up an appearance of being well-to-do, and would be highly indignant if anyone suggested that he was really in a condition of abject, miserable poverty. although he knows that his children are often not so well fed as are the pet dogs and cats of his 'betters', he tries to bluff his neighbours into thinking that he has some mysterious private means of which they know nothing, and conceals his poverty as if it were a crime. most of this class of men would rather starve than beg. consequently not more than a quarter of the men in the procession were skilled artisans; the majority were labourers. there was also a sprinkling of those unfortunate outcasts of society--tramps and destitute, drunken loafers. if the self-righteous hypocrites who despise these poor wretches had been subjected to the same conditions, the majority of them would inevitably have become the same as these. haggard and pale, shabbily or raggedly dressed, their boots broken and down at heel, they slouched past. some of them stared about with a dazed or half-wild expression, but most of them walked with downcast eyes or staring blankly straight in front of them. they appeared utterly broken-spirited, hopeless and ashamed... 'anyone can see what they are,' sneered crass, 'there isn't fifty genuine tradesmen in the whole crowd, and most of 'em wouldn't work if they 'ad the offer of it.' 'that's just what i was thinkin',' agreed sawkins with a laugh. 'there will be plenty of time to say that when they have been offered work and have refused to do it,' said owen. 'this sort of thing does the town a lot of 'arm,' remarked slyme; 'it oughtn't to be allowed; the police ought to stop it. it's enough to drive all the gentry out of the place!' 'bloody disgraceful, i call it,' said crass, 'marchin' along the grand parade on a beautiful day like this, just at the very time when most of the gentry is out enjoyin' the fresh hair.' 'i suppose you think they ought to stay at home and starve quietly,' said owen. 'i don't see why these men should care what harm they do to the town; the town doesn't seem to care much what becomes of them.' 'do you believe in this sort of thing, then?' asked slyme. 'no; certainly not. i don't believe in begging as a favour for what one is entitled to demand as a right from the thieves who have robbed them and who are now enjoying the fruits of their labour. from the look of shame on their faces you might think that they were the criminals instead of being the victims.' 'well you must admit that most of them is very inferior men,' said crass with a self-satisfied air. 'there's very few mechanics amongst em.' 'what about it if they are? what difference does that make?' replied owen. 'they're human beings, and they have as much right to live as anyone else. what is called unskilled labour is just as necessary and useful as yours or mine. i am no more capable of doing the "unskilled" labour that most of these men do than most of them would be capable of doing my work.' 'well, if they was skilled tradesmen, they might find it easier to get a job,' said crass. owen laughed offensively. 'do you mean to say you think that if all these men could be transformed into skilled carpenters, plasterers, bricklayers, and painters, that it would be easier for all those other chaps whom we passed a little while ago to get work? is it possible that you or any other sane man can believe anything so silly as that?' crass did not reply. 'if there is not enough work to employ all the mechanics whom we see standing idle about the streets, how would it help these labourers in the procession if they could all become skilled workmen?' still crass did not answer, and neither slyme nor sawkins came to his assistance. 'if that could be done,' continued owen, 'it would simply make things worse for those who are already skilled mechanics. a greater number of skilled workers--keener competition for skilled workmen's jobs--a larger number of mechanics out of employment, and consequently, improved opportunities for employers to reduce wages. that is probably the reason why the liberal party--which consists for the most part of exploiters of labour--procured the great jim scalds to tell us that improved technical education is the remedy for unemployment and poverty.' 'i suppose you think jim scalds is a bloody fool, the same as everybody else what don't see things your way?' said sawkins. 'i should think he was a fool if i thought he believed what he says. but i don't think he believes it. he says it because he thinks the majority of the working classes are such fools that they will believe him. if he didn't think that most of us are fools he wouldn't tell us such a yarn as that.' 'and i suppose you think as 'is opinion ain't far wrong,' snarled crass. 'we shall be better able to judge of that after the next general election,' replied owen. 'if the working classes again elect a majority of liberal or tory landlords and employers to rule over them, it will prove that jim scalds' estimate of their intelligence is about right.' 'well, anyhow,' persisted slyme, 'i don't think it's a right thing that they should be allowed to go marchin' about like that--driving visitors out of the town.' 'what do you think they ought to do, then?' demanded owen. 'let the b--rs go to the bloody workhouse!' shouted crass. 'but before they could be received there they would have to be absolutely homeless and destitute, and then the ratepayers would have to keep them. it costs about twelve shillings a week for each inmate, so it seems to me that it would be more sensible and economical for the community to employ them on some productive work.' they had by this time arrived at the yard. the steps and ladders were put away in their places and the dirty paint-pots and pails were placed in the paint-shop on the bench and on the floor. with what had previously been brought back there were a great many of these things, all needing to be cleaned out, so bert at any rate stood in no danger of being out of employment for some time to come. when they were paid at the office, owen on opening his envelope found it contained as usual, a time sheet for the next week, which meant that he was not 'stood off' although he did not know what work there would be to do. crass and slyme were both to go to the 'cave' to fix the venetian blinds, and sawkins also was to come to work as usual. chapter the week before christmas during the next week owen painted a sign on the outer wall of one of the workshops at the yard, and he also wrote the name of the firm on three of the handcarts. these and other odd jobs kept him employed a few hours every day, so that he was not actually out of work. one afternoon--there being nothing to do--he went home at three o'clock, but almost as soon as he reached the house bert white came with a coffin-plate which had to be written at once. the lad said he had been instructed to wait for it. nora gave the boy some tea and bread and butter to eat whilst owen was doing the coffin-plate, and presently frankie--who had been playing out in the street--made his appearance. the two boys were already known to each other, for bert had been there several times before--on errands similar to the present one, or to take lessons on graining and letter-painting from owen. 'i'm going to have a party next monday--after christmas,' remarked frankie. 'mother told me i might ask you if you'll come?' 'all right,' said bert; 'and i'll bring my pandoramer.' 'what is it? is it alive?' asked frankie with a puzzled look. 'alive! no, of course not,' replied bert with a superior air. 'it's a show, like they have at the hippodrome or the circus.' 'how big is it?' 'not very big: it's made out of a sugar-box. i made it myself. it's not quite finished yet, but i shall get it done this week. there's a band as well, you know. i do that part with this.' 'this' was a large mouth organ which he produced from the inner pocket of his coat. 'play something now.' bert accordingly played, and frankie sang at the top of his voice a selection of popular songs, including 'the old bull and bush', 'has anyone seen a german band?', 'waiting at the church' and finally--possibly as a dirge for the individual whose coffin-plate owen was writing--'goodbye, mignonette' and 'i wouldn't leave my little wooden hut for you'. 'you don't know what's in that,' said frankie, referring to a large earthenware bread-pan which nora had just asked owen to help her to lift from the floor on to one of the chairs. the vessel in question was covered with a clean white cloth. 'christmas pudding,' replied bert, promptly. 'guessed right first time!' cried frankie. 'we got the things out of the christmas club on saturday. we've been paying in ever since last christmas. we're going to mix it now, and you can have a stir too if you like, for luck.' whilst they were stirring the pudding, frankie several times requested the others to feel his muscle: he said he felt sure that he would soon be strong enough to go out to work, and he explained to bert that the extraordinary strength he possessed was to be attributed to the fact that he lived almost exclusively on porridge and milk. for the rest of the week, owen continued to work down at the yard with sawkins, crass, and slyme, painting some of the ladders, steps and other plant belonging to the firm. these things had to have two coats of paint and the name rushton & co. written on them. as soon as they had got some of them second-coated, owen went on with the writing, leaving the painting for the others, so as to share the work as fairly as possible. several times during the week one or other of them was taken away to do some other work; once crass and slyme had to go and wash off and whiten a ceiling somewhere, and several times sawkins was sent out to assist the plumbers. every day some of the men who had been 'stood off' called at the yard to ask if any other 'jobs' had 'come in'. from these callers they heard all the news. old jack linden had not succeeded in getting anything to do at the trade since he was discharged from rushton's, and it was reported that he was trying to earn a little money by hawking bloaters from house to house. as for philpot, he said that he had been round to nearly all the firms in the town and none of them had any work to speak of. newman--the man whom the reader will remember was sacked for taking too much pains with his work--had been arrested and sentenced to a month's imprisonment because he had not been able to pay his poor rates, and the board of guardians were allowing his wife three shillings a week to maintain herself and the three children. philpot had been to see them, and she told him that the landlord was threatening to turn them into the street; he would have seized their furniture and sold it if it had been worth the expense of the doing. 'i feel ashamed of meself,' philpot added in confidence to owen, 'when i think of all the money i chuck away on beer. if it wasn't for that, i shouldn't be in such a hole meself now, and i might be able to lend 'em a 'elpin' 'and.' 'it ain't so much that i likes the beer, you know,' he continued; 'it's the company. when you ain't got no 'ome, in a manner o' speakin', like me, the pub's about the only place where you can get a little enjoyment. but you ain't very welcome there unless you spends your money.' 'is the three shillings all they have to live on?' 'i think she goes out charin' when she can get it,' replied philpot, 'but i don't see as she can do a great deal o' that with three young 'uns to look after, and from what i hear of it she's only just got over a illness and ain't fit to do much.' 'my god!' said owen. 'i'll tell you what,' said philpot. 'i've been thinking we might get up a bit of a subscription for 'em. there's several chaps in work what knows newman, and if they was each to give a trifle we could get enough to pay for a christmas dinner, anyway. i've brought a sheet of foolscap with me, and i was goin' to ask you to write out the heading for me.' as there was no pen available at the workshop, philpot waited till four o'clock and then accompanied owen home, where the heading of the list was written. owen put his name down for a shilling and philpot his for a similar amount. philpot stayed to tea and accepted an invitation to spend christmas day with them, and to come to frankie's party on the monday after. the next morning philpot brought the list to the yard and crass and slyme put their names down for a shilling each, and sawkins for threepence, it being arranged that the money was to be paid on payday--christmas eve. in the meantime, philpot was to see as many as he could of those who were in work, at other firms and get as many subscriptions as possible. at pay-time on christmas eve philpot turned up with the list and owen and the others paid him the amounts they had put their names down for. from other men he had succeeded in obtaining nine and sixpence, mostly in sixpences and threepences. some of this money he had already received, but for the most part he had made appointments with the subscribers to call at their homes that evening. it was decided that owen should accompany him and also go with him to hand over the money to mrs newman. it took them nearly three hours to get in all the money, for the places they had to go to were in different localities, and in one or two cases they had to wait because their man had not yet come home, and sometimes it was not possible to get away without wasting a little time in talk. in three instances those who had put their names down for threepence increased the amount to sixpence and one who had promised sixpence gave a shilling. there were two items of threepence each which they did not get at all, the individuals who had put their names down having gone upon the drunk. another cause of delay was that they met or called on several other men who had not yet been asked for a subscription, and there were several others--including some members of the painters society whom owen had spoken to during the week--who had promised him to give a subscription. in the end they succeeded in increasing the total amount to nineteen and ninepence, and they then put three-halfpence each to make it up to a pound. the newmans lived in a small house the rent of which was six shillings per week and taxes. to reach the house one had to go down a dark and narrow passage between two shops, the house being in a kind of well, surrounded by the high walls of the back parts of larger buildings--chiefly business premises and offices. the air did not circulate very freely in this place, and the rays of the sun never reached it. in the summer the atmosphere was close and foul with the various odours which came from the back-yards of the adjoining buildings, and in the winter it was dark and damp and gloomy, a culture-ground for bacteria and microbes. the majority of those who profess to be desirous of preventing and curing the disease called consumption must be either hypocrites or fools, for they ridicule the suggestion that it is necessary first to cure and prevent the poverty that compels badly clothed and half-starved human beings to sleep in such dens as this. the front door opened into the living-room or, rather, kitchen, which was dimly lighted by a small paraffin lamp on the table, where were also some tea-cups and saucers, each of a different pattern, and the remains of a loaf of bread. the wallpaper was old and discoloured; a few almanacs and unframed prints were fixed to the walls, and on the mantelshelf were some cracked and worthless vases and ornaments. at one time they had possessed a clock and an overmantel and some framed pictures, but they had all been sold to obtain money to buy food. nearly everything of any value had been parted with for the same reason--the furniture, the pictures, the bedclothes, the carpet and the oilcloth, piece by piece, nearly everything that had once constituted the home--had been either pawned or sold to buy food or to pay rent during the times when newman was out of work--periods that had recurred during the last few years with constantly increasing frequency and duration. now there was nothing left but these few old broken chairs and the deal table which no one would buy; and upstairs, the wretched bedsteads and mattresses whereon they slept at night, covering themselves with worn-out remnants of blankets and the clothes they wore during the day. in answer to philpot's knock, the door was opened by a little girl about seven years old, who at once recognized philpot, and called out his name to her mother, and the latter came also to the door, closely followed by two other children, a little, fragile-looking girl about three, and a boy about five years of age, who held on to her skirt and peered curiously at the visitors. mrs newman was about thirty, and her appearance confirmed the statement of philpot that she had only just recovered from an illness; she was very white and thin and dejected-looking. when philpot explained the object of their visit and handed her the money, the poor woman burst into tears, and the two smaller children--thinking that this piece of paper betokened some fresh calamity--began to cry also. they remembered that all their troubles had been preceded by the visits of men who brought pieces of paper, and it was rather difficult to reassure them. that evening, after frankie was asleep, owen and nora went out to do their christmas marketing. they had not much money to spend, for owen had brought home only seventeen shillings. he had worked thirty-three hours--that came to nineteen and threepence--one shilling and threehalfpence had gone on the subscription list, and he had given the rest of the coppers to a ragged wreck of a man who was singing a hymn in the street. the other shilling had been deducted from his wages in repayment of a 'sub' he had had during the week. there was a great deal to be done with this seventeen shillings. first of all there was the rent--seven shillings--that left ten. then there was the week's bread bill--one and threepence. they had a pint of milk every day, chiefly for the boy's sake--that came to one and two. then there was one and eight for a hundredweight of coal that had been bought on credit. fortunately, there were no groceries to buy, for the things they had obtained with their christmas club money would be more than sufficient for the ensuing week. frankie's stockings were all broken and beyond mending, so it was positively necessary to buy him another pair for fivepence three-farthings. these stockings were not much good--a pair at double the price would have been much cheaper, for they would have lasted three or four times longer; but they could not afford to buy the dearer kind. it was just the same with the coal: if they had been able to afford it, they could have bought a ton of the same class of coal for twenty-six shillings, but buying it as they did, by the hundredweight, they had to pay at the rate of thirty-three shillings and fourpence a ton. it was just the same with nearly everything else. this is how the working classes are robbed. although their incomes are the lowest, they are compelled to buy the most expensive articles--that is, the lowest-priced articles. everybody knows that good clothes, boots or furniture are really the cheapest in the end, although they cost more money at first; but the working classes can seldom or never afford to buy good things; they have to buy cheap rubbish which is dear at any price. six weeks previously owen bought a pair of second-hand boots for three shillings and they were now literally falling to pieces. nora's shoes were in much the same condition, but, as she said, it did not matter so much about hers because there was no need for her to go out if the weather were not fine. in addition to the articles already mentioned, they had to spend fourpence for half a gallon of paraffin oil, and to put sixpence into the slot of the gas-stove. this reduced the money to five and sevenpence farthing, and of this it was necessary to spend a shilling on potatoes and other vegetables. they both needed some new underclothing, for what they had was so old and worn that it was quite useless for the purpose it was supposed to serve; but there was no use thinking of these things, for they had now only four shillings and sevenpence farthing left, and all that would be needed for toys. they had to buy something special for frankie for christmas, and it would also be necessary to buy something for each of the children who were coming to the party on the following monday. fortunately, there was no meat to buy, for nora had been paying into the christmas club at the butcher's as well as at the grocer's. so this necessary was already paid for. they stopped to look at the display of toys at sweater's emporium. for several days past frankie had been talking of the wonders contained in these windows, so they wished if possible to buy him something here. they recognized many of the things from the description the boy had given of them, but nearly everything was so dear that for a long time they looked in vain for something it would be possible to buy. 'that's the engine he talks so much about,' said non, indicating a model railway locomotive; that one marked five shillings.' 'it might just as well be marked five pounds as far as we're concerned,' replied owen. as they were speaking, one of the salesmen appeared at the back of the window and, reaching forward, removed the engine. it was probably the last one of the kind and had evidently just been sold. owen and nora experienced a certain amount of consolation in knowing that even if they had the money they would not have been able to buy it. after lengthy consideration, they decided on a clockwork engine at a shilling, but the other toys they resolved to buy at a cheaper shop. nora went into the emporium to get the toy and whilst owen was waiting for her mr and mrs rushton came out. they did not appear to see owen, who observed that the shape of one of several parcels they carried suggested that it contained the engine that had been taken from the window a little while before. when nora returned with her purchase, they went in search of a cheaper place and after a time they found what they wanted. for sixpence they bought a cardboard box that had come all the way from japan and contained a whole family of dolls--father, mother and four children of different sizes. a box of paints, threepence: a sixpenny tea service, a threepenny drawing slate, and a rag doll, sixpence. on their way home they called at a greengrocer's where owen had ordered and paid for a small christmas tree a few weeks before; and as they were turning the corner of the street where they lived they met crass, half-drunk, with a fine fat goose slung over his shoulder by its neck. he greeted owen jovially and held up the bird for their inspection. 'not a bad tanner's-worth, eh?' he hiccoughed. 'this makes two we've got. i won this and a box of cigars--fifty--for a tanner, and the other one i got out of the club at our church mission 'all: threepence a week for twenty-eight weeks; that makes seven bob. but,' he added, confidentially,''you couldn't buy 'em for that price in a shop, you know. they costs the committee a good bit more nor that--wholesale; but we've got some rich gents on our committee and they makes up the difference,' and with a nod and a cunning leer he lurched off. frankie was sleeping soundly when they reached home, and so was the kitten, which was curled up on the quilt on the foot of the bed. after they had had some supper, although it was after eleven o'clock, owen fixed the tree in a large flower-pot that had served a similar purpose before, and nora brought out from the place where it had been stored away since last christmas a cardboard box containing a lot of glittering tinsel ornaments--globes of silvered or gilded or painted glass, birds, butterflies and stars. some of these things had done duty three christmases ago and although they were in some instances slightly tarnished most of them were as good as new. in addition to these and the toys they had bought that evening they had a box of bon-bons and a box of small coloured wax candles, both of which had formed part of the things they got from the grocer's with the christmas club money; and there were also a lot of little coloured paper bags of sweets, and a number of sugar and chocolate toys and animals which had been bought two or three at a time for several weeks past and put away for this occasion. there was something suitable for each child that was coming, with the exception of bert white; they had intended to include a sixpenny pocket knife for him in their purchases that evening, but as they had not been able to afford this owen decided to give him an old set of steel graining combs which he knew the lad had often longed to possess. the tin case containing these tools was accordingly wrapped in some red tissue paper and hung on the tree with the other things. they moved about as quietly as possible so as not to disturb those who were sleeping in the rooms beneath, because long before they were finished the people in the other parts of the house had all retired to rest, and silence had fallen on the deserted streets outside. as they were putting the final touches to their work the profound stillness of the night was suddenly broken by the voices of a band of carol-singers. the sound overwhelmed them with memories of other and happier times, and nora stretched out her hands impulsively to owen, who drew her close to his side. they had been married just over eight years, and although during all that time they had never been really free from anxiety for the future, yet on no previous christmas had they been quite so poor as now. during the last few years periods of unemployment had gradually become more frequent and protracted, and the attempt he had made in the early part of the year to get work elsewhere had only resulted in plunging them into even greater poverty than before. but all the same there was much to be thankful for: poor though they were, they were far better off than many thousands of others: they still had food and shelter, and they had each other and the boy. before they went to bed owen carried the tree into frankie's bedroom and placed it so that he would be able to see it in all its glittering glory as soon as he awoke on christmas morning. chapter the pandorama although the party was not supposed to begin till six o'clock, bert turned up at half past four, bringing the 'pandoramer' with him. at about half past five the other guests began to arrive. elsie and charley linden came first, the girl in a pretty blue frock trimmed with white lace, and charley resplendent in a new suit, which, like his sister's dress, had been made out of somebody's cast-off clothes that had been given to their mother by a visiting lady. it had taken mrs linden many hours of hard work to contrive these garments; in fact, more time than the things were worth, for although they looked all right--especially elsie's--the stuff was so old that it would not wear very long: but this was the only way in which she could get clothes for the children at all: she certainly could not afford to buy them any. so she spent hours and hours making things that she knew would fall to pieces almost as soon as they were made. after these came nellie, rosie and tommy newman. these presented a much less prosperous appearance than the other two. their mother was not so skilful at contriving new clothes out of old. nellie was wearing a grown-up woman's blouse, and by way of ulster she had on an old-fashioned jacket of thick cloth with large pearl buttons. this was also a grown-up woman's garment: it was shaped to fit the figure of a tall woman with wide shoulders and a small waist; consequently, it did not fit nellie to perfection. the waist reached below the poor child's hips. tommy was arrayed in the patched remains of what had once been a good suit of clothes. they had been purchased at a second-hand shop last summer and had been his 'best' for several months, but they were now much too small for him. little rosie--who was only just over three years old--was better off than either of the other two, for she had a red cloth dress that fitted her perfectly: indeed, as the district visitor who gave it to her mother had remarked, it looked as if it had been made for her. 'it's not much to look at,' observed nellie, referring to her big jacket, but all the same we was very glad of it when the rain came on.' the coat was so big that by withdrawing her arms from the sleeves and using it as a cloak or shawl she had managed to make it do for all three of them. tommy's boots were so broken that the wet had got in and saturated his stockings, so nora made him take them all off and wear some old ones of frankie's whilst his own were drying at the fire. philpot, with two large paper bags full of oranges and nuts, arrived just as they were sitting down to tea--or rather cocoa--for with the exception of bert all the children expressed a preference for the latter beverage. bert would have liked to have cocoa also, but hearing that the grown-ups were going to have tea, he thought it would be more manly to do the same. this question of having tea or cocoa for tea became a cause of much uproarious merriment on the part of the children, who asked each other repeatedly which they liked best, 'tea tea?' or 'cocoa tea?' they thought it so funny that they said it over and over again, screaming with laughter all the while, until tommy got a piece of cake stuck in his throat and became nearly black in the face, and then philpot had to turn him upside down and punch him in the back to save him from choking to death. this rather sobered the others, but for some time afterwards whenever they looked at each other they began to laugh afresh because they thought it was such a good joke. when they had filled themselves up with the 'cocoa-tea' and cakes and bread and jam, elsie linden and nellie newman helped to clear away the cups and saucers, and then owen lit the candles on the christmas tree and distributed the toys to the children, and a little while afterwards philpot--who had got a funny-looking mask out of one of the bon-bons--started a fine game pretending to be a dreadful wild animal which he called a pandroculus, and crawling about on all fours, rolled his goggle eyes and growled out he must have a little boy or girl to eat for his supper. he looked so terrible that although they knew it was only a joke they were almost afraid of him, and ran away laughing and screaming to shelter themselves behind nora or owen; but all the same, whenever philpot left off playing, they entreated him to 'be it again', and so he had to keep on being a pandroculus, until exhaustion compelled him to return to his natural form. after this they all sat round the table and had a game of cards; 'snap', they called it, but nobody paid much attention to the rules of the game: everyone seemed to think that the principal thing to do was to kick up as much row as possible. after a while philpot suggested a change to 'beggar my neighbour', and won quite a lot of cards before they found out that he had hidden all the jacks in the pocket of his coat, and then they mobbed him for a cheat. he might have been seriously injured if it had not been for bert, who created a diversion by standing on a chair and announcing that he was about to introduce to their notice 'bert white's world-famed pandorama' as exhibited before all the nobility and crowned heads of europe, england, ireland and scotland, including north america and wales. loud cheers greeted the conclusion of bert's speech. the box was placed on the table, which was then moved to the end of the room, and the chairs were ranged in two rows in front. the 'pandorama' consisted of a stage-front made of painted cardboard and fixed on the front of a wooden box about three feet long by two feet six inches high, and about one foot deep from back to front. the 'show' was a lot of pictures cut out of illustrated weekly papers and pasted together, end to end, so as to form a long strip or ribbon. bert had coloured all the pictures with water-colours. just behind the wings of the stage-front at each end of the box--was an upright roller, and the long strip of pictures was rolled up on this. the upper ends of the rollers came through the top of the box and had handles attached to them. when these handles were turned the pictures passed across the stage, unrolling from one roller and rolling on to the other, and were illuminated by the light of three candles placed behind. the idea of constructing this machine had been suggested to bert by a panorama entertainment he had been to see some time before. 'the style of the decorations,' he remarked, alluding to the painted stage-front, 'is moorish.' he lit the candles at the back of the stage and, having borrowed a tea-tray from nora, desired the audience to take their seats. when they had all done so, he requested owen to put out the lamp and the candles on the tree, and then he made another speech, imitating the manner of the lecturer at the panorama entertainment before mentioned. 'ladies and gentlemen: with your kind permission i am about to hinterduce to your notice some pitchers of events in different parts of the world. as each pitcher appears on the stage i will give a short explanation of the subject, and afterwards the band will play a suitable collection of appropriated music, consisting of hymns and all the latest and most popular songs of the day, and the audience is kindly requested to join in the chorus. 'our first scene,' continued bert as he turned the handles and brought the picture into view, 'represents the docks at southampton; the magnificent steamer which you see lying alongside the shore is the ship which is waiting to take us to foreign parts. as we have already paid our fare, we will now go on board and set sail.' as an accompaniment to this picture bert played the tune of 'goodbye, dolly, i must leave you', and by the time the audience had finished singing the chorus he had rolled on another scene, which depicted a dreadful storm at sea, with a large ship evidently on the point of foundering. the waves were running mountains high and the inky clouds were riven by forked lightning. to increase the terrifying effect, bert rattled the tea tray and played 'the bay of biscay', and the children sung the chorus whilst he rolled the next picture into view. this scene showed the streets of a large city; mounted police with drawn swords were dispersing a crowd: several men had been ridden down and were being trampled under the hoofs of the horses, and a number of others were bleeding profusely from wounds on the head and face. 'after a rather stormy passage we arrives safely at the beautiful city of berlin, in germany, just in time to see a procession of unemployed workmen being charged by the military police. this picture is hintitled "tariff reform means work for all".' as an appropriate musical selection bert played the tune of a well-known song, and the children sang the words: 'to be there! to be there! oh, i knew what it was to be there! and when they tore me clothes, blacked me eyes and broke me nose, then i knew what it was to be there!' during the singing bert turned the handles backwards and again brought on the picture of the storm at sea. 'as we don't want to get knocked on the 'ed, we clears out of berlin as soon as we can--whiles we're safe--and once more embarks on our gallint ship' and after a few more turns of the 'andle we finds ourselves back once more in merry hingland, where we see the inside of a blacksmith's shop with a lot of half-starved women making iron chains. they work seventy hours a week for seven shillings. our next scene is hintitled "the hook and eye carders". 'ere we see the inside of a room in slumtown, with a mother and three children and the old grandmother sewin' hooks and eyes on cards to be sold in drapers' shops. it ses underneath the pitcher that hooks and eyes has to be joined together and sewed on cards for one penny.' while this picture was being rolled away the band played and the children sang with great enthusiasm: 'rule, brittania, brittania rules the waves! britons, never, never, never shall be slaves!' 'our next picture is called "an englishman's home". 'ere we see the inside of another room in slumtown, with the father and mother and four children sitting down to dinner--bread and drippin' and tea. it ses underneath the pitcher that there's thirteen millions of people in england always on the verge of starvation. these people that you see in the pitcher might be able to get a better dinner than this if it wasn't that most of the money wot the bloke earns 'as to pay the rent. again we turns the 'andle and presently we comes to another very beautiful scene--"early morning in trafalgar square". 'ere we see a lot of englishmen who have been sleepin' out all night because they ain't got no 'omes to go to.' as a suitable selection for this picture, bert played the tune of a music-hall song, the words of which were familiar to all the youngsters, who sang at the top of their voices: 'i live in trafalgar square, with four lions to guard me, pictures and statues all over the place, lord nelson staring me straight in the face, of course it's rather draughty, but still i'm sure you'll agree, if it's good enough for lord nelson, it's quite good enough for me.' 'next we 'ave a view of the dining-hall at the topside hotel in london, where we see the tables set for a millionaires' banquet. the forks and spoons is made of solid gold and the plates is made of silver. the flowers that you see on the tables and 'angin' down from the ceilin' and on the walls is worth £ , and it cost the bloke wot give the supper over £ , for this one beano. a few more turns of the 'andle shows us another glorious banquet--the king of rhineland being entertained by the people of england. next we finds ourselves looking on at the lord mayor's supper at the mansion house. all the fat men that you see sittin' at the tables is liberal and tory members of parlimint. after this we 'ave a very beautiful pitcher hintitled "four footed haristocrats". 'ere you see lady slumrent's pet dogs sittin' up on chairs at their dinner table with white linen napkins tied round their necks, eatin' orf silver plates like human people and being waited on by real live waiters in hevening dress. lady slumrent is very fond of her pretty pets and she does not allow them to be fed on anything but the very best food; they gets chicken, rump steak, mutton chops, rice pudding, jelly and custard.' 'i wished i was a pet dog, don't you?' remarked tommy newman to charley linden. 'not arf!' replied charley. 'here we see another unemployed procession,' continued bert as he rolled another picture into sight; ' , able-bodied men who are not allowed to work. next we see the hinterior of a hindustrial 'ome--blind children and cripples working for their living. our next scene is called "cheap labour". 'ere we see a lot of small boys about twelve and thirteen years old bein' served out with their labour stifficats, which gives 'em the right to go to work and earn money to help their unemployed fathers to pay the slum rent. 'once more we turns the 'andle and brings on one of our finest scenes. this lovely pitcher is hintitled "the hangel of charity", and shows us the beautiful lady slumrent seated at the table in a cosy corner of 'er charmin' boodore, writin' out a little cheque for the relief of the poor of slumtown. 'our next scene is called "the rival candidates, or, a scene during the general election". on the left you will observe, standin' up in a motor car, a swell bloke with a eyeglass stuck in one eye, and a overcoat with a big fur collar and cuffs, addressing the crowd: this is the honourable augustus slumrent, the conservative candidate. on the other side of the road we see another motor car and another swell bloke with a round pane of glass in one eye and a overcoat with a big fur collar and cuffs, standing up in the car and addressin' the crowd. this is mr mandriver, the liberal candidate. the crowds of shabby-lookin' chaps standin' round the motor cars wavin' their 'ats and cheerin' is workin' men. both the candidates is tellin' 'em the same old story, and each of 'em is askin' the workin' men to elect 'im to parlimint, and promisin' to do something or other to make things better for the lower horders.' as an appropriate selection to go with this picture, bert played the tune of a popular song, the words being well known to the children, who sang enthusiastically, clapping their hands and stamping their feet on the floor in time with the music: 'we've both been there before, many a time, many a time! we've both been there before, many a time! where many a gallon of beer has gone. to colour his nose and mine, we've both been there before, many a time, many a time!' at the conclusion of the singing, bert turned another picture into view. ''ere we 'ave another election scene. at each side we see the two candidates the same as in the last pitcher. in the middle of the road we see a man lying on the ground, covered with blood, with a lot of liberal and tory working men kickin' 'im, jumpin' on 'im, and stampin' on 'is face with their 'obnailed boots. the bloke on the ground is a socialist, and the reason why they're kickin' 'is face in is because 'e said that the only difference between slumrent and mandriver was that they was both alike.' while the audience were admiring this picture, bert played another well-known tune, and the children sang the words: 'two lovely black eyes, oh what a surprise! only for telling a man he was wrong, two lovely black eyes.' bert continued to turn the handles of the rollers and a long succession of pictures passed across the stage, to the delight of the children, who cheered and sang as occasion demanded, but the most enthusiastic outburst of all greeted the appearance of the final picture, which was a portrait of the king. directly the children saw it--without waiting for the band--they gave three cheers and began to sing the chorus of the national anthem. a round of applause for bert concluded the pandorama performance; the lamp and the candles of the christmas tree were relit--for although all the toys had been taken off, the tree still made a fine show with the shining glass ornaments--and then they had some more games; blind man's buff, a tug-of-war--in which philpot was defeated with great laughter--and a lot of other games. and when they were tired of these, each child 'said a piece' or sung a song, learnt specially for the occasion. the only one who had not come prepared in this respect was little rosie, and even she--so as to be the same as the others--insisted on reciting the only piece she knew. kneeling on the hearthrug, she put her hands together, palm to palm, and shutting her eyes very tightly she repeated the verse she always said every night before going to bed: 'gentle jesus, meek and mild, look on me, a little child. pity my simplicity, suffer me to come to thee.' then she stood up and kissed everyone in turn, and philpot crossed over and began looking out of the window, and coughed, and blew his nose, because a nut that he had been eating had gone down the wrong way. most of them were by this time quite tired out, so after some supper the party broke up. although they were nearly all very sleepy, none of them were very willing to go, but they were consoled by the thought of another entertainment to which they were going later on in the week--the band of hope tea and prize distribution at the shining light chapel. bert undertook to see elsie and charley safely home, and philpot volunteered to accompany nellie and tommy newman, and to carry rosie, who was so tired that she fell asleep on his shoulder before they left the house. as they were going down the stairs frankie held a hurried consultation with his mother, with the result that he was able to shout after them an invitation to come again next christmas. chapter the brigands hold a council of war it being now what is usually called the festive season--possibly because at this period of the year a greater number of people are suffering from hunger and cold than at any other time--the reader will not be surprised at being invited to another little party which took place on the day after the one we have just left. the scene was mr sweater's office. mr sweater was seated at his desk, but with his chair swung round to enable him to face his guests--messrs rushton, didlum, and grinder, who were also seated. 'something will 'ave to be done, and that very soon,' grinder was saying. 'we can't go on much longer as we're doing at present. for my part, i think the best thing to do is to chuck up the sponge at once; the company is practically bankrupt now, and the longer we waits the worser it will be.' 'that's just my opinion,' said didlum dejectedly. 'if we could supply the electric light at the same price as gas, or a little cheaper, we might have some chance; but we can't do it. the fact is that the machinery we've got is no dam good; it's too small and it's wore out, consequently the light we supply is inferior to gas and costs more.' 'yes, i think we're fairly beaten this time,' said rushton. 'why, even if the gas coy hadn't moved their works beyond the borough boundary, still we shouldn't 'ave been hable to compete with 'em.' 'of course not,' said grinder. 'the truth of the matter is just wot didlum says. our machinery is too small, it's worn hout, and good for nothing but to be throwed on the scrap-heap. so there's only one thing left to do and that is--go into liquidation.' 'i don't see it,' remarked sweater. 'well, what do you propose, then?' demanded grinder. 'reconstruct the company? ask the shareholders for more money? pull down the works and build fresh, and buy some new machinery? and then most likely not make a do of it after all? not for me, old chap! i've 'ad enough. you won't catch me chuckin' good money after bad in that way.' 'nor me neither,' said rushton. 'dead orf!' remarked didlum, very decidedly. sweater laughed quietly. 'i'm not such a fool as to suggest anything of that sort,' he said. 'you seem to forget that i am one of the largest shareholders myself. no. what i propose is that we sell out.' 'sell out!' replied grinder with a contemptuous laugh in which the others joined. 'who's going to buy the shares of a concern that's practically bankrupt and never paid a dividend?' 'i've tried to sell my little lot several times already,' said didlum with a sickly smile, 'but nobody won't buy 'em.' 'who's to buy?' repeated sweater, replying to grinder. 'the municipality of course! the ratepayers. why shouldn't mugsborough go in for socialism as well as other towns?' rushton, didlum and grinder fairly gasped for breath: the audacity of the chief's proposal nearly paralysed them. 'i'm afraid we should never git away with it,' ejaculated didlum, as soon as he could speak. 'when the people tumbled to it, there'd be no hend of a row.' 'people! row!' replied sweater, scornfully. 'the majority of the people will never know anything about it! listen to me--' 'are you quite sure as we can't be over'eard?' interrupted rushton, glancing nervously at the door and round the office. 'it's all right,' answered sweater, who nevertheless lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and the others drew their chairs closer and bent forward to listen. 'you know we still have a little money in hand: well, what i propose is this: at the annual meeting, which, as you know, comes off next week, we'll arrange for the secretary to read a highly satisfactory report, and we'll declare a dividend of per cent--we can arrange it somehow between us. of course, we'll have to cook the accounts a little, but i'll see that it's done properly. the other shareholders are not going to ask any awkward questions, and we all understand each other.' sweater paused, and regarded the other three brigands intently. 'do you follow me?' he asked. 'yes, yes,' said didlum eagerly. 'go on with it.' and rushton and grinder nodded assent. 'afterwards,' resumed sweater, 'i'll arrange for a good report of the meeting to appear in the weekly ananias. i'll instruct the editor to write it himself, and i'll tell him just what to say. i'll also get him to write a leading article about it, saying that electricity is sure to supersede gas for lighting purposes in the very near future. then the article will go on to refer to the huge profits made by the gas coy and to say how much better it would have been if the town had bought the gasworks years ago, so that those profits might have been used to reduce the rates, the same as has been done in other towns. finally, the article will declare that it's a great pity that the electric light supply should be in the hands of a private company, and to suggest that an effort be made to acquire it for the town. 'in the meantime we can all go about--in a very quiet and judicious way, of course--bragging about what a good thing we've got, and saying we don't mean to sell. we shall say that we've overcome all the initial expenses and difficulties connected with the installation of the works--that we are only just beginning to reap the reward of our industry and enterprise, and so on. 'then,' continued the chief, 'we can arrange for it to be proposed in the council that the town should purchase the electric light works.' 'but not by one of us four, you know,' said grinder with a cunning leer. 'certainly not; that would give the show away at once. there are, as you know--several members of the band who are not shareholders in the company; we'll get some of them to do most of the talking. we, being the directors of the company, must pretend to be against selling, and stick out for our own price; and when we do finally consent we must make out that we are sacrificing our private interests for the good of the town. we'll get a committee appointed--we'll have an expert engineer down from london--i know a man that will suit our purpose admirably--we'll pay him a trifle and he'll say whatever we tell him to--and we'll rush the whole business through before you can say "jack robinson", and before the rate-payers have time to realize what's being done. not that we need worry ourselves much about them. most of them take no interest in public affairs, but even if there is something said, it won't matter much to us once we've got the money. it'll be a nine days' wonder and then we'll hear no more of it.' as the chief ceased speaking, the other brigands also remained silent, speechless with admiration of his cleverness. 'well, what do you think of it?' he asked. 'think of it!' cried grinder, enthusiastically. 'i think it's splendid! nothing could be better. if we can honly git away with it, i reckon it'll be one of the smartest thing we've ever done.' 'smart ain't the word for it,' observed rushton. 'there's no doubt it's a grand idear!' exclaimed didlum, 'and i've just thought of something else that might be done to help it along. we could arrange to 'ave a lot of letters sent "to the editor of the obscurer" and "to the editor of the ananias," and "to the editor of the weekly chloroform" in favour of the scheme.' 'yes, that's a very good idea,' said grinder. 'for that matter the editors could write them to themselves and sign them "progress", "ratepayer", "advance mugsborough", and sich-like.' 'yes, that's all right,' said the chief, thoughtfully, 'but we must be careful not to overdo it; of course there will have to be a certain amount of publicity, but we don't want to create too much interest in it.' 'come to think of it,' observed rushton arrogantly, 'why should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the ratepayers at all? why should we trouble to fake the books, or declare a dividend or 'ave the harticles in the papers or anything else? we've got the game in our own 'ands; we've got a majority in the council, and, as mr sweater ses, very few people even take the trouble to read the reports of the meetings.' 'yes, that's right enough,' said grinder. 'but it's just them few wot would make a lot of trouble and talk; they're the very people we 'as to think about. if we can only manage to put them in a fog we'll be all right, and the way to do it is as mr sweater proposes.' 'yes, i think so,' said the chief. 'we must be very careful. i can work it all right in the ananias and the chloroform, and of course you'll see that the obscurer backs us up.' 'i'll take care of that,' said grinder, grimly. the three local papers were run by limited companies. sweater held nearly all the shares of the ananias and of the weekly chloroform, and controlled their policy and contents. grinder occupied the same position with regard to the obscurer. the editors were a sort of marionettes who danced as sweater and grinder pulled the strings. 'i wonder how dr weakling will take it?' remarked rushton. 'that's the very thing i was just thinkin' about,' cried didlum. 'don't you think it would be a good plan if we could arrange to 'ave somebody took bad--you know, fall down in a fit or something in the street just outside the town 'all just before the matter is brought forward in the council, and then 'ave someone to come and call 'im out to attend to the party wot's ill, and keep 'im out till the business is done.' 'yes, that's a capital idear,' said grinder thoughtfully. 'but who could we get to 'ave the fit? it would 'ave to be someone we could trust, you know.' ''ow about rushton? you wouldn't mind doin' it, would yer?' inquired didlum. 'i should strongly object,' said rushton haughtily. he regarded the suggestion that he should act such an undignified part, as a kind of sacrilege. 'then i'll do it meself if necessary,' said didlum. 'i'm not proud when there's money to be made; anything for an honest living.' 'well, i think we're all agreed, so far,' remarked sweater. the others signified assent. 'and i think we all deserve a drink,' the chief continued, producing a decanter and a box of cigars from a cupboard by the side of his desk. 'pass that water bottle from behind you, didlum.' 'i suppose nobody won't be comin' in?' said the latter, anxiously. 'i'm a teetotaler, you know.' 'oh, it's all right,' said sweater, taking four glasses out of the cupboard and pouring out the whisky. 'i've given orders that we're not to be disturbed for anyone. say when.' 'well, 'ere's success to socialism,' cried grinder, raising his glass, and taking a big drink. 'amen--'ear, 'ear, i mean,' said didlum, hastily correcting himself. 'wot i likes about this 'ere business is that we're not only doin' ourselves a bit of good,' continued grinder with a laugh, 'we're not only doin' ourselves a bit of good, but we're likewise doin' the socialists a lot of 'arm. when the ratepayers 'ave bought the works, and they begins to kick up a row because they're losin' money over it--we can tell 'em that it's socialism! and then they'll say that if that's socialism they don't want no more of it.' the other brigands laughed gleefully, and some of didlum's whisky went down the wrong way and nearly sent him into a fit. 'you might as well kill a man at once,' he protested as he wiped the tears from his eyes, 'you might as well kill a man at once as choke 'im to death.' 'and now i've got a bit of good news for you,' said the chief as he put his empty glass down. the others became serious at once. 'although we've had a very rough time of it in our contest with the gasworks company, and although we've got the worst of it, it hasn't been all lavender for them, you know. they've not enjoyed themselves either: we hit them pretty hard when we put up the coal dues.' 'a damn good job too,' said grinder malignantly. 'well,' continued sweater, 'they're just as sick of the fight as they want to be, because of course they don't know exactly how badly we've been hit. for all they know, we could have continued the struggle indefinitely: and--well, to make a long story short, i've had a talk with the managing director and one or two others, and they're willing to let us in with them. so that we can put the money we get for the electric light works into gas shares!' this was such splendid news that they had another drink on the strength of it, and didlum said that one of the first things they would have to do would be to totally abolish the coal dues, because they pressed so hard on the poor. chapter the deserter about the end of january, slyme left easton's. the latter had not succeeded in getting anything to do since the work at 'the cave' was finished, and latterly the quality of the food had been falling off. the twelve shillings slyme paid for his board and lodging was all that ruth had to keep house with. she had tried to get some work to do herself, but generally without success; there were one or two jobs that she might have had if she had been able to give her whole time to them, but of course that was not possible; the child and the housework had to be attended to, and slyme's meals had to be prepared. nevertheless, she contrived to get away several times when she had a chance of earning a few shillings by doing a day's charing for some lady or other, and then she left everything in such order at home that easton was able to manage all right while she was away. on these occasions, she usually left the baby with owen's wife, who was an old schoolmate of hers. nora was the more willing to render her this service because frankie used to be so highly delighted whenever it happened. he never tired of playing with the child, and for several days afterwards he used to worry his mother with entreaties to buy a baby of their own. easton earned a few shillings occasionally; now and then he got a job to clean windows, and once or twice he did a few days' or hours' work with some other painter who had been fortunate enough to get a little job 'on his own'--such as a ceiling to wash and whiten, or a room or two to paint; but such jobs were few. sometimes, when they were very hard up, they sold something; the bible that used to lie on the little table in the bay window was one of the first things to be parted with. ruth erased the inscription from the fly-leaf and then they sold the book at a second-hand shop for two shillings. as time went on, they sold nearly everything that was saleable, except of course, the things that were obtained on the hire system. slyme could see that they were getting very much into debt and behind with the rent, and on two occasions already easton had borrowed five shillings from him, which he might never be able to pay back. another thing was that slyme was always in fear that ruth--who had never wholly abandoned herself to wrongdoing--might tell easton what had happened; more than once she had talked of doing so, and the principal reason why she refrained was that she knew that even if he forgave her, he could never think the same of her as before. slyme repeatedly urged this view upon her, pointing out that no good could result from such a confession. latterly the house had become very uncomfortable. it was not only that the food was bad and that sometimes there was no fire, but ruth and easton were nearly always quarrelling about something or other. she scarcely spoke to slyme at all, and avoided sitting at the table with him whenever possible. he was in constant dread that easton might notice her manner towards him, and seek for some explanation. altogether the situation was so unpleasant that slyme determined to clear out. he made the excuse that he had been offered a few weeks' work at a place some little distance outside the town. after he was gone they lived for several weeks in semi-starvation on what credit they could get and by selling the furniture or anything else they possessed that could be turned into money. the things out of slyme's room were sold almost directly he left. chapter the veteran old jack linden had tried hard to earn a little money by selling bloaters, but they often went bad, and even when he managed to sell them all the profit was so slight that it was not worth doing. before the work at 'the cave' was finished, philpot was a good friend to them; he frequently gave old jack sixpence or a shilling and often brought a bag of cakes or buns for the children. sometimes he came to tea with them on sundays as an excuse for bringing a tin of salmon. elsie and charley frequently went to owen's house to take tea with frankie; in fact, whilst owen had anything to do, they almost lived there, for both owen and nora, knowing that the lindens had nothing to live on except the earnings of the young woman, encouraged the children to come often. old jack made some hopeless attempts to get work--work of any kind, but nobody wanted him; and to make things worse, his eyesight, which had been failing for a long time, became very bad. once he was given a job by a big provision firm to carry an advertisement about the streets. the man who had been carrying it before--an old soldier--had been sacked the previous day for getting drunk while on duty. the advertisement was not an ordinary pair of sandwich boards, but a sort of box without any bottom or lid, a wooden frame, four sides covered with canvas, on which were pasted printed bills advertising margarine. each side of this box or frame was rather larger than an ordinary sandwich board. old linden had to get inside this thing and carry it about the streets; two straps fixed across the top of the frame and passing one over each of his shoulders enabled him to carry it. it swayed about a good deal as he walked along, especially when the wind caught it, but there were two handles inside to hold it steady by. the pay was eighteenpence a day, and he had to travel a certain route, up and down the busiest streets. at first the frame did not feel very heavy, but the weight seemed to increase as the time went on, and the straps hurt his shoulders. he felt very much ashamed, also, whenever he encountered any of his old mates, some of whom laughed at him. in consequence of the frame requiring so much attention to keep it steady, and being unused to the work, and his sight so bad, he several times narrowly escaped being run over. another thing that added to his embarrassment was the jeering of the other sandwichmen, the loafers outside the public houses, and the boys, who shouted 'old jack in the box' after him. sometimes the boys threw refuse at the frame, and once a decayed orange thrown by one of them knocked his hat off. by the time evening came he was scarcely able to stand for weariness. his shoulders, his legs and his feet ached terribly, and as he was taking the thing back to the shop he was accosted by a ragged, dirty-looking, beer-sodden old man whose face was inflamed with drink and fury. 'this was the old soldier who had been discharged the previous day. he cursed and swore in the most awful manner and accused linden of 'taking the bread out of his mouth', and, shaking his fist fiercely at him, shouted that he had a good mind to knock his face through his head and out of the back of his neck. he might possibly have tried to put this threat into practice but for the timely appearance of a policeman, when he calmed down at once and took himself off. jack did not go back the next day; he felt that he would rather starve than have any more of the advertisement frame, and after this he seemed to abandon all hope of earning money: wherever he went it was the same--no one wanted him. so he just wandered about the streets aimlessly, now and then meeting an old workmate who asked him to have a drink, but this was not often, for nearly all of them were out of work and penniless. chapter the soldier's children during most of this time, jack linden's daughter-in-law had 'plenty of work', making blouses and pinafores for sweater & co. she had so much to do that one might have thought that the tory millennium had arrived, and that tariff reform was already an accomplished fact. she had plenty of work. at first they had employed her exclusively on the cheapest kind of blouses--those that were paid for at the rate of two shillings a dozen, but they did not give her many of that sort now. she did the work so neatly that they kept her busy on the better qualities, which did not pay her so well, because although she was paid more per dozen, there was a great deal more work in them than in the cheaper kinds. once she had a very special one to make, for which she was paid six shillings; but it took her four and a half days--working early and late--to do it. the lady who bought this blouse was told that it came from paris, and paid three guineas for it. but of course mrs linden knew nothing of that, and even if she had known, it would have made no difference to her. most of the money she earned went to pay the rent, and sometimes there was only two or three shillings left to buy food for all of them: sometimes not even so much, because although she had plenty of work she was not always able to do it. there were times when the strain of working the machine was unendurable: her shoulders ached, her arms became cramped, and her eyes pained so that it was impossible to continue. then for a change she would leave the sewing and do some housework. once, when they owed four weeks' rent, the agent was so threatening that they were terrified at the thought of being sold up and turned out of the house, and so she decided to sell the round mahogany table and some of the other things out of the sitting-room. nearly all the furniture that was in the house now belonged to her, and had formed her home before her husband died. the old people had given most of their things away at different times to their other sons since she had come to live there. these men were all married and all in employment. one was a fitter at the gasworks; the second was a railway porter, and the other was a butcher; but now that the old man was out of work they seldom came to the house. the last time they had been there was on christmas eve, and then there had been such a terrible row between them that the children had been awakened by it and frightened nearly out of their lives. the cause of the row was that some time previously they had mutually agreed to each give a shilling a week to the old people. they had done this for three weeks and after that the butcher had stopped his contribution: it had occurred to him that he was not to be expected to help to keep his brother's widow and her children. if the old people liked to give up the house and go to live in a room somewhere by themselves, he would continue paying his shilling a week, but not otherwise. upon this the railway porter and the gas-fitter also ceased paying. they said it wasn't fair that they should pay a shilling a week each when the butcher--who was the eldest and earned the best wages--paid nothing. provided he paid, they would pay; but if he didn't pay anything, neither would they. on christmas eve they all happened to come to the house at the same time; each denounced the others, and after nearly coming to blows they all went away raging and cursing and had not been near the place since. as soon as she decided to sell the things, mary went to didlum's second-hand furniture store, and the manager said he would ask mr didlum to call and see the table and other articles. she waited anxiously all the morning, but he did not appear, so she went once more to the shop to remind him. when he did come at last he was very contemptuous of the table and of everything else she offered to sell. five shillings was the very most he could think of giving for the table, and even then he doubted whether he would ever get his money back. eventually he gave her thirty shillings for the table, the overmantel, the easy chair, three other chairs and the two best pictures--one a large steel engraving of 'the good samaritan' and the other 'christ blessing little children'. he paid the money at once; half an hour afterwards the van came to take the things away, and when they were gone, mary sank down on the hearthrug in the wrecked room and sobbed as if her heart would break. this was the first of several similar transactions. slowly, piece by piece, in order to buy food and to pay the rent, the furniture was sold. every time didlum came he affected to be doing them a very great favour by buying the things at all. almost an act of charity. he did not want them. business was so bad: it might be years before he could sell them again, and so on. once or twice he asked mary if she did not want to sell the clock--the one that her late husband had made for his mother, but mary shrank from the thought of selling this, until at last there was nothing else left that didlum would buy, and one week, when mary was too ill to do any needlework--it had to go. he gave them ten shillings for it. mary had expected the old woman to be heartbroken at having to part with this clock, but she was surprised to see her almost indifferent. the truth was, that lately both the old people seemed stunned, and incapable of taking an intelligent interest in what was happening around them, and mary had to attend to everything. from time to time nearly all their other possessions--things of inferior value that didlum would not look at, she carried out and sold at small second-hand shops in back streets or pledged at the pawn-broker's. the feather pillows, sheets, and blankets: bits of carpet or oilcloth, and as much of their clothing as was saleable or pawnable. they felt the loss of the bedclothes more than anything else, for although all the clothes they wore during the day, and all the old clothes and dresses in the house, and even an old coloured tablecloth, were put on the beds at night, they did not compensate for the blankets, and they were often unable to sleep on account of the intense cold. a lady district visitor who called occasionally sometimes gave mary an order for a hundredweight of coal or a shillingsworth of groceries, or a ticket for a quart of soup, which elsie fetched in the evening from the soup kitchen. but this was not very often, because, as the lady said, there were so many cases similar to theirs that it was impossible to do more than a very little for any one of them. sometimes mary became so weak and exhausted through overwork, worry, and lack of proper food that she broke down altogether for the time being, and positively could not do any work at all. then she used to lie down on the bed in her room and cry. whenever she became like this, elsie and charley used to do the housework when they came home from school, and make tea and toast for her, and bring it to the bedside on a chair so that she could eat lying down. when there was no margarine or dripping to put on the toast, they made it very thin and crisp and pretended it was biscuit. the children rather enjoyed these times; the quiet and leisure was so different from other days when their mother was so busy she had no time to speak to them. they would sit on the side of the bed, the old grandmother in her chair opposite with the cat beside her listening to the conversation and purring or mewing whenever they stroked it or spoke to it. they talked principally of the future. elsie said she was going to be a teacher and earn a lot of money to bring home to her mother to buy things with. charley was thinking of opening a grocer's shop and having a horse and cart. when one has a grocer's shop, there is always plenty to eat; even if you have no money, you can take as much as you like out of your shop--good stuff, too, tins of salmon, jam, sardines, eggs, cakes, biscuits and all those sorts of things--and one was almost certain to have some money every day, because it wasn't likely that a whole day would go by without someone or other coming into the shop to buy something. when delivering the groceries with the horse and cart, he would give rides to all the boys he knew, and in the summertime, after the work was done and the shop shut up, mother and elsie and granny could also come for long rides into the country. the old grandmother--who had latterly become quite childish--used to sit and listen to all this talk with a superior air. sometimes she argued with the children about their plans, and ridiculed them. she used to say with a chuckle that she had heard people talk like that before--lots of times--but it never came to nothing in the end. one week about the middle of february, when they were in very sore straits indeed, old jack applied to the secretary of the organized benevolence society for assistance. it was about eleven o'clock in the morning when he turned the corner of the street where the office of the society was situated and saw a crowd of about thirty men waiting for the doors to be opened in order to apply for soup tickets. some of these men were of the tramp or the drunken loafer class; some were old, broken-down workmen like himself, and others were labourers wearing corduroy or moleskin trousers with straps round their legs under their knees. linden waited at a distance until all these were gone before he went in. the secretary received him sympathetically and gave him a big form to fill up, but as linden's eyes were so bad and his hand so unsteady the secretary very obligingly wrote in the answers himself, and informed him that he would inquire into the case and lay his application before the committee at the next meeting, which was to be held on the following thursday--it was then monday. linden explained to him that they were actually starving. he had been out of work for sixteen weeks, and during all that time they had lived for the most part on the earnings of his daughter-in-law, but she had not done anything for nearly a fortnight now, because the firm she worked for had not had any work for her to do. there was no food in the house and the children were crying for something to eat. all last week they had been going to school hungry, for they had had nothing but dry bread and tea every day: but this week--as far as he could see--they would not get even that. after some further talk the secretary gave him two soup tickets and an order for a loaf of bread, and repeated his promise to inquire into the case and bring it before the committee. as jack was returning home he passed the soup kitchen, where he saw the same lot of men who had been to the office of the organized benevolence society for the soup tickets. they were waiting in a long line to be admitted. the premises being so small, the proprietor served them in batches of ten at a time. on wednesday the secretary called at the house, and on friday jack received a letter from him to the effect that the case had been duly considered by the committee, who had come to the conclusion that as it was a 'chronic' case they were unable to deal with it, and advised him to apply to the board of guardians. this was what linden had hitherto shrunk from doing, but the situation was desperate. they owed five weeks' rent, and to crown their misfortune his eyesight had become so bad that even if there had been any prospect of obtaining work it was very doubtful if he could have managed to do it. so linden, feeling utterly crushed and degraded, swallowed all that remained of his pride and went like a beaten dog to see the relieving officer, who took him before the board, who did not think it a suitable case for out-relief, and after some preliminaries it was arranged that linden and his wife were to go into the workhouse, and mary was to be allowed three shillings a week to help her to support herself and the two children. as for linden's sons, the guardians intimated their intention of compelling them to contribute towards the cost of their parents' maintenance. mary accompanied the old people to the gates of their future dwelling-place, and when she returned home she found there a letter addressed to j. linden. it was from the house agent and contained a notice to leave the house before the end of the ensuing week. nothing was said about the rent that was due. perhaps mr sweater thought that as he had already received nearly six hundred pounds in rent from linden he could afford to be generous about the five weeks that were still owing--or perhaps he thought there was no possibility of getting the money. however that may have been, there was no reference to it in the letter--it was simply a notice to clear out, addressed to linden, but meant for mary. it was about half past three o'clock in the afternoon when she returned home and found this letter on the floor in the front passage. she was faint with fatigue and hunger, for she had had nothing but a cup of tea and a slice of bread that day, and her fare had not been much better for many weeks past. the children were at school, and the house--now almost destitute of furniture and without carpets or oilcloth on the floors--was deserted and cold and silent as a tomb. on the kitchen table were a few cracked cups and saucers, a broken knife, some lead teaspoons, a part of a loaf, a small basin containing some dripping and a brown earthenware teapot with a broken spout. near the table were two broken kitchen chairs, one with the top cross-piece gone from the back, and the other with no back to the seat at all. the bareness of the walls was relieved only by a coloured almanac and some paper pictures which the children had tacked upon them, and by the side of the fireplace was the empty wicker chair where the old woman used to sit. there was no fire in the grate, and the cold hearth was untidy with an accumulation of ashes, for during the trouble of these last few days she had not had time or heart to do any housework. the floor was unswept and littered with scraps of paper and dust: in one corner was a heap of twigs and small branches of trees that charley had found somewhere and brought home for the fire. the same disorder prevailed all through the house: all the doors were open, and from where she stood in the kitchen she could see the bed she shared with elsie, with its heterogeneous heap of coverings. the sitting-room contained nothing but a collection of odds and ends of rubbish which belonged to charley--his 'things' as he called them--bits of wood, string and rope; one wheel of a perambulator, a top, an iron hoop and so on. through the other door was visible the dilapidated bedstead that had been used by the old people, with a similar lot of bedclothes to those on her own bed, and the torn, ragged covering of the mattress through the side of which the flock was protruding and falling in particles on to the floor. as she stood there with the letter in her hand--faint and weary in the midst of all this desolation, it seemed to her as if the whole world were falling to pieces and crumbling away all around her. chapter the beginning of the end during the months of january and february, owen, crass, slyme and sawkins continued to work at irregular intervals for rushton & co., although--even when there was anything to do--they now put in only six hours a day, commencing in the morning and leaving off at four, with an hour's interval for dinner between twelve and one. they finished the 'plant' and painted the front of rushton's shop. when all this was completed, as no other work came in, they all had to 'stand off' with the exception of sawkins, who was kept on because he was cheap and able to do all sorts of odd jobs, such as unstopping drains, repairing leaky roofs, rough painting or lime-washing, and he was also useful as a labourer for the plumbers, of whom there were now three employed at rushton's, the severe weather which had come in with january having made a lot of work in that trade. with the exception of this one branch, practically all work was at a standstill. during this time rushton & co. had had several 'boxing-up' jobs to do, and crass always did the polishing of the coffins on these occasions, besides assisting to take the 'box' home when finished and to 'lift in' the corpse, and afterwards he always acted as one of the bearers at the funerals. for an ordinary class funeral he usually put in about three hours for the polishing; that came to one and nine. taking home the coffin and lifting in the corpse, one shilling--usually there were two men to do this besides hunter, who always accompanied them to superintend the work--attending the funeral and acting as bearer, four shillings: so that altogether crass made six shillings and ninepence out of each funeral, and sometimes a little more. for instance, when there was an unusually good-class corpse they had a double coffin and then of course there were two 'lifts in', for the shell was taken home first and the outer coffin perhaps a day or two later: this made another shilling. no matter how expensive the funeral was, the bearers never got any more money. sometimes the carpenter and crass were able to charge an hour or two more on the making and polishing of a coffin for a good job, but that was all. sometimes, when there was a very cheap job, they were paid only three shillings for attending as bearers, but this was not often: as a rule they got the same amount whether it was a cheap funeral or an expensive one. slyme earned only five shillings out of each funeral, and owen only one and six--for writing the coffin plate. sometimes there were three or four funerals in a week, and then crass did very well indeed. he still had the two young men lodgers at his house, and although one of them was out of work he was still able to pay his way because he had some money in the bank. one of the funeral jobs led to a terrible row between crass and sawkins. the corpse was that of a well-to-do woman who had been ill for a long time with cancer of the stomach, and after the funeral rushton & co. had to clean and repaint and paper the room she had occupied during her illness. although cancer is not supposed to be an infectious disease, they had orders to take all the bedding away and have it burnt. sawkins was instructed to take a truck to the house and get the bedding and take it to the town refuse destructor to be destroyed. there were two feather beds, a bolster and two pillows: they were such good things that sawkins secretly resolved that instead of taking them to the destructor he would take them to a second-hand dealer and sell them. as he was coming away from the house with the things he met hunter, who told him that he wanted him for some other work; so he was to take the truck to the yard and leave it there for the present; he could take the bedding to the destructor later on in the day. sawkins did as hunter ordered, and in the meantime crass, who happened to be working at the yard painting some venetian blinds, saw the things on the truck, and, hearing what was to be done with them, he also thought it was a pity that such good things should be destroyed: so when sawkins came in the afternoon to take them away crass told him he need not trouble; 'i'm goin' to 'ave that lot, he said; 'they're too good to chuck away; there's nothing wrong with 'em.' this did not suit sawkins at all. he said he had been told to take them to the destructor, and he was going to do so. he was dragging the cart out of the yard when crass rushed up and lifted the bundle off and carried it into the paint-shop. sawkins ran after him and they began to curse and swear at each other; crass accusing sawkins of intending to take the things to the marine stores and sell them. sawkins seized hold of the bundle with the object of replacing it on the cart, but crass got hold of it as well and they had a tussle for it--a kind of tug of war--reeling and struggling all over the shop. cursing and swearing horribly all the time. finally, sawkins--being the better man of the two--succeeded in wrenching the bundle away and put it on the cart again, and then crass hurriedly put on his coat and said he was going to the office to ask mr rushton if he might have the things. upon hearing this, sawkins became so infuriated that he lifted the bundle off the cart and, throwing it upon the muddy ground, right into a pool of dirty water, trampled it underfoot; and then, taking out his clasp knife, began savagely hacking and ripping the ticking so that the feathers all came falling out. in a few minutes he had damaged the things beyond hope of repair, while crass stood by, white and trembling, watching the proceedings but lacking the courage to interfere. 'now go to the office and ask rushton for 'em, if you like!' shouted sawkins. 'you can 'ave 'em now, if you want 'em.' crass made no answer and, after a moment's hesitation, went back to his work, and sawkins piled the things on the cart once more and took them away to the destructor. he would not be able to sell them now, but at any rate he had stopped that dirty swine crass from getting them. when crass went back to the paint-shop he found there one of the pillows which had fallen out of the bundle during the struggle. he took it home with him that evening and slept upon it. it was a fine pillow, much fuller and softer and more cosy than the one he had been accustomed to. a few days afterwards when he was working at the room where the woman died, they gave him some other things that had belonged to her to do away with, and amongst them was a kind of wrap of grey knitted wool. crass kept this for himself: it was just the thing to wrap round one's neck when going to work on a cold morning, and he used it for that purpose all through the winter. in addition to the funerals, there was a little other work: sometimes a room or two to be painted and papered and ceilings whitened, and once they had the outside of two small cottages to paint--doors and windows--two coats. all four of them worked at this job and it was finished in two days. and so they went on. some weeks crass earned a pound or eighteen shillings; sometimes a little more, generally less and occasionally nothing at all. there was a lot of jealousy and ill-feeling amongst them about the work. slyme and crass were both aggrieved about sawkins whenever they were idle, especially if the latter were painting or whitewashing, and their indignation was shared by all the others who were 'off'. harlow swore horribly about it, and they all agreed that it was disgraceful that a bloody labourer should be employed doing what ought to be skilled work for fivepence an hour, while properly qualified men were 'walking about'. these other men were also incensed against slyme and crass because the latter were given the preference whenever there was a little job to do, and it was darkly insinuated that in order to secure this preference these two were working for sixpence an hour. there was no love lost between crass and slyme either: crass was furious whenever it happened that slyme had a few hours' work to do if he himself were idle, and if ever crass was working while slyme was 'standing still' the latter went about amongst the other unemployed men saying ugly things about crass, whom he accused of being a 'crawler'. owen also came in for his share of abuse and blame: most of them said that a man like him should stick out for higher wages whether employed on special work or not, and then he would not get any preference. but all the same, whatever they said about each other behind each other's backs, they were all most friendly to each other when they met face to face. once or twice owen did some work--such as graining a door or writing a sign--for one or other of his fellow workmen who had managed to secure a little job 'on his own', but putting it all together, the coffin-plates and other work at rushton's and all, his earnings had not averaged ten shillings a week for the last six weeks. often they had no coal and sometimes not even a penny to put into the gas meter, and then, having nothing left good enough to pawn, he sometimes obtained a few pence by selling some of his books to second-hand book dealers. however, bad as their condition was, owen knew that they were better off than the majority of the others, for whenever he went out he was certain to meet numbers of men whom he had worked with at different times, who said--some of them--that they had been idle for ten, twelve, fifteen and in some cases for twenty weeks without having earned a shilling. owen used to wonder how they managed to continue to exist. most of them were wearing other people's cast-off clothes, hats, and boots, which had in some instances been given to their wives by 'visiting ladies', or by the people at whose houses their wives went to work, charing. as for food, most of them lived on such credit as they could get, and on the scraps of broken victuals and meat that their wives brought home from the places they worked at. some of them had grown-up sons and daughters who still lived with them and whose earnings kept their homes together, and the wives of some of them eked out a miserable existence by letting lodgings. the week before old linden went into the workhouse owen earned nothing, and to make matters worse the grocer from whom they usually bought their things suddenly refused to let them have any more credit. owen went to see him, and the man said he was very sorry, but he could not let them have anything more without the money; he did not mind waiting a few weeks for what was already owing, but he could not let the amount get any higher; his books were full of bad debts already. in conclusion, he said that he hoped owen would not do as so many others had done and take his ready money elsewhere. people came and got credit from him when they were hard up, and afterwards spent their ready money at the monopole company's stores on the other side of the street, because their goods were a trifle cheaper, and it was not fair. owen admitted that it was not fair, but reminded him that they always bought their things at his shop. the grocer, however, was inexorable; he repeated several times that his books were full of bad debts and his own creditors were pressing him. during their conversation the shopkeeper's eyes wandered continually to the big store on the other side of the street; the huge, gilded letters of the name 'monopole stores' seemed to have an irresistible attraction for him. once he interrupted himself in the middle of a sentence to point out to owen a little girl who was just coming out of the stores with a small parcel in her hand. 'her father owes me nearly thirty shillings,' he said, 'but they spend their ready money there.' the front of the grocer's shop badly needed repainting, and the name on the fascia, 'a. smallman', was so faded as to be almost indecipherable. it had been owen's intention to offer to do this work--the cost to go against his account--but the man appeared to be so harassed that owen refrained from making the suggestion. they still had credit at the baker's, but they did not take much bread: when one has had scarcely anything else but bread to eat for nearly a month one finds it difficult to eat at all. that same day, when he returned home after his interview with the grocer, they had a loaf of beautiful fresh bread, but none of them could eat it, although they were hungry: it seemed to stick in their throats, and they could not swallow it even with the help of a drink of tea. but they drank the tea, which was the one thing that enabled them to go on living. the next week owen earned eight shillings altogether: a few hours he put in assisting crass to wash off and whiten a ceiling and paint a room, and there was one coffin-plate. he wrote the latter at home, and while he was doing it he heard frankie--who was out in the scullery with nora--say to her: 'mother, how many more days to you think we'll have to have only dry bread and tea?' owen's heart seemed to stop as he heard the child's question and listened for nora's answer, but the question was not to be answered at all just then, for at that moment they heard someone running up the stairs and presently the door was unceremoniously thrown open and charley linden rushed into the house, out of breath, hatless, and crying piteously. his clothes were old and ragged; they had been patched at the knees and elbows, but the patches were tearing away from the rotting fabric into which they had been sewn. he had on a pair of black stockings full of holes through which the skin was showing. the soles of his boots were worn through at one side right to the uppers, and as he walked the sides of his bare heels came into contact with the floor, the front part of the sole of one boot was separated from the upper, and his bare toes, red with cold and covered with mud, protruded through the gap. some sharp substance--a nail or a piece of glass or flint--had evidently lacerated his right foot, for blood was oozing from the broken heel of his boot on to the floor. they were unable to make much sense of the confused story he told them through his sobs as soon as he was able to speak. all that was clear was that there was something very serious the matter at home: he thought his mother must be either dying or dead, because she did not speak or move or open her eyes, and 'please, please, please will you come home with me and see her?' while nora was getting ready to go with the boy, owen made him sit on a chair, and having removed the boot from the foot that was bleeding, washed the cut with some warm water and bandaged it with a piece of clean rag, and then they tried to persuade him to stay there with frankie while nora went to see his mother, but the boy would not hear of it. so frankie went with them instead. owen could not go because he had to finish the coffin-plate, which was only just commenced. it will be remembered that we left mary linden alone in the house after she returned from seeing the old people away. when the children came home from school, about half an hour afterwards, they found her sitting in one of the chairs with her head resting on her arms on the table, unconscious. they were terrified, because they could not awaken her and began to cry, but presently charley thought of frankie's mother and, telling his sister to stay there while he was gone, he started off at a run for owen's house, leaving the front door wide open after him. when nora and the two boys reached the house they found there two other women neighbours, who had heard elsie crying and had come to see what was wrong. mary had recovered from her faint and was lying down on the bed. nora stayed with her for some time after the other women went away. she lit the fire and gave the children their tea--there was still some coal and food left of what had been bought with the three shillings obtained from the board of guardians--and afterwards she tidied the house. mary said that she did not know exactly what she would have to do in the future. if she could get a room somewhere for two or three shillings a week, her allowance from the guardians would pay the rent, and she would be able to earn enough for herself and the children to live on. this was the substance of the story that nora told owen when she returned home. he had finished writing the coffin-plate, and as it was now nearly dry he put on his coat and took it down to the carpenter's shop at the yard. on his way back he met easton, who had been hanging about in the vain hope of seeing hunter and finding out if there was any chance of a job. as they walked along together, easton confided to owen that he had earned scarcely anything since he had been stood off at rushton's, and what he had earned had gone, as usual, to pay the rent. slyme had left them some time ago. ruth did not seem able to get on with him; she had been in a funny sort of temper altogether, but since he had gone she had had a little work at a boarding-house on the grand parade. but things had been going from bad to worse. they had not been able to keep up the payments for the furniture they had hired, so the things had been seized and carted off. they had even stripped the oilcloth from the floor. easton remarked he was sorry he had not tacked the bloody stuff down in such a manner that they would not have been able to take it up without destroying it. he had been to see didlum, who said he didn't want to be hard on them, and that he would keep the things together for three months, and if easton had paid up arrears by that time he could have them back again, but there was, in easton's opinion, very little chance of that. owen listened with contempt and anger. here was a man who grumbled at the present state of things, yet took no trouble to think for himself and try to alter them, and who at the first chance would vote for the perpetuation of the system which produced his misery. 'have you heard that old jack linden and his wife went to the workhouse today,' he said. 'no,' replied easton, indifferently. 'it's only what i expected.' owen then suggested it would not be a bad plan for easton to let his front room, now that it was empty, to mrs linden, who would be sure to pay her rent, which would help easton to pay his. easton agreed and said he would mention it to ruth, and a few minutes later they parted. the next morning nora found ruth talking to mary linden about the room and as the eastons lived only about five minutes' walk away, they all three went round there in order that mary might see the room. the appearance of the house from outside was unaltered: the white lace curtains still draped the windows of the front room; and in the centre of the bay was what appeared to be a small round table covered with a red cloth, and upon it a geranium in a flowerpot standing in a saucer with a frill of coloured tissue paper round it. these things and the curtains, which fell close together, made it impossible for anyone to see that the room was, otherwise, unfurnished. the 'table' consisted of an empty wooden box--procured from the grocer's--stood on end, with the lid of the scullery copper placed upside down upon it for a top and covered with an old piece of red cloth. the purpose of this was to prevent the neighbours from thinking that they were hard up; although they knew that nearly all those same neighbours were in more or less similar straits. it was not a very large room, considering that it would have to serve all purposes for herself and the two children, but mrs linden knew that it was not likely that she would be able to get one as good elsewhere for the same price, so she agreed to take it from the following monday at two shillings a week. as the distance was so short they were able to carry most of the smaller things to their new home during the next few days, and on the monday evening, when it was dark. owen and easton brought the remainder on a truck they borrowed for the purpose from hunter. during the last weeks of february the severity of the weather increased. there was a heavy fall of snow on the th followed by a hard frost which lasted several days. about ten o'clock one night a policeman found a man lying unconscious in the middle of a lonely road. at first he thought the man was drunk, and after dragging him on to the footpath out of the way of passing vehicles he went for the stretcher. they took the man to the station and put him into a cell, which was already occupied by a man who had been caught in the act of stealing a swede turnip from a barn. when the police surgeon came he pronounced the supposed drunken man to be dying from bronchitis and want of food; and he further said that there was nothing to indicate that the man was addicted to drink. when the inquest was held a few days afterwards, the coroner remarked that it was the third case of death from destitution that had occurred in the town within six weeks. the evidence showed that the man was a plasterer who had walked from london with the hope of finding work somewhere in the country. he had no money in his possession when he was found by the policeman; all that his pockets contained being several pawn-tickets and a letter from his wife, which was not found until after he died, because it was in an inner pocket of his waistcoat. a few days before this inquest was held, the man who had been arrested for stealing the turnip had been taken before the magistrates. the poor wretch said he did it because he was starving, but aldermen sweater and grinder, after telling him that starvation was no excuse for dishonesty, sentenced him to pay a fine of seven shillings and costs, or go to prison for seven days with hard labour. as the convict had neither money nor friends, he had to go to jail, where he was, after all, better off than most of those who were still outside because they lacked either the courage or the opportunity to steal something to relieve their sufferings. as time went on the long-continued privation began to tell upon owen and his family. he had a severe cough: his eyes became deeply sunken and of remarkable brilliancy, and his thin face was always either deathly pale or dyed with a crimson flush. frankie also began to show the effects of being obliged to go so often without his porridge and milk; he became very pale and thin and his long hair came out in handfuls when his mother combed or brushed it. this was a great trouble to the boy, who, since hearing the story of samson read out of the bible at school, had ceased from asking to have his hair cut short, lest he should lose his strength in consequence. he used to test himself by going through a certain exercise he had himself invented, with a flat iron, and he was always much relieved when he found that, notwithstanding the loss of the porridge, he was still able to lift the iron the proper number of times. but after a while, as he found that it became increasingly difficult to go through the exercise, he gave it up altogether, secretly resolving to wait until 'dad' had more work to do, so that he could have the porridge and milk again. he was sorry to have to discontinue the exercise, but he said nothing about it to his father or mother because he did not want to 'worry' them... sometimes nora managed to get a small job of needlework. on one occasion a woman with a small son brought a parcel of garments belonging to herself or her husband, an old ulster, several coats, and so on--things that although they were too old-fashioned or shabby to wear, yet might look all right if turned and made up for the boy. nora undertook to do this, and after working several hours every day for a week she earned four shillings: and even then the woman thought it was so dear that she did not bring any more. another time mrs easton got her some work at a boarding-house where she herself was employed. the servant was laid up, and they wanted some help for a few days. the pay was to be two shillings a day, and dinner. owen did not want her to go because he feared she was not strong enough to do the work, but he gave way at last and nora went. she had to do the bedrooms, and on the evening of the second day, as a result of the constant running up and down the stairs carrying heavy cans and pails of water, she was in such intense pain that she was scarcely able to walk home, and for several days afterwards had to lie in bed through a recurrence of her old illness, which caused her to suffer untold agony whenever she tried to stand. owen was alternately dejected and maddened by the knowledge of his own helplessness: when he was not doing anything for rushton he went about the town trying to find some other work, but usually with scant success. he did some samples of showcard and window tickets and endeavoured to get some orders by canvassing the shops in the town, but this was also a failure, for these people generally had a ticket-writer to whom they usually gave their work. he did get a few trifling orders, but they were scarcely worth doing at the price he got for them. he used to feel like a criminal when he went into the shops to ask them for the work, because he realized fully that, in effect, he was saying to them: 'take your work away from the other man, and employ me.' he was so conscious of this that it gave him a shamefaced manner, which, coupled as it was with his shabby clothing, did not create a very favourable impression upon those he addressed, who usually treated him with about as much courtesy as they would have extended to any other sort of beggar. generally, after a day's canvassing, he returned home unsuccessful and faint with hunger and fatigue. once, when there was a bitterly cold east wind blowing, he was out on one of these canvassing expeditions and contracted a severe cold: his chest became so bad that he found it almost impossible to speak, because the effort to do so often brought on a violent fit of coughing. it was during this time that a firm of drapers, for whom he had done some showcards, sent him an order for one they wanted in a hurry, it had to be delivered the next morning, so he stayed up by himself till nearly midnight to do it. as he worked, he felt a strange sensation in his chest: it was not exactly a pain, and he would have found it difficult to describe it in words--it was just a sensation. he did not attach much importance to it, thinking it an effect of the cold he had taken, but whatever it was he could not help feeling conscious of it all the time. frankie had been put to bed that evening at the customary hour, but did not seem to be sleeping as well as usual. owen could hear him twisting and turning about and uttering little cries in his sleep. he left his work several times to go into the boy's room and cover him with the bedclothes which his restless movements had disordered. as the time wore on, the child became more tranquil, and about eleven o'clock, when owen went in to look at him, he found him in a deep sleep, lying on his side with his head thrown back on the pillow, breathing so softly through his slightly parted lips that the sound was almost imperceptible. the fair hair that clustered round his forehead was damp with perspiration, and he was so still and pale and silent that one might have thought he was sleeping the sleep that knows no awakening. about an hour later, when he had finished writing the showcard, owen went out into the scullery to wash his hands before going to bed: and whilst he was drying them on the towel, the strange sensation he had been conscious of all the evening became more intense, and a few seconds afterwards he was terrified to find his mouth suddenly filled with blood. for what seemed an eternity he fought for breath against the suffocating torrent, and when at length it stopped, he sank trembling into a chair by the side of the table, holding the towel to his mouth and scarcely daring to breathe, whilst a cold sweat streamed from every pore and gathered in large drops upon his forehead. through the deathlike silence of the night there came from time to time the chimes of the clock of a distant church, but he continued to sit there motionless, taking no heed of the passing hours, and possessed with an awful terror. so this was the beginning of the end! and afterwards the other two would be left by themselves at the mercy of the world. in a few years' time the boy would be like bert white, in the clutches of some psalm-singing devil like hunter or rushton, who would use him as if he were a beast of burden. he imagined he could see him now as he would be then: worked, driven, and bullied, carrying loads, dragging carts, and running here and there, trying his best to satisfy the brutal tyrants, whose only thought would be to get profit out of him for themselves. if he lived, it would be to grow up with his body deformed and dwarfed by unnatural labour and with his mind stultified, degraded and brutalized by ignorance and poverty. as this vision of the child's future rose before him, owen resolved that it should never be! he would not leave them alone and defenceless in the midst of the 'christian' wolves who were waiting to rend them as soon as he was gone. if he could not give them happiness, he could at least put them out of the reach of further suffering. if he could not stay with them, they would have to come with him. it would be kinder and more merciful. chapter facing the 'problem' nearly every other firm in the town was in much the same plight as rushton & co.; none of them had anything to speak of to do, and the workmen no longer troubled to go to the different shops asking for a job. they knew it was of no use. most of them just walked about aimlessly or stood talking in groups in the streets, principally in the neighbourhood of the wage slave market near the fountain on the grand parade. they congregated here in such numbers that one or two residents wrote to the local papers complaining of the 'nuisance', and pointing out that it was calculated to drive the 'better-class' visitors out of the town. after this two or three extra policemen were put on duty near the fountain with instructions to 'move on' any groups of unemployed that formed. they could not stop them from coming there, but they prevented them standing about. the processions of unemployed continued every day, and the money they begged from the public was divided equally amongst those who took part. sometimes it amounted to one and sixpence each, sometimes it was a little more and sometimes a little less. these men presented a terrible spectacle as they slunk through the dreary streets, through the rain or the snow, with the slush soaking into their broken boots, and, worse still, with the bitterly cold east wind penetrating their rotten clothing and freezing their famished bodies. the majority of the skilled workers still held aloof from these processions, although their haggard faces bore involuntary testimony to their sufferings. although privation reigned supreme in their desolate homes, where there was often neither food nor light nor fire, they were too 'proud' to parade their misery before each other or the world. they secretly sold or pawned their clothing and their furniture and lived in semi-starvation on the proceeds, and on credit, but they would not beg. many of them even echoed the sentiments of those who had written to the papers, and with a strange lack of class-sympathy blamed those who took part in the processions. they said it was that sort of thing that drove the 'better class' away, injured the town, and caused all the poverty and unemployment. however, some of them accepted charity in other ways; district visitors distributed tickets for coal and groceries. not that that sort of thing made much difference; there was usually a great deal of fuss and advice, many quotations of scripture, and very little groceries. and even what there was generally went to the least-deserving people, because the only way to obtain any of this sort of 'charity' is by hypocritically pretending to be religious: and the greater the hypocrite, the greater the quantity of coal and groceries. these 'charitable' people went into the wretched homes of the poor and--in effect--said: 'abandon every particle of self-respect: cringe and fawn: come to church: bow down and grovel to us, and in return we'll give you a ticket that you can take to a certain shop and exchange for a shillingsworth of groceries. and, if you're very servile and humble we may give you another one next week.' they never gave the 'case' the money. the ticket system serves three purposes. it prevents the 'case' abusing the 'charity' by spending the money on drink. it advertises the benevolence of the donors: and it enables the grocer--who is usually a member of the church--to get rid of any stale or damaged stock he may have on hand. when these visiting ladies' went into a workman's house and found it clean and decently furnished, and the children clean and tidy, they came to the conclusion that those people were not suitable 'cases' for assistance. perhaps the children had had next to nothing to eat, and would have been in rags if the mother had not worked like a slave washing and mending their clothes. but these were not the sort of cases that the visiting ladies assisted; they only gave to those who were in a state of absolute squalor and destitution, and then only on condition that they whined and grovelled. in addition to this district visitor business, the well-to-do inhabitants and the local authorities attempted--or rather, pretended--to grapple with the poverty 'problem' in many other ways, and the columns of the local papers were filled with letters from all sorts of cranks who suggested various remedies. one individual, whose income was derived from brewery shares, attributed the prevailing distress to the drunken and improvident habits of the lower orders. another suggested that it was a divine protest against the growth of ritualism and what he called 'fleshly religion', and suggested a day of humiliation and prayer. a great number of well-fed persons thought this such an excellent proposition that they proceeded to put it into practice. they prayed, whilst the unemployed and the little children fasted. if one had not been oppressed by the tragedy of want and misery, one might have laughed at the farcical, imbecile measures that were taken to relieve it. several churches held what they called 'rummage' or 'jumble' sales. they sent out circulars something like this: jumble sale in aid of the unemployed. if you have any articles of any description which are of no further use to you, we should be grateful for them, and if you will kindly fill in annexed form and post it to us, we will send and collect them. on the day of the sale the parish room was transformed into a kind of marine stores, filled with all manner of rubbish, with the parson and the visiting ladies grinning in the midst. the things were sold for next to nothing to such as cared to buy them, and the local rag-and-bone man reaped a fine harvest. the proceeds of these sales were distributed in 'charity' and it was usually a case of much cry and little wool. there was a religious organization, called 'the mugsborough skull and crossbones boys', which existed for the purpose of perpetuating the great religious festival of guy fawkes. this association also came to the aid of the unemployed and organized a grand fancy dress carnival and torchlight procession. when this took place, although there was a slight sprinkling of individuals dressed in tawdry costumes as cavaliers of the time of charles i, and a few more as highwaymen or footpads, the majority of the processionists were boys in women's clothes, or wearing sacks with holes cut in them for their heads and arms, and with their faces smeared with soot. there were also a number of men carrying frying-pans in which they burnt red and blue fire. the procession--or rather, mob--was headed by a band, and the band was headed by two men, arm in arm, one very tall, dressed to represent satan, in red tights, with horns on his head, and smoking a large cigar, and the other attired in the no less picturesque costume of a bishop of the established church. this crew paraded the town, howling and dancing, carrying flaring torches, burning the blue and red fire, and some of them singing silly or obscene songs; whilst the collectors ran about with the boxes begging for money from people who were in most cases nearly as poverty-stricken as the unemployed they were asked to assist. the money thus obtained was afterwards handed over to the secretary of the organized benevolence society, mr sawney grinder. then there was the soup kitchen, which was really an inferior eating-house in a mean street. the man who ran this was a relative of the secretary of the obs. he cadged all the ingredients for the soup from different tradespeople: bones and scraps of meat from butchers: pea meal and split peas from provision dealers: vegetables from greengrocers: stale bread from bakers, and so on. well-intentioned, charitable old women with more money than sense sent him donations in cash, and he sold the soup for a penny a basin--or a penny a quart to those who brought jugs. he had a large number of shilling books printed, each containing thirteen penny tickets. the organized benevolence society bought a lot of these books and resold them to benevolent persons, or gave them away to 'deserving cases'. it was this connection with the obs that gave the soup kitchen a semi-official character in the estimation of the public, and furnished the proprietor with the excuse for cadging the materials and money donations. in the case of the soup kitchen, as with the unemployed processions, most of those who benefited were unskilled labourers or derelicts: with but few exceptions the unemployed artisans--although their need was just as great as that of the others--avoided the place as if it were infected with the plague. they were afraid even to pass through the street where it was situated lest anyone seeing them coming from that direction should think they had been there. but all the same, some of them allowed their children to go there by stealth, by night, to buy some of this charity-tainted food. another brilliant scheme, practical and statesmanlike, so different from the wild projects of demented socialists, was started by the rev. mr bosher, a popular preacher, the vicar of the fashionable church of the whited sepulchre. he collected some subscriptions from a number of semi-imbecile old women who attended his church. with some of this money he bought a quantity of timber and opened what he called a labour yard, where he employed a number of men sawing firewood. being a clergyman, and because he said he wanted it for a charitable purpose, of course he obtained the timber very cheaply--for about half what anyone else would have had to pay for it. the wood-sawing was done piecework. a log of wood about the size of a railway sleeper had to be sawn into twelve pieces, and each of these had to be chopped into four. for sawing and chopping one log in this manner the worker was paid ninepence. one log made two bags of firewood, which were sold for a shilling each--a trifle under the usual price. the men who delivered the bags were paid three half-pence for each two bags. as there were such a lot of men wanting to do this work, no one was allowed to do more than three lots in one day--that came to two shillings and threepence--and no one was allowed to do more than two days in one week. the vicar had a number of bills printed and displayed in shop windows calling attention to what he was doing, and informing the public that orders could be sent to the vicarage by post and would receive prompt attention and the fuel could be delivered at any address--messrs rushton & co. having very kindly lent a handcart for the use of the men employed at the labour yard. as a result of the appearance of this bill, and of the laudatory notices in the columns of the ananias, the obscurer, and the chloroform--the papers did not mind giving the business a free advertisement, because it was a charitable concern--many persons withdrew their custom from those who usually supplied them with firewood, and gave their orders to the yard; and they had the satisfaction of getting their fuel cheaper than before and of performing a charitable action at the same time. as a remedy for unemployment this scheme was on a par with the method of the tailor in the fable who thought to lengthen his cloth by cutting a piece off one end and sewing it on to the other; but there was one thing about it that recommended it to the vicar--it was self-supporting. he found that there would be no need to use all the money he had extracted from the semi-imbecile old ladies for timber, so he bought himself a newfoundland dog, an antique set of carved ivory chessmen, and a dozen bottles of whisky with the remainder of the cash. the reverend gentleman hit upon yet another means of helping the poor. he wrote a letter to the weekly chloroform appealing for cast-off boots for poor children. this was considered such a splendid idea that the editors of all the local papers referred to it in leading articles, and several other letters were written by prominent citizens extolling the wisdom and benevolence of the profound bosher. most of the boots that were sent in response to this appeal had been worn until they needed repair--in a very large proportion of instances, until they were beyond repair. the poor people to whom they were given could not afford to have them mended before using them, and the result was that the boots generally began to fall to pieces after a few days' wear. this scheme amounted to very little. it did not increase the number of cast-off boots, and most of the people who 'cast off' their boots generally gave them to someone or other. the only difference it can have made was that possibly a few persons who usually threw their boots away or sold them to second-hand dealers may have been induced to send them to mr bosher instead. but all the same nearly everybody said it was a splendid idea: its originator was applauded as a public benefactor, and the pettifogging busybodies who amused themselves with what they were pleased to term 'charitable work' went into imbecile ecstasies over him. chapter the obs one of the most important agencies for the relief of distress was the organized benevolence society. this association received money from many sources. the proceeds of the fancy-dress carnival; the collections from different churches and chapels which held special services in aid of the unemployed; the weekly collections made by the employees of several local firms and business houses; the proceeds of concerts, bazaars, and entertainments, donations from charitable persons, and the subscriptions of the members. the society also received large quantities of cast-off clothing and boots, and tickets of admission to hospitals, convalescent homes and dispensaries from subscribers to those institutions, or from people like rushton & co., who had collecting-boxes in their workshops and offices. altogether during the last year the society had received from various sources about three hundred pounds in hard cash. this money was devoted to the relief of cases of distress. the largest item in the expenditure of the society was the salary of the general secretary, mr sawney grinder--a most deserving case--who was paid one hundred pounds a year. after the death of the previous secretary there were so many candidates for the vacant post that the election of the new secretary was a rather exciting affair. the excitement was all the more intense because it was restrained. a special meeting of the society was held: the mayor, alderman sweater, presided, and amongst those present were councillors rushton, didlum and grinder, mrs starvem, rev. mr bosher, a number of the rich, semi-imbecile old women who had helped to open the labour yard, and several other 'ladies'. some of these were the district visitors already alluded to, most of them the wives of wealthy citizens and retired tradesmen, richly dressed, ignorant, insolent, overbearing frumps, who--after filling themselves with good things in their own luxurious homes--went flouncing into the poverty-stricken dwellings of their poor 'sisters' and talked to them of 'religion', lectured them about sobriety and thrift, and--sometimes--gave them tickets for soup or orders for shillingsworths of groceries or coal. some of these overfed females--the wives of tradesmen, for instance--belonged to the organized benevolence society, and engaged in this 'work' for the purpose of becoming acquainted with people of superior social position--one of the members was a colonel, and sir graball d'encloseland--the member of parliament for the borough--also belonged to the society and occasionally attended its meetings. others took up district visiting as a hobby; they had nothing to do, and being densely ignorant and of inferior mentality, they had no desire or capacity for any intellectual pursuit. so they took up this work for the pleasure of playing the grand lady and the superior person at a very small expense. other of these visiting ladies were middle-aged, unmarried women with small private incomes--some of them well-meaning, compassionate, gentle creatures who did this work because they sincerely desired to help others, and they knew of no better way. these did not take much part in the business of the meetings; they paid their subscriptions and helped to distribute the cast-off clothing and boots to those who needed them, and occasionally obtained from the secretary an order for provisions or coal or bread for some poverty-stricken family; but the poor, toil-worn women whom they visited welcomed them more for their sisterly sympathy than for the gifts they brought. some of the visiting ladies were of this character--but they were not many. they were as a few fragrant flowers amidst a dense accumulation of noxious weeds. they were examples of humility and kindness shining amidst a vile and loathsome mass of hypocrisy, arrogance, and cant. when the chairman had opened the meeting, mr rushton moved a vote of condolence with the relatives of the late secretary whom he eulogized in the most extraordinary terms. 'the poor of mugsborough had lost a kind and sympathetic friend', 'one who had devoted his life to helping the needy', and so on and so forth. (as a matter of fact, most of the time of the defunct had been passed in helping himself, but rushton said nothing about that.) mr didlum seconded the vote of condolence in similar terms, and it was carried unanimously. then the chairman said that the next business was to elect a successor to the departed paragon; and immediately no fewer than nine members rose to propose a suitable person--they each had a noble-minded friend or relative willing to sacrifice himself for the good of the poor. the nine benevolent stood looking at each other and at the chairman with sickly smiles upon their hypocritical faces. it was a dramatic moment. no one spoke. it was necessary to be careful. it would never do to have a contest. the secretary of the obs was usually regarded as a sort of philanthropist by the outside public, and it was necessary to keep this fiction alive. for one or two minutes an awkward silence reigned. then, one after another they all reluctantly resumed their seats with the exception of mr amos grinder, who said he wished to propose his nephew, mr sawney grinder, a young man of a most benevolent disposition who was desirous of immolating himself upon the altar of charity for the benefit of the poor--or words to that effect. mr didlum seconded, and there being no other nomination--for they all knew that it would give the game away to have a contest--the chairman put mr grinder's proposal to the meeting and declared it carried unanimously. another considerable item in the expenditure of the society was the rent of the offices--a house in a back street. the landlord of this place was another very deserving case. there were numerous other expenses: stationery and stamps, printing, and so on, and what was left of the money was used for the purpose for which it had been given--a reasonable amount being kept in hand for future expenses. all the details were of course duly set forth in the report and balance sheet at the annual meetings. no copy of this document was ever handed to the reporters for publication; it was read to the meeting by the secretary; the representatives of the press took notes, and in the reports of the meeting that subsequently appeared in the local papers the thing was so mixed up and garbled together that the few people who read it could not make head or tail of it. the only thing that was clear was that the society had been doing a great deal of good to someone or other, and that more money was urgently needed to carry on the work. it usually appeared something like this: helping the needy mugsborough organized benevolence society annual meeting at the town hall a splendid record of miscellaneous and valuable work. the annual meeting of the above society was held yesterday at the town hall. the mayor, alderman sweater, presided, and amongst those present were sir graball d'encloseland, lady d'encloseland, lady slumrent. rev. mr bosher, mr cheeseman, mrs bilder, mrs grosare, mrs daree, mrs butcher, mrs taylor, mrs baker, mrs starvem, mrs slodging, mrs m. b. sile, mrs knobrane, mrs m. t. head, mr rushton, mr didlum, mr grinder and (here followed about a quarter of a column of names of other charitable persons, all subscribers to the society). the secretary read the annual report which contained the following amongst other interesting items: during the year, , applications for assistance have been received, and of this number , have been assisted as follows: bread or grocery orders, . coal or coke orders, . nourishment . (applause.) pairs of boots granted, . clothing, . crutch granted to poor man, . nurses provided, . hospital tickets, . sent to consumption sanatorium, . twenty-nine persons, whose cases being chronic, were referred to the poor law guardians. work found for persons. (cheers.) pedlar's licences, . dispensary tickets, . bedding redeemed, . loans granted to people to enable them to pay their rent, . (loud cheers.) dental tickets, . railway fares for men who were going away from the town to employment elsewhere, . (great cheering.) loans granted, . advertisements for employment, -- and so on. there was about another quarter of a column of these details, the reading of which was punctuated with applause and concluded with: 'leaving cases which for various reasons the society was unable to assist'. the report then went on to explain that the work of inquiring into the genuineness of the applications entailed a lot of labour on the part of the secretary, some cases taking several days. no fewer than letters had been sent out from the office, and postcards. (applause.) very few cash gifts were granted, as it was most necessary to guard against the charity being abused. (hear, hear.) then followed a most remarkable paragraph headed 'the balance sheet', which--as it was put--'included the following'. 'the following' was a jumbled list of items of expenditure, subscriptions, donations, legacies, and collections, winding up with 'the general summary showed a balance in hand of £ . . '. (they always kept a good balance in hand because of the secretary's salary and the rent of the offices.) after this very explicit financial statement came the most important part of the report: 'thanks are expressed to sir graball d'encloseland for a donation of guineas. mrs grosare, guinea. mrs starvem, hospital tickets. lady slumrent, letter of admission to convalescent home. mrs knobrane, guinea. mrs m.b. sile, guinea. mrs m.t. head, guinea. mrs sledging, gifts of clothing--and so on for another quarter of a column, the whole concluding with a vote of thanks to the secretary and an urgent appeal to the charitable public for more funds to enable the society to continue its noble work. meantime, in spite of this and kindred organizations the conditions of the under-paid poverty stricken and unemployed workers remained the same. although the people who got the grocery and coal orders, the 'nourishment', and the cast-off clothes and boots, were very glad to have them, yet these things did far more harm than good. they humiliated, degraded and pauperized those who received them, and the existence of the societies prevented the problem being grappled with in a sane and practical manner. the people lacked the necessaries of life: the necessaries of life are produced by work: these people were willing to work, but were prevented from doing so by the idiotic system of society which these 'charitable' people are determined to do their best to perpetuate. if the people who expect to be praised and glorified for being charitable were never to give another farthing it would be far better for the industrious poor, because then the community as a whole would be compelled to deal with the absurd and unnecessary state of affairs that exists today--millions of people living and dying in wretchedness and poverty in an age when science and machinery have made it possible to produce such an abundance of everything that everyone might enjoy plenty and comfort. it if were not for all this so-called charity the starving unemployed men all over the country would demand to be allowed to work and produce the things they are perishing for want of, instead of being--as they are now--content to wear their masters' cast-off clothing and to eat the crumbs that fall from his table. chapter a brilliant epigram all through the winter, the wise, practical, philanthropic, fat persons whom the people of mugsborough had elected to manage their affairs--or whom they permitted to manage them without being elected--continued to grapple, or to pretend to grapple, with the 'problem' of unemployment and poverty. they continued to hold meetings, rummage and jumble sales, entertainments and special services. they continued to distribute the rotten cast-off clothing and boots, and the nourishment tickets. they were all so sorry for the poor, especially for the 'dear little children'. they did all sorts of things to help the children. in fact, there was nothing that they would not do for them except levy a halfpenny rate. it would never do to do that. it might pauperize the parents and destroy parental responsibility. they evidently thought that it would be better to destroy the health or even the lives of the 'dear little children' than to pauperize the parents or undermine parental responsibility. these people seemed to think that the children were the property of their parents. they did not have sense enough to see that the children are not the property of their parents at all, but the property of the community. when they attain to manhood and womanhood they will be, if mentally or physically inefficient, a burden on the community; if they become criminals, they will prey upon the community, and if they are healthy, educated and brought up in good surroundings, they will become useful citizens, able to render valuable service, not merely to their parents, but to the community. therefore the children are the property of the community, and it is the business and to the interest of the community to see that their constitutions are not undermined by starvation. the secretary of the local trades council, a body formed of delegates from all the different trades unions in the town, wrote a letter to the obscurer, setting forth this view. he pointed out that a halfpenny rate in that town would produce a sum of £ , which would be more than sufficient to provide food for all the hungry schoolchildren. in the next issue of the paper several other letters appeared from leading citizens, including, of course, sweater, rushton, didlum and grinder, ridiculing the proposal of the trades council, who were insultingly alluded to as 'pothouse politicians', 'beer-sodden agitators' and so forth. their right to be regarded as representatives of the working men was denied, and grinder, who, having made inquiries amongst working men, was acquainted with the facts, stated that there was scarcely one of the local branches of the trades unions which had more than a dozen members; and as grinder's statement was true, the secretary was unable to contradict it. the majority of the working men were also very indignant when they heard about the secretary's letter: they said the rates were quite high enough as it was, and they sneered at him for presuming to write to the papers at all: 'who the bloody 'ell was 'e?' they said. ''e was not a gentleman! 'e was only a workin' man the same as themselves--a common carpenter! what the 'ell did 'e know about it? nothing. 'e was just trying to make 'isself out to be somebody, that was all. the idea of one of the likes of them writing to the papers!' one day, having nothing better to do, owen was looking at some books that were exposed for sale on a table outside a second-hand furniture shop. one book in particular took his attention: he read several pages with great interest, and regretted that he had not the necessary sixpence to buy it. the title of the book was: consumption: its causes and its cure. the author was a well-known physician who devoted his whole attention to the study of that disease. amongst other things, the book gave rules for the feeding of delicate children, and there were also several different dietaries recommended for adult persons suffering from the disease. one of these dietaries amused him very much, because as far as the majority of those who suffer from consumption are concerned, the good doctor might just as well have prescribed a trip to the moon: 'immediately on waking in the morning, half a pint of milk--this should be hot, if possible--with a small slice of bread and butter. 'at breakfast: half a pint of milk, with coffee, chocolate, or oatmeal: eggs and bacon, bread and butter, or dry toast. 'at eleven o'clock: half a pint of milk with an egg beaten up in it or some beef tea and bread and butter. 'at one o'clock: half a pint of warm milk with a biscuit or sandwich. 'at two o'clock: fish and roast mutton, or a mutton chop, with as much fat as possible: poultry, game, etc., may be taken with vegetables, and milk pudding. 'at five o'clock: hot milk with coffee or chocolate, bread and butter, watercress, etc. 'at eight o'clock: a pint of milk, with oatmeal or chocolate, and gluten bread, or two lightly boiled eggs with bread and butter. 'before retiring to rest: a glass of warm milk. 'during the night: a glass of milk with a biscuit or bread and butter should be placed by the bedside and be eaten if the patient awakes.' whilst owen was reading this book, crass, harlow, philpot and easton were talking together on the other side of the street, and presently crass caught sight of him. they had been discussing the secretary's letter re the halfpenny rate, and as owen was one of the members of the trades council, crass suggested that they should go across and tackle him about it. 'how much is your house assessed at?' asked owen after listening for about a quarter of an hour to crass's objection. 'fourteen pound,' replied crass. 'that means that you would have to pay sevenpence per year if we had a halfpenny rate. wouldn't it be worth sevenpence a year to you to know that there were no starving children in the town?' 'why should i 'ave to 'elp to keep the children of a man who's too lazy to work, or spends all 'is money on drink?' shouted crass. ''ow are yer goin' to make out about the likes o' them?' 'if his children are starving we should feed them first, and punish him afterwards.' 'the rates is quite high enough as it is,' grumbled harlow, who had four children himself. 'that's quite true, but you must remember that the rates the working classes at present pay are spent mostly for the benefit of other people. good roads are maintained for people who ride in motor cars and carriages; the park and the town band for those who have leisure to enjoy them; the police force to protect the property of those who have something to lose, and so on. but if we pay this rate we shall get something for our money.' 'we gets the benefit of the good roads when we 'as to push a 'andcart with a load o' paint and ladders,' said easton. 'of course,' said crass, 'and besides, the workin' class gets the benefit of all the other things too, because it all makes work.' 'well, for my part,' said philpot, 'i wouldn't mind payin' my share towards a 'appeny rate, although i ain't got no kids o' me own.' the hostility of most of the working men to the proposed rate was almost as bitter as that of the 'better' classes--the noble-minded philanthropists who were always gushing out their sympathy for the 'dear little ones', the loathsome hypocrites who pretended that there was no need to levy a rate because they were willing to give sufficient money in the form of charity to meet the case: but the children continued to go hungry all the same. 'loathsome hypocrites' may seem a hard saying, but it was a matter of common knowledge that the majority of the children attending the local elementary schools were insufficiently fed. it was admitted that the money that could be raised by a halfpenny rate would be more than sufficient to provide them all with one good meal every day. the charity-mongers who professed such extravagant sympathy with the 'dear little children' resisted the levying of the rate 'because it would press so heavily on the poorer ratepayers', and said that they were willing to give more in voluntary charity than the rate would amount to: but, the 'dear little children'--as they were so fond of calling them--continued to go to school hungry all the same. to judge them by their profession and their performances, it appeared that these good kind persons were willing to do any mortal thing for the 'dear little children' except allow them to be fed. if these people had really meant to do what they pretended, they would not have cared whether they paid the money to a rate-collector or to the secretary of a charity society and they would have preferred to accomplish their object in the most efficient and economical way. but although they would not allow the children to be fed, they went to church and to chapel, glittering with jewellery, their fat carcases clothed in rich raiment, and sat with smug smiles upon their faces listening to the fat parsons reading out of a book that none of them seemed able to understand, for this was what they read: 'and jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, and said: whosoever shall receive one such little child in my name, receiveth me. but whoso shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea. 'take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for i say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my father.' and this: 'then shall he say unto them: depart from me, ye cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels: for i was an hungered and ye gave me no meat: i was thirsty and ye gave me no drink: i was a stranger and ye took me not in; naked, and ye clothed me not. 'then shall they answer: "lord, when saw we thee an hungered or athirst or a stranger or naked, or sick, and did not minister unto thee?" and he shall answer them, "verily i say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me."' these were the sayings that the infidel parsons mouthed in the infidel temples to the richly dressed infidel congregations, who heard but did not understand, for their hearts were become gross and their ears dull of hearing. and meantime, all around them, in the alley and the slum, and more terrible still--because more secret--in the better sort of streets where lived the respectable class of skilled artisans, the little children became thinner and paler day by day for lack of proper food, and went to bed early because there was no fire. sir graball d'encloseland, the member of parliament for the borough, was one of the bitterest opponents of the halfpenny rate, but as he thought it was probable that there would soon be another general election and he wanted the children's fathers to vote for him again, he was willing to do something for them in another way. he had a ten-year-old daughter whose birthday was in that month, so the kind-hearted baronet made arrangements to give a tea to all the school children in the town in honour of the occasion. the tea was served in the schoolrooms and each child was presented with a gilt-edged card on which was a printed portrait of the little hostess, with 'from your loving little friend, honoria d'encloseland', in gold letters. during the evening the little girl, accompanied by sir graball and lady d'encloseland, motored round to all the schools where the tea was being consumed: the baronet made a few remarks, and honoria made a pretty little speech, specially learnt for the occasion, at each place, and they were loudly cheered and greatly admired in response. the enthusiasm was not confined to the boys and girls, for while the speechmaking was going on inside, a little crowd of grown-up children were gathered round outside the entrance, worshipping the motor car: and when the little party came out the crowd worshipped them also, going into imbecile ecstasies of admiration of their benevolence and their beautiful clothes. for several weeks everybody in the town was in raptures over this tea--or, rather, everybody except a miserable little minority of socialists, who said it was bribery, an electioneering dodge, that did no real good, and who continued to clamour for a halfpenny rate. another specious fraud was the 'distress committee'. this body--or corpse, for there was not much vitality in it--was supposed to exist for the purpose of providing employment for 'deserving cases'. one might be excused for thinking that any man--no matter what his past may have been--who is willing to work for his living is a 'deserving case': but this was evidently not the opinion of the persons who devised the regulations for the working of this committee. every applicant for work was immediately given a long job, and presented with a double sheet of foolscap paper to do it with. now, if the object of the committee had been to furnish the applicant with material for the manufacture of an appropriate headdress for himself, no one could reasonably have found fault with them: but the foolscap was not to be utilized in that way; it was called a 'record paper', three pages of it were covered with insulting, inquisitive, irrelevant questions concerning the private affairs and past life of the 'case' who wished to be permitted to work for his living, and all these had to be answered to the satisfaction of messrs d'encloseland, bosher, sweater, rushton, didlum, grinder and the other members of the committee, before the case stood any chance of getting employment. however, notwithstanding the offensive nature of the questions on the application form, during the five months that this precious committee was in session, no fewer than , broken-spirited and humble 'lion's whelps' filled up the forms and answered the questions as meekly as if they had been sheep. the funds of the committee consisted of £ , obtained from the imperial exchequer, and about £ in charitable donations. this money was used to pay wages for certain work--some of which would have had to be done even if the committee had never existed--and if each of the , applicants had had an equal share of the work, the wages they would have received would have amounted to about twelve shillings each. this was what the 'practical' persons, the 'business-men', called 'dealing with the problem of unemployment'. imagine having to keep your family for five months with twelve shillings! and, if you like, imagine that the government grant had been four times as much as it was, and that the charity had amounted to four times as much as it did, and then fancy having to keep your family for five months with two pounds eight shillings! it is true that some of the members of the committee would have been very glad if they had been able to put the means of earning a living within the reach of every man who was willing to work; but they simply did not know what to do, or how to do it. they were not ignorant of the reality of the evil they were supposed to be 'dealing with'--appalling evidences of it faced them on every side, and as, after all, these committee men were human beings and not devils, they would have been glad to mitigate it if they could have done so without hurting themselves: but the truth was that they did not know what to do! these are the 'practical' men; the monopolists of intelligence, the wise individuals who control the affairs of the world: it is in accordance with the ideas of such men as these that the conditions of human life are regulated. this is the position: it is admitted that never before in the history of mankind was it possible to produce the necessaries of life in such abundance as at present. the management of the affairs of the world--the business of arranging the conditions under which we live--is at present in the hands of practical, level-headed, sensible business-men. the result of their management is, that the majority of the people find it a hard struggle to live. large numbers exist in perpetual poverty: a great many more periodically starve: many actually die of want: hundreds destroy themselves rather than continue to live and suffer. when the practical, level-headed, sensible business-men are asked why they do not remedy this state of things, they reply that they do not know what to do! or, that it is impossible to remedy it! and yet it is admitted that it is now possible to produce the necessaries of life, in greater abundance than ever before! with lavish kindness, the supreme being had provided all things necessary for the existence and happiness of his creatures. to suggest that it is not so is a blasphemous lie: it is to suggest that the supreme being is not good or even just. on every side there is an overflowing superfluity of the materials requisite for the production of all the necessaries of life: from these materials everything we need may be produced in abundance--by work. here was an army of people lacking the things that may be made by work, standing idle. willing to work; clamouring to be allowed to work, and the practical, level-headed, sensible business-men did not know what to do! of course, the real reason for the difficulty is that the raw materials that were created for the use and benefit of all have been stolen by a small number, who refuse to allow them to be used for the purposes for which they were intended. this numerically insignificant minority refused to allow the majority to work and produce the things they need; and what work they do graciously permit to be done is not done with the object of producing the necessaries of life for those who work, but for the purpose of creating profit for their masters. and then, strangest fact of all, the people who find it a hard struggle to live, or who exist in dreadful poverty and sometimes starve, instead of trying to understand the causes of their misery and to find out a remedy themselves, spend all their time applauding the practical, sensible, level-headed business-men, who bungle and mismanage their affairs, and pay them huge salaries for doing so. sir graball d'encloseland, for instance, was a 'secretary of state' and was paid £ , a year. when he first got the job the wages were only a beggarly £ , , but as he found it impossible to exist on less than £ a week he decided to raise his salary to that amount; and the foolish people who find it a hard struggle to live paid it willingly, and when they saw the beautiful motor car and the lovely clothes and jewellery he purchased for his wife with the money, and heard the great speech he made--telling them how the shortage of everything was caused by over-production and foreign competition, they clapped their hands and went frantic with admiration. their only regret was that there were no horses attached to the motor car, because if there had been, they could have taken them out and harnessed themselves to it instead. nothing delighted the childish minds of these poor people so much as listening to or reading extracts from the speeches of such men as these; so in order to amuse them, every now and then, in the midst of all the wretchedness, some of the great statesmen made 'great speeches' full of cunning phrases intended to hoodwink the fools who had elected them. the very same week that sir graball's salary was increased to £ , a year, all the papers were full of a very fine one that he made. they appeared with large headlines like this: great speech by sir graball d'encloseland brilliant epigram! none should have more than they need, whilst any have less than they need! the hypocrisy of such a saying in the mouth of a man who was drawing a salary of five thousand pounds a year did not appear to occur to anyone. on the contrary, the hired scribes of the capitalist press wrote columns of fulsome admiration of the miserable claptrap, and the working men who had elected this man went into raptures over the 'brilliant epigram' as if it were good to eat. they cut it out of the papers and carried it about with them: they showed it to each other: they read it and repeated it to each other: they wondered at it and were delighted with it, grinning and gibbering at each other in the exuberance of their imbecile enthusiasm. the distress committee was not the only body pretending to 'deal' with the poverty 'problem': its efforts were supplemented by all the other agencies already mentioned--the labour yard, the rummage sales, the organized benevolence society, and so on, to say nothing of a most benevolent scheme originated by the management of sweater's emporium, who announced in a letter that was published in the local press that they were prepared to employ fifty men for one week to carry sandwich boards at one shilling--and a loaf of bread--per day. they got the men; some unskilled labourers, a few old, worn out artisans whom misery had deprived of the last vestiges of pride or shame; a number of habitual drunkards and loafers, and a non-descript lot of poor ragged old men--old soldiers and others of whom it would be impossible to say what they had once been. the procession of sandwich men was headed by the semi-drunk and the besotted wretch, and each board was covered with a printed poster: 'great sale of ladies' blouses now proceeding at adam sweater's emporium.' besides this artful scheme of sweater's for getting a good advertisement on the cheap, numerous other plans for providing employment or alleviating the prevailing misery were put forward in the columns of the local papers and at the various meetings that were held. any foolish, idiotic, useless suggestion was certain to receive respectful attention; any crafty plan devised in his own interest or for his own profit by one or other of the crew of sweaters and landlords who controlled the town was sure to be approved of by the other inhabitants of mugsborough, the majority of whom were persons of feeble intellect who not only allowed themselves to be robbed and exploited by a few cunning scoundrels, but venerated and applauded them for doing it. chapter the brigands' cave one evening in the drawing-room at 'the cave' there was a meeting of a number of the 'shining lights' to arrange the details of a rummage sale, that was to be held in aid of the unemployed. it was an informal affair, and while they were waiting for the other luminaries, the early arrivals, messrs rushton, didlum and grinder, mr oyley sweater, the borough surveyor, mr wireman, the electrical engineer who had been engaged as an 'expert' to examine and report on the electric light works, and two or three other gentlemen--all members of the band--took advantage of the opportunity to discuss a number of things they were mutually interested in, which were to be dealt with at the meeting of the town council the next day. first, there was the affair of the untenanted kiosk on the grand parade. this building belonged to the corporation, and 'the cosy corner refreshment coy.' of which mr grinder was the managing director, was thinking of hiring it to open as a high-class refreshment lounge, provided the corporation would make certain alterations and let the place at a reasonable rent. another item which was to be discussed at the council meeting was mr sweater's generous offer to the corporation respecting the new drain connecting 'the cave' with the town main. the report of mr wireman, the electrical expert, was also to be dealt with, and afterwards a resolution in favour of the purchase of the mugsborough electric light and installation co. ltd by the town, was to be proposed. in addition to these matters, several other items, including a proposal by mr didlum for an important reform in the matter of conducting the meetings of the council, formed subjects for animated conversation between the brigands and their host. during this discussion other luminaries arrived, including several ladies and the rev. mr bosher, of the church of the whited sepulchre. the drawing-room of 'the cave' was now elaborately furnished. a large mirror in a richly gilt frame reached from the carved marble mantelpiece to the cornice. a magnificent clock in an alabaster case stood in the centre of the mantelpiece and was flanked by two exquisitely painted and gilded vases of dresden ware. the windows were draped with costly hangings, the floor was covered with a luxurious carpet and expensive rugs. sumptuously upholstered couches and easy chairs added to the comfort of the apartment, which was warmed by the immense fire of coal and oak logs that blazed and crackled in the grate. the conversation now became general and at times highly philosophical in character, although mr bosher did not take much part, being too busily engaged gobbling up the biscuits and tea, and only occasionally spluttering out a reply when a remark or question was directly addressed to him. this was mr grinder's first visit at the house, and he expressed his admiration of the manner in which the ceiling and the walls were decorated, remarking that he had always liked this 'ere japanese style. mr bosher, with his mouth full of biscuit, mumbled that it was sweetly pretty--charming--beautifully done--must have cost a lot of money. 'hardly wot you'd call japanese, though, is it?' observed didlum, looking round with the air of a connoisseur. 'i should be inclined to say it was rather more of the--er--chinese or egyptian.' 'moorish,' explained mr sweater with a smile. 'i got the idear at the paris exhibition. it's simler to the decorations in the "halambara", the palace of the sultan of morocco. that clock there is in the same style.' the case of the clock referred to--which stood on a table in a corner of the room--was of fretwork, in the form of an indian mosque, with a pointed dome and pinnacles. this was the case that mary linden had sold to didlum; the latter had had it stained a dark colour and polished and further improved it by substituting a clock of more suitable design than the one it originally held. mr sweater had noticed it in didlum's window and, seeing that the design was similar in character to the painted decorations on the ceiling and walls of his drawing-room, had purchased it. 'i went to the paris exhibition meself,' said grinder, when everyone had admired the exquisite workmanship of the clock-case. 'i remember 'avin' a look at the moon through that big telescope. i was never so surprised in me life: you can see it quite plain, and it's round!' 'round?' said didlum with a puzzled look. 'round? of course it's round! you didn't used to think it was square, did yer?' 'no, of course not, but i always used to think it was flat--like a plate, but it's round like a football.' 'certainly: the moon is a very simler body to the earth,' explained didlum, describing an aerial circle with a wave of his hand. they moves through the air together, but the earth is always nearest to the sun and consequently once a fortnight the shadder of the earth falls on the moon and darkens it so that it's invisible to the naked eye. the new moon is caused by the moon movin' a little bit out of the earth's shadder, and it keeps on comin' more and more until we gets the full moon; and then it goes back again into the shadder; and so it keeps on.' for about a minute everyone looked very solemn, and the profound silence was disturbed only the the crunching of the biscuits between the jaws of mr bosher, and by certain gurglings in the interior of that gentleman. 'science is a wonderful thing,' said mr sweater at length, wagging his head gravely, 'wonderful!' 'yes: but a lot of it is mere theory, you know,' observed rushton. 'take this idear that the world is round, for instance; i fail to see it! and then they say as hawstralia is on the other side of the globe, underneath our feet. in my opinion it's ridiculous, because if it was true, wot's to prevent the people droppin' orf?' 'yes: well, of course it's very strange,' admitted sweater. 'i've often thought of that myself. if it was true, we ought to be able to walk on the ceiling of this room, for instance; but of course we know that's impossible, and i really don't see that the other is any more reasonable.' 'i've often noticed flies walkin' on the ceilin',' remarked didlum, who felt called upon to defend the globular theory. 'yes; but they're different,' replied rushton. 'flies is provided by nature with a gluey substance which oozes out of their feet for the purpose of enabling them to walk upside down.' 'there's one thing that seems to me to finish that idear once for all,' said grinder, 'and that is--water always finds its own level. you can't get away from that; and if the world was round, as they want us to believe, all the water would run off except just a little at the top. to my mind, that settles the whole argymint.' 'another thing that gets over me,' continued rushton, 'is this: according to science, the earth turns round on its axle at the rate of twenty miles a minit. well, what about when a lark goes up in the sky and stays there about a quarter of an hour? why, if it was true that the earth was turnin' round at that rate all the time, when the bird came down it would find itself 'undreds of miles away from the place where it went up from! but that doesn't 'appen at all; the bird always comes down in the same spot.' 'yes, and the same thing applies to balloons and flyin' machines,' said grinder. 'if it was true that the world is spinnin' round on its axle so quick as that, if a man started out from calais to fly to dover, by the time he got to england he'd find 'imself in north america, or p'r'aps farther off still.' 'and if it was true that the world goes round the sun at the rate they makes out, when a balloon went up, the earth would run away from it! they'd never be able to get back again!' remarked rushton. this was so obvious that nearly everyone said there was probably something in it, and didlum could think of no reply. mr bosher upon being appealed to for his opinion, explained that science was alright in its way, but unreliable: the things scientists said yesterday they contradicted today, and what they said today they would probably repudiate tomorrow. it was necessary to be very cautious before accepting any of their assertions. 'talking about science,' said grinder, as the holy man relapsed into silence and started on another biscuit and a fresh cup of tea. 'talking about science reminds me of a conversation i 'ad with dr weakling the other day. you know, he believes we're all descended from monkeys.' everyone laughed; the thing was so absurd: the idea of placing intellectual beings on a level with animals! 'but just wait till you hear how nicely i flattened 'im out,' continued grinder. 'after we'd been arguin' a long time about wot 'e called everlution or some sich name, and a lot more tommy-rot that i couldn't make no 'ead or tail of--and to tell you the truth i don't believe 'e understood 'arf of it 'imself--i ses to 'im, "well," i ses, "if it's true that we're hall descended from monkeys," i ses, "i think your famly must 'ave left orf where mine begun."' in the midst of the laughter that greeted the conclusion of grinder's story it was seen that mr bosher had become black in the face. he was waving his arms and writhing about like one in a fit, his goggle eyes bursting from their sockets, whilst his huge stomach quivering spasmodically, alternately contracted and expanded as if it were about to explode. in the exuberance of his mirth, the unfortunate disciple had swallowed two biscuits at once. everybody rushed to his assistance, grinder and didlum seized an arm and a shoulder each and forced his head down. rushton punched him in the back and the ladies shrieked with alarm. they gave him a big drink of tea to help to get the biscuits down, and when he at last succeeded in swallowing them he sat in the armchair with his eyes red-rimmed and full of tears, which ran down over his white, flabby face. the arrival of the other members of the committee put an end to the interesting discussion, and they shortly afterwards proceeded with the business for which the meeting had been called--the arrangements for the forthcoming rummage sale. chapter the brigands at work the next day, at the meeting of the town council, mr wireman's report concerning the electric light works was read. the expert's opinion was so favourable--and it was endorsed by the borough engineer, mr oyley sweater--that a resolution was unanimously carried in favour of acquiring the works for the town, and a secret committee was appointed to arrange the preliminaries. alderman sweater then suggested that a suitable honorarium be voted to mr wireman for his services. this was greeted with a murmur of approval from most of the members, and mr didlum rose with the intention of proposing a resolution to that effect when he was interrupted by alderman grinder, who said he couldn't see no sense in giving the man a thing like that. 'why not give him a sum of money?' several members said 'hear, hear,' to this, but some of the others laughed. 'i can't see nothing to laugh at,' cried grinder angrily. 'for my part i wouldn't give you tuppence for all the honorariums in the country. i move that we pay 'im a sum of money.' 'i'll second that,' said another member of the band--one of those who had cried 'hear, hear.' alderman sweater said that there seemed to be a little misunderstanding and explained that an honorarium was a sum of money. 'oh, well, in that case i'll withdraw my resolution,' said grinder. 'i thought you wanted to give 'im a 'luminated address or something like that.' didlum now moved that a letter of thanks and a fee of fifty guineas be voted to mr wireman, and this was also unanimously agreed to. dr weakling said that it seemed rather a lot, but he did not go so far as to vote against it. the next business was the proposal that the corporation should take over the drain connecting mr sweater's house with the town main. mr sweater--being a public-spirited man--proposed to hand this connecting drain--which ran through a private road--over to the corporation to be theirs and their successors for ever, on condition that they would pay him the cost of construction--£ --and agreed to keep it in proper repair. after a brief discussion it was decided to take over the drain on the terms offered, and then councillor didlum proposed a vote of thanks to alderman sweater for his generosity in the matter: this was promptly seconded by councillor rushton and would have been carried nem. con., but for the disgraceful conduct of dr weakling, who had the bad taste to suggest that the amount was about double what the drain could possibly have cost to construct, that it was of no use to the corporation at all, and that they would merely acquire the liability to keep it in repair. however, no one took the trouble to reply to weakling, and the band proceeded to the consideration of the next business, which was mr grinder's offer--on behalf of the 'cosy corner refreshment company'--to take the kiosk on the grand parade. mr grinder submitted a plan of certain alterations that he would require the corporation to make at the kiosk, and, provided the council agreed to do this work he was willing to take a lease of the place for five years at £ per year. councillor didlum proposed that the offer of the 'cosy corner refreshment co. ltd' be accepted and the required alterations proceeded with at once. the kiosk had brought in no rent for nearly two years, but, apart from that consideration, if they accepted this offer they would be able to set some of the unemployed to work. (applause.) councillor rushton seconded. dr weakling pointed out that as the proposed alterations would cost about £ --according to the estimate of the borough engineer--and, the rent being only £ a year, it would mean that the council would be £ out of pocket at the end of the five years; to say nothing of the expense of keeping the place in repair during all that time. (disturbance.) he moved as an amendment that the alterations be made, and that they then invite tenders, and let the place to the highest bidder. (great uproar.) councillor rushton said he was disgusted with the attitude taken up by that man weakling. (applause.) perhaps it was hardly right to call him a man. (hear! hear!) in the matter of these alterations they had had the use of councillor grinder's brains: it was he who first thought of making these improvements in the kiosk, and therefore he--or rather the company he represented--had a moral right to the tenancy. (loud cheers.) dr weakling said that he thought it was understood that when a man was elected to that council it was because he was supposed to be willing to use his brains for the benefit of his constituents. (sardonic laughter.) the mayor asked if there was any seconder to weakling's amendment, and as there was not the original proposition was put and carried. councillor rushton suggested that a large shelter with seating accommodation for about two hundred persons should be erected on the grand parade near the kiosk. the shelter would serve as a protection against rain, or the rays of the sun in summer. it would add materially to the comfort of visitors and would be a notable addition to the attractions of the town. councillor didlum said it was a very good idear, and proposed that the surveyor be instructed to get out the plans. dr weakling opposed the motion. (laughter.) it seemed to him that the object was to benefit, not the town, but mr grinder. (disturbance.) if this shelter were erected, it would increase the value of the kiosk as a refreshment bar by a hundred per cent. if mr grinder wanted a shelter for his customers he should pay for it himself. (uproar.) he (dr weakling) was sorry to have to say it, but he could not help thinking that this was a put-up job. (loud cries of 'withdraw' 'apologize' 'cast 'im out' and terrific uproar.) weakling did not apologize or withdraw, but he said no more. didlum's proposition was carried, and the 'band' went on to the next item on the agenda, which was a proposal by councillor didlum to increase the salary of mr oyley sweater, the borough engineer, from fifteen pounds to seventeen pounds per week. councillor didlum said that when they had a good man they ought to appreciate him. (applause.) compared with other officials, the borough engineer was not fairly paid. (hear, hear.) the magistrates' clerk received seventeen pounds a week. the town clerk seventeen pounds per week. he did not wish it to be understood that he thought those gentlemen were overpaid--far from it. (hear, hear.) it was not that they got too much but that the engineer got too little. how could they expect a man like that to exist on a paltry fifteen pounds a week? why, it was nothing more or less than sweating! (hear, hear.) he had much pleasure in moving that the borough engineer's salary be increased to seventeen pounds a week, and that his annual holiday be extended from a fortnight to one calendar month with hard la--he begged pardon--with full pay. (loud cheers.) councillor rushton said that he did not propose to make a long speech--it was not necessary. he would content himself with formally seconding councillor didlum's excellent proposition. (applause.) councillor weakling, whose rising was greeted with derisive laughter, said he must oppose the resolution. he wished it to be understood that he was not actuated by any feeling of personal animosity towards the borough engineer, but at the same time he considered it his duty to say that in his (dr weakling's) opinion, that official would be dear at half the price they were now paying him. (disturbance.) he did not appear to understand his business, nearly all the work that was done cost in the end about double what the borough engineer estimated it could be done for. (liar.) he considered him to be a grossly incompetent person (uproar) and was of opinion that if they were to advertise they could get dozens of better men who would be glad to do the work for five pounds a week. he moved that mr oyley sweater be asked to resign and that they advertise for a man at five pounds a week. (great uproar.) councillor grinder rose to a point of order. he appealed to the chairman to squash the amendment. (applause.) councillor didlum remarked that he supposed councillor grinder meant 'quash': in that case, he would support the suggestion. councillor grinder said it was about time they put a stopper on that feller weakling. he (grinder) did not care whether they called it squashing or quashing; it was all the same so long as they nipped him in the bud. (cheers.) the man was a disgrace to the council; always interfering and hindering the business. the mayor--alderman sweater--said that he did not think it consistent with the dignity of that council to waste any more time over this scurrilous amendment. (applause.) he was proud to say that it had never even been seconded, and therefore he would put mr didlum's resolution--a proposition which he had no hesitation in saying reflected the highest credit upon that gentleman and upon all those who supported it. (vociferous cheers.) all those who were in favour signified their approval in the customary manner, and as weakling was the only one opposed, the resolution was carried and the meeting proceeded to the next business. councillor rushton said that several influential ratepayers and employers of labour had complained to him about the high wages of the corporation workmen, some of whom were paid sevenpence-halfpenny an hour. sevenpence an hour was the maximum wage paid to skilled workmen by private employers in that town, and he failed to see why the corporation should pay more. (hear, hear.) it had a very bad effect on the minds of the men in the employment of private firms, tending to make them dissatisfied with their wages. the same state of affairs prevailed with regard to the unskilled labourers in the council's employment. private employers could get that class of labour for fourpence-halfpenny or fivepence an hour, and yet the corporation paid fivepence-halfpenny and even sixpence for the same class of work. (shame.) it was not fair to the ratepayers. (hear, hear.) considering that the men in the employment of the corporation had almost constant work, if there was to be a difference at all, they should get not more, but less, than those who worked for private firms. (cheers.) he moved that the wages of the corporation workmen be reduced in all cases to the same level as those paid by private firms. councillor grinder seconded. he said it amounted to a positive scandal. why, in the summer-time some of these men drew as much as /- in a single week! (shame.) and it was quite common for unskilled labourers--fellers who did nothing but the very hardest and most laborious work, sich as carrying sacks of cement, or digging up the roads to get at the drains, and sich-like easy jobs--to walk off with /- a week! (sensation.) he had often noticed some of these men swaggering about the town on sundays, dressed like millionaires and cigared up! they seemed quite a different class of men from those who worked for private firms, and to look at the way some of their children was dressed you'd think their fathers was cabinet minstrels! no wonder the ratepayers complained ot the high rates. another grievance was that all the corporation workmen were allowed two days' holiday every year, in addition to the bank holidays, and were paid for them! (cries of 'shame', 'scandalous', 'disgraceful', etc.) no private contractor paid his men for bank holidays, and why should the corporation do so? he had much pleasure in seconding councillor rushton's resolution. councillor weakling opposed the motion. he thought that /- a week was little enough for a man to keep a wife and family with (rot), even if all the men got it regularly, which they did not. members should consider what was the average amount per week throughout the whole year, not merely the busy time, and if they did that they would find that even the skilled men did not average more than /- a week, and in many cases not so much. if this subject had not been introduced by councillor rushton, he (dr weakling) had intended to propose that the wages of the corporation workmen should be increased to the standard recognized by the trades unions. (loud laughter.) it had been proved that the notoriously short lives of the working people--whose average span of life was about twenty years less than that of the well-to-do classes--their increasingly inferior physique, and the high rate of mortality amongst their children was caused by the wretched remuneration they received for hard and tiring work, the excessive number of hours they have to work, when employed, the bad quality of their food, the badly constructed and insanitary homes their poverty compels them to occupy, and the anxiety, worry, and depression of mind they have to suffer when out of employment. (cries of 'rot', 'bosh', and loud laughter.) councillor didlum said, 'rot'. it was a very good word to describe the disease that was sapping the foundations of society and destroying the health and happiness and the very lives of so many of their fellow countrymen and women. (renewed merriment and shouts of 'go and buy a red tie.') he appealed to the members to reject the resolution. he was very glad to say that he believed it was true that the workmen in the employ of the corporation were a little better off than those in the employ of private contractors, and if it were so, it was as it should be. they had need to be better off than the poverty-stricken, half-starved poor wretches who worked for private firms. councillor didlum said that it was very evident that dr weakling had obtained his seat on that council by false pretences. if he had told the ratepayers that he was a socialist, they would never have elected him. (hear, hear.) practically every christian minister in the country would agree with him (didlum) when he said that the poverty of the working classes was caused not by the 'wretched remuneration they receive as wages', but by drink. (loud applause.) and he was very sure that the testimony of the clergy of all denominations was more to be relied upon than the opinion of a man like dr weakling. (hear, hear.) dr weakling said that if some of the clergymen referred to or some of the members of the council had to exist and toil amid the same sordid surroundings, overcrowding and ignorance as some of the working classes, they would probably seek to secure some share of pleasure and forgetfulness in drink themselves! (great uproar and shouts of 'order', 'withdraw', 'apologize'.) councillor grinder said that even if it was true that the haverage lives of the working classes was twenty years shorter than those of the better classes, he could not see what it had got to do with dr weakling. (hear, hear.) so long as the working class was contented to die twenty years before their time, he failed to see what it had got to do with other people. they was not runnin' short of workers, was they? there was still plenty of 'em left. (laughter.) so long as the workin' class was satisfied to die orf--let 'em die orf! it was a free country. (applause.) the workin' class adn't arst dr weakling to stick up for them, had they? if they wasn't satisfied, they would stick up for theirselves! the working men didn't want the likes of dr weakling to stick up for them, and they would let 'im know it when the next election came round. if he (grinder) was a wordly man, he would not mind betting that the workin' men of dr weakling's ward would give him 'the dirty kick out' next november. (applause.) councillor weakling, who knew that this was probably true, made no further protest. rushton's proposition was carried, and then the clerk announced that the next item was the resolution mr didlum had given notice of at the last meeting, and the mayor accordingly called upon that gentleman. councillor didlum, who was received with loud cheers, said that unfortunately a certain member of that council seemed to think he had a right to oppose nearly everything that was brought forward. (the majority of the members of the band glared malignantly at weakling.) he hoped that for once the individual he referred to would have the decency to restrain himself, because the resolution he (didlum) was about to have the honour of proposing was one that he believed no right-minded man--no matter what his politics or religious opinions--could possibly object to; and he trusted that for the credit of the council it would be entered on the records as an unopposed motion. the resolution was as follows: 'that from this date all the meetings of this council shall be opened with prayer and closed with the singing of the doxology.' (loud applause.) councillor rushton seconded the resolution, which was also supported by mr grinder, who said that at a time like the present, when there was sich a lot of infiddles about who said that we all came from monkeys, the council would be showing a good example to the working classes by adopting the resolution. councillor weakling said nothing, so the new rule was carried nem. con., and as there was no more business to be done it was put into operation for the first time there and then. mr sweater conducting the singing with a roll of paper--the plan of the drain of 'the cave'--and each member singing a different tune. weakling withdrew during the singing, and afterwards, before the band dispersed, it was agreed that a certain number of them were to meet the chief at the cave, on the following evening to arrange the details of the proposed raid on the finances of the town in connection with the sale of the electric light works. chapter vive la system! the alterations which the corporation had undertaken to make in the kiosk on the grand parade provided employment for several carpenters and plasterers for about three weeks, and afterwards for several painters. this fact was sufficient to secure the working men's unqualified approval of the action of the council in letting the place to grinder, and councillor weakling's opposition--the reasons of which they did not take the trouble to inquire into or understand--they as heartily condemned. all they knew or cared was that he had tried to prevent the work being done, and that he had referred in insulting terms to the working men of the town. what right had he to call them half-starved, poverty-stricken, poor wretches? if it came to being poverty-stricken, according to all accounts, he wasn't any too well orf hisself. some of those blokes who went swaggering about in frock-coats and pot-'ats was just as 'ard up as anyone else if the truth was known. as for the corporation workmen, it was quite right that their wages should be reduced. why should they get more money than anyone else? 'it's us what's got to find the money,' they said. 'we're the ratepayers, and why should we have to pay them more wages than we get ourselves? and why should they be paid for holidays any more than us?' during the next few weeks the dearth of employment continued, for, of course, the work at the kiosk and the few others jobs that were being done did not make much difference to the general situation. groups of workmen stood at the corners or walked aimlessly about the streets. most of them no longer troubled to go to the different firms to ask for work, they were usually told that they would be sent for if wanted. during this time owen did his best to convert the other men to his views. he had accumulated a little library of socialist books and pamphlets which he lent to those he hoped to influence. some of them took these books and promised, with the air of men who were conferring a great favour, that they would read them. as a rule, when they returned them it was with vague expressions of approval, but they usually evinced a disinclination to discuss the contents in detail because, in nine instances out of ten, they had not attempted to read them. as for those who did make a half-hearted effort to do so, in the majority of cases their minds were so rusty and stultified by long years of disuse, that, although the pamphlets were generally written in such simple language that a child might have understood, the argument was generally too obscure to be grasped by men whose minds were addled by the stories told them by their liberal and tory masters. some, when owen offered to lend them some books or pamphlets refused to accept them, and others who did him the great favour of accepting them, afterwards boasted that they had used them as toilet paper. owen frequently entered into long arguments with the other men, saying that it was the duty of the state to provide productive work for all those who were willing to do it. some few of them listened like men who only vaguely understood, but were willing to be convinced. 'yes, mate. it's right enough what you say,' they would remark. 'something ought to be done.' others ridiculed this doctrine of state employment: it was all very fine, but where was the money to come from? and then those who had been disposed to agree with owen could relapse into their old apathy. there were others who did not listen so quietly, but shouted with many curses that it was the likes of such fellows as owen who were responsible for all the depression in trade. all this talk about socialism and state employment was frightening capital out of the country. those who had money were afraid to invest it in industries, or to have any work done for fear they would be robbed. when owen quoted statistics to prove that as far as commerce and the quantity produced of commodities of all kinds was concerned, the last year had been a record one, they became more infuriated than ever, and talked threateningly of what they would like to do to those bloody socialists who were upsetting everything. one day crass, who was one of these upholders of the existing system, scored off owen finely. a little group of them were standing talking in the wage slave market near the fountain. in the course of the argument, owen made the remark that under existing conditions life was not worth living, and crass said that if he really thought so, there was no compulsion about it; if he wasn't satisfied--if he didn't want to live--he could go and die. why the hell didn't he go and make a hole in the water, or cut his bloody throat? on this particular occasion the subject of the argument was--at first--the recent increase of the borough engineer's salary to seventeen pounds per week. owen had said it was robbery, but the majority of the others expressed their approval of the increase. they asked owen if he expected a man like that to work for nothing! it was not as if he were one of the likes of themselves. they said that, as for it being robbery, owen would be very glad to have the chance of getting it himself. most of them seemed to think the fact that anyone would be glad to have seventeen pounds a week, proved that it was right for them to pay that amount to the borough engineer! usually whenever owen reflected upon the gross injustices, and inhumanity of the existing social disorder, he became convinced that it could not possibly last; it was bound to fall to pieces because of its own rottenness. it was not just, it was not common sense, and therefore it could not endure. but always after one of these arguments--or, rather, disputes--with his fellow workmen, he almost relapsed into hopelessness and despondency, for then he realized how vast and how strong are the fortifications that surround the present system; the great barriers and ramparts of invincible ignorance, apathy and self-contempt, which will have to be broken down before the system of society of which they are the defences, can be swept away. at other times as he thought of this marvellous system, it presented itself to him in such an aspect of almost comical absurdity that he was forced to laugh and to wonder whether it really existed at all, or if it were only an illusion of his own disordered mind. one of the things that the human race needed in order to exist was shelter; so with much painful labour they had constructed a large number of houses. thousands of these houses were now standing unoccupied, while millions of the people who had helped to build the houses were either homeless or herding together in overcrowded hovels. these human beings had such a strange system of arranging their affairs that if anyone were to go and burn down a lot of the houses he would be conferring a great boon upon those who had built them, because such an act would 'make a lot more work!' another very comical thing was that thousands of people wore broken boots and ragged clothes, while millions of pairs of boots and abundance of clothing, which they had helped to make, were locked up in warehouses, and the system had the keys. thousands of people lacked the necessaries of life. the necessaries of life are all produced by work. the people who lacked begged to be allowed to work and create those things of which they stood in need. but the system prevented them from so doing. if anyone asked the system why it prevented these people from producing the things of which they were in want, the system replied: 'because they have already produced too much. the markets are glutted. the warehouses are filled and overflowing, and there is nothing more for them to do.' there was in existence a huge accumulation of everything necessary. a great number of the people whose labour had produced that vast store were now living in want, but the system said that they could not be permitted to partake of the things they had created. then, after a time, when these people, being reduced to the last extreme of misery, cried out that they and their children were dying of hunger, the system grudgingly unlocked the doors of the great warehouses, and taking out a small part of the things that were stored within, distributed it amongst the famished workers, at the same time reminding them that it was charity, because all the things in the warehouses, although they had been made by the workers, were now the property of the people who do nothing. and then the starving, bootless, ragged, stupid wretches fell down and worshipped the system, and offered up their children as living sacrifices upon its altars, saying: 'this beautiful system is the only one possible, and the best that human wisdom can devise. may the system live for ever! cursed be those who seek to destroy the system!' as the absurdity of the thing forced itself upon him, owen, in spite of the unhappiness he felt at the sight of all the misery by which he was surrounded, laughed aloud and said to himself that if he was sane, then all these people must be mad. in the face of such colossal imbecility it was absurd to hope for any immediate improvement. the little already accomplished was the work of a few self-sacrificing enthusiasts, battling against the opposition of those they sought to benefit, and the results of their labours were, in many instances, as pearls cast before the swine who stood watching for opportunities to fall upon and rend their benefactors. there was only one hope. it was possible that the monopolists, encouraged by the extraordinary stupidity and apathy of the people would proceed to lay upon them even greater burdens, until at last, goaded by suffering, and not having sufficient intelligence to understand any other remedy, these miserable wretches would turn upon their oppressors and drown both them and their system in a sea of blood. besides the work at the kiosk, towards the end of march things gradually began to improve in other directions. several firms began to take on a few hands. several large empty houses that were relet had to be renovated for their new tenants, and there was a fair amount of inside work arising out of the annual spring-cleaning in other houses. there was not enough work to keep everyone employed, and most of those who were taken on as a rule only managed to make a few hours a week, but still it was better than absolute idleness, and there also began to be talk of several large outside jobs that were to be done as soon as the weather was settled. this bad weather, by the way, was a sort of boon to the defenders of the present system, who were hard-up for sensible arguments to explain the cause of poverty. one of the principal causes was, of course, the weather, which was keeping everything back. there was not the slightest doubt that if only the weather would allow there would always be plenty of work, and poverty would be abolished. rushton & co. had a fair share of what work there was, and crass, sawkins, slyme and owen were kept employed pretty regularly, although they did not start until half past eight and left off at four. at different houses in various parts of the town they had ceilings to wash off and distemper, to strip the old paper from the walls, and to repaint and paper the rooms, and sometimes there were the venetian blinds to repair and repaint. occasionally a few extra hands were taken on for a few days, and discharged again as soon as the job they were taken on to do was finished. the defenders of the existing system may possibly believe that the knowledge that they would be discharged directly the job was done was a very good incentive to industry, that they would naturally under these circumstances do their best to get the work done as quickly as possible. but then it must be remembered that most of the defenders of the existing system are so constituted, that they can believe anything provided it is not true and sufficiently silly. all the same, it was a fact that the workmen did do their very best to get over this work in the shortest possible time, because although they knew that to do so was contrary to their own interests, they also knew that it would be very much more contrary to their interests not to do so. their only chance of being kept on if other work came in was to tear into it for all they were worth. consequently, most of the work was rushed and botched and slobbered over in about half the time that it would have taken to do it properly. rooms for which the customers paid to have three coats of paint were scamped with one or two. what misery did not know about scamping and faking the work, the men suggested to and showed him in the hope of currying favour with him in order that they might get the preference over others and be sent for when the next job came in. this is the principal incentive provided by the present system, the incentive to cheat. these fellows cheated the customers of their money. they cheated themselves and their fellow workmen of work, and their children of bread, but it was all for a good cause--to make profit for their master. harlow and slyme did one job--a room that rushton & co. had contracted to paint three coats. it was finished with two and the men cleared away their paints. the next day, when slyme went there to paper the room, the lady of the house said that the painting was not yet finished--it was to have another coat. slyme assured her that it had already had three, but, as the lady insisted, slyme went to the shop and sought out misery. harlow had been stood off, as there was not another job in just then, but fortunately he happened to be standing in the street outside the shop, so they called him and then the three of them went round to the job and swore that the room had had three coats. the lady protested that it was not so. she had watched the progress of the work. besides, it was impossible; they had only been there three days. the first day they had not put any paint on at all; they had done the ceiling and stripped the walls; the painting was not started till the second day. how then could it have had three coats? misery explained the mystery: he said that for first coating they had an extra special very fast-drying paint--paint that dried so quickly that they were able to give the work two coats in one day. for instance, one man did the window, the other the door: when these were finished both men did the skirting; by the time the skirting was finished the door and window were dry enough to second coat; and then, on the following day--the finishing coat! of course, this extra special quick-drying paint was very expensive, but the firm did not mind that. they knew that most of their customers wished to have their work finished as quickly as possible, and their study was to give satisfaction to the customers. this explanation satisfied the lady--a poverty-stricken widow making a precarious living by taking in lodgers--who was the more easily deceived because she regarded misery as a very holy man, having seen him preaching in the street on many occasions. there was another job at another boarding-house that owen and easton did--two rooms which had to be painted three coats of white paint and one of enamel, making four coats altogether. that was what the firm had contracted to do. as the old paint in these rooms was of a rather dark shade it was absolutely necessary to give the work three coats before enamelling it. misery wanted them to let it go with two, but owen pointed out that if they did so it would be such a ghastly mess that it would never pass. after thinking the matter over for a few minutes, misery told them to go on with the third coat of paint. then he went downstairs and asked to see the lady of the house. he explained to her that, in consequence of the old paint being so dark, he found that it would be necessary, in order to make a good job of it, to give the work four coats before enamelling it. of course, they had agreed for only three, but as they always made a point of doing their work in a first-class manner rather than not make a good job, they would give it the extra coat for nothing, but he was sure she would not wish them to do that. the lady said that she did not want them to work for nothing, and she wanted it done properly. if it were necessary to give it an extra coat, they must do so and she would pay for it. how much would it be? misery told her. the lady was satisfied, and misery was in the seventh heaven. then he went upstairs again and warned owen and easton to be sure to say, if they were asked, that the work had had four coats. it would not be reasonable to blame misery or rushton for not wishing to do good, honest work--there was no incentive. when they secured a contract, if they had thought first of making the very best possible job of it, they would not have made so much profit. the incentive was not to do the work as well as possible, but to do as little as possible. the incentive was not to make good work, but to make good profit. the same rule applied to the workers. they could not justly be blamed for not doing good work--there was no incentive. to do good work requires time and pains. most of them would have liked to take time and pains, because all those who are capable of doing good work find pleasure and happiness in doing it, and have pride in it when done: but there was no incentive, unless the certainty of getting the sack could be called an incentive, for it was a moral certainty that any man who was caught taking time and pains with his work would be promptly presented with the order of the boot. but there was plenty of incentive to hurry and scamp and slobber and botch. there was another job at a lodging-house--two rooms to be painted and papered. the landlord paid for the work, but the tenant had the privilege of choosing the paper. she could have any pattern she liked so long as the cost did not exceed one shilling per roll, rushton's estimate being for paper of that price. misery sent her several patterns of sixpenny papers, marked at a shilling, to choose from, but she did not fancy any of them, and said that she would come to the shop to make her selection. so hunter tore round to the shop in a great hurry to get there before her. in his haste to dismount, he fell off his bicycle into the muddy road, and nearly smashed the plate-glass window with the handle-bar of the machine as he placed it against the shop front before going in. without waiting to clean the mud off his clothes, he ordered budd, the pimply-faced shopman, to get out rolls of all the sixpenny papers they had, and then they both set to work and altered the price marked upon them from sixpence to a shilling. then they got out a number of shilling papers and altered the price marked upon them, changing it from a shilling to one and six. when the unfortunate woman arrived, misery was waiting for her with a benign smile upon his long visage. he showed her all the sixpenny ones, but she did not like any of them, so after a while nimrod suggested that perhaps she would like a paper of a little better quality, and she could pay the trifling difference out of her own pocket. then he showed her the shilling papers that he had marked up to one and sixpence, and eventually the lady selected one of these and paid the extra sixpence per roll herself, as nimrod suggested. there were fifteen rolls of paper altogether--seven for one room and eight for the other--so that in addition to the ordinary profit on the sale of the paper--about two hundred and seventy-five per cent.--the firm made seven and sixpence on this transaction. they might have done better out of the job itself if slyme had not been hanging the paper piece-work, for, the two rooms being of the same pattern, he could easily have managed to do them with fourteen rolls; in fact, that was all he did use, but he cut up and partly destroyed the one that was over so that he could charge for hanging it. owen was working there at the same time, for the painting of the rooms was not done before slyme papered them; the finishing coat was put on after the paper was hung. he noticed slyme destroying the paper and, guessing the reason, asked him how he could reconcile such conduct as that with his profession of religion. slyme replied that the fact that he was a christian did not imply that he never did anything wrong: if he committed a sin, he was a christian all the same, and it would be forgiven him for the sake of the blood. as for this affair of the paper, it was a matter between himself and god, and owen had no right to set himself up as a judge. in addition to all this work, there were a number of funerals. crass and slyme did very well out of it all, working all day white-washing or painting, and sometimes part of the night painting venetian blinds or polishing coffins and taking them home, to say nothing of the lifting in of the corpses and afterwards acting as bearers. as time went on, the number of small jobs increased, and as the days grew longer the men were allowed to put in a greater number of hours. most of the firms had some work, but there was never enough to keep all the men in the town employed at the same time. it worked like this: every firm had a certain number of men who were regarded as the regular hands. when there was any work to do, they got the preference over strangers or outsiders. when things were busy, outsiders were taken on temporarily. when the work fell off, these casual hands were the first to be 'stood still'. if it continued to fall off, the old hands were also stood still in order of seniority, the older hands being preferred to strangers--so long, of course, as they were not old in the sense of being aged or inefficient. this kind of thing usually continued all through the spring and summer. in good years the men of all trades, carpenters, bricklayers, plasterers, painters and so on, were able to keep almost regularly at work, except in wet weather. the difference between a good and bad spring and summer is that in good years it is sometimes possible to make a little overtime, and the periods of unemployment are shorter and less frequent than in bad years. it is rare even in good years for one of the casual hands to be employed by one firm for more than one, two or three months without a break. it is usual for them to put in a month with one firm, then a fortnight with another, then perhaps six weeks somewhere else, and often between there are two or three days or even weeks of enforced idleness. this sort of thing goes on all through spring, summer and autumn. chapter the easter offering. the beano meeting by the beginning of april, rushton & co. were again working nine hours a day, from seven in the morning till five-thirty at night, and after easter they started working full time from a.m. till . p.m., eleven and a half hours--or, rather, ten hours, for they had to lose half an hour at breakfast and an hour at dinner. just before easter several of the men asked hunter if they might be allowed to work on good friday and easter monday, as, they said, they had had enough holidays during the winter; they had no money to spare for holiday-making, and they did not wish to lose two days' pay when there was work to be done. hunter told them that there was not sufficient work in to justify him in doing as they requested: things were getting very slack again, and mr rushton had decided to cease work from thursday night till tuesday morning. they were thus prevented from working on good friday, but it is true that not more than one working man in fifty went to any religious service on that day or on any other day during the easter festival. on the contrary, this festival was the occasion of much cursing and blaspheming on the part of those whose penniless, poverty-stricken condition it helped to aggravate by enforcing unprofitable idleness which they lacked the means to enjoy. during these holidays some of the men did little jobs on their own account and others put in the whole time--including good friday and easter sunday--gardening, digging and planting their plots of allotment ground. when owen arrived home one evening during the week before easter, frankie gave him an envelope which he had brought home from school. it contained a printed leaflet: church of the whited sepulchre, mugsborough easter -- dear sir (or madam), in accordance with the usual custom we invite you to join with us in presenting the vicar, the rev. habbakuk bosher, with an easter offering, as a token of affection and regard. yours faithfully, a. cheeseman } w. taylor } churchwardens mr bosher's income from various sources connected with the church was over six hundred pounds a year, or about twelve pounds per week, but as that sum was evidently insufficient, his admirers had adopted this device for supplementing it. frankie said all the boys had one of these letters and were going to ask their fathers for some money to give towards the easter offering. most of them expected to get twopence. as the boy had evidently set his heart on doing the same as the other children, owen gave him the twopence, and they afterwards learned that the easter offering for that year was one hundred and twenty-seven pounds, which was made up of the amounts collected from the parishioners by the children, the district visitors and the verger, the collection at a special service, and donations from the feeble-minded old females elsewhere referred to. by the end of april nearly all the old hands were back at work, and several casual hands had also been taken on, the semi-drunk being one of the number. in addition to these, misery had taken on a number of what he called 'lightweights', men who were not really skilled workmen, but had picked up sufficient knowledge of the simpler parts of the trade to be able to get over it passably. these were paid fivepence or fivepence-halfpenny, and were employed in preference to those who had served their time, because the latter wanted more money and therefore were only employed when absolutely necessary. besides the lightweights there were a few young fellows called improvers, who were also employed because they were cheap. crass now acted as colourman, having been appointed possibly because he knew absolutely nothing about the laws of colour. as most of the work consisted of small jobs, all the paint and distemper was mixed up at the shop and sent out ready for use to the various jobs. sawkins or some of the other lightweights generally carried the heavier lots of colour or scaffolding, but the smaller lots of colour or such things as a pair of steps or a painter's plank were usually sent by the boy, whose slender legs had become quite bowed since he had been engaged helping the other philanthropists to make money for mr rushton. crass's work as colourman was simplified, to a certain extent, by the great number of specially prepared paints and distempers in all colours, supplied by the manufacturers ready for use. most of these new-fangled concoctions were regarded with an eye of suspicion and dislike by the hands, and philpot voiced the general opinion about them one day during a dinner-hour discussion when he said they might appear to be all right for a time, but they would probably not last, because they was mostly made of kimicles. one of these new-fashioned paints was called 'petrifying liquid', and was used for first-coating decaying stone or plaster work. it was also supposed to be used for thinning up a certain kind of patent distemper, but when misery found out that it was possible to thin the latter with water, the use of 'petrifying liquid' for that purpose was discontinued. this 'petrifying liquid' was a source of much merriment to the hands. the name was applied to the tea that they made in buckets on some of the jobs, and also to the four-ale that was supplied by certain pubs. one of the new inventions was regarded with a certain amount of indignation by the hands: it was a white enamel, and they objected to it for two reasons--one was because, as philpot remarked, it dried so quickly that you had to work like greased lightning; you had to be all over the door directly you started it. the other reason was that, because it dried so quickly, it was necessary to keep closed the doors and windows of the room where it was being used, and the smell was so awful that it brought on fits of dizziness and sometimes vomiting. needless to say, the fact that it compelled those who used it to work quickly recommended the stuff to misery. as for the smell, he did not care about that; he did not have to inhale the fumes himself. it was just about this time that crass, after due consultation with several of the others, including philpot, harlow, bundy, slyme, easton and the semi-drunk, decided to call a meeting of the hands for the purpose of considering the advisability of holding the usual beano later on in the summer. the meeting was held in the carpenter's shop down at the yard one evening at six o'clock, which allowed time for those interested to attend after leaving work. the hands sat on the benches or carpenter's stools, or reclined upon heaps of shavings. on a pair of tressels in the centre of the workshop stood a large oak coffin which crass had just finished polishing. when all those who were expected to turn up had arrived, payne, the foreman carpenter--the man who made the coffins--was voted to the chair on the proposition of crass, seconded by philpot, and then a solemn silence ensued, which was broken at last by the chairman, who, in a lengthy speech, explained the object of the meeting. possibly with a laudable desire that there should be no mistake about it, he took the trouble to explain several times, going over the same ground and repeating the same words over and over again, whilst the audience waited in a deathlike and miserable silence for him to leave off. payne, however, did not appear to have any intention of leaving off, for he continued, like a man in a trance, to repeat what he had said before, seeming to be under the impression that he had to make a separate explanation to each individual member of the audience. at last the crowd could stand it no longer, and began to shout 'hear, hear' and to bang bits of wood and hammers on the floor and the benches; and then, after a final repetition of the statement, that the object of the meeting was to consider the advisability of holding an outing, or beanfeast, the chairman collapsed on to a carpenter's stool and wiped the sweat from his forehead. crass then reminded the meeting that the last year's beano had been an unqualified success, and for his part he would be very sorry if they did not have one this year. last year they had four brakes, and they went to tubberton village. it was true that there was nothing much to see at tubberton, but there was one thing they could rely on getting there that they could not be sure of getting for the same money anywhere else, and that was--a good feed. (applause.) just for the sake of getting on with the business, he would propose that they decide to go to tubberton, and that a committee be appointed to make arrangements--about the dinner--with the landlord of the queen elizabeth's head at that place. philpot seconded the motion, and payne was about to call for a show of hands when harlow rose to a point of order. it appeared to him that they were getting on a bit too fast. the proper way to do this business was first to take the feeling of the meeting as to whether they wished to have a beano at all, and then, if the meeting was in favour of it, they could decide where they were to go, and whether they would have a whole day or only half a day. the semi-drunk said that he didn't care a dreadful expression where they went: he was willing to abide by the decision of the majority. (applause.) it was a matter of indifference to him whether they had a day, or half a day, or two days; he was agreeable to anything. easton suggested that a special saloon carriage might be engaged, and they could go and visit madame tussaud's waxworks. he had never been to that place and had often wished to see it. but philpot objected that if they went there, madame tussaud's might be unwilling to let them out again. bundy endorsed the remarks that had fallen from crass with reference to tubberton. he did not care where they went, they would never get such a good spread for the money as they did last year at the queen elizabeth. (cheers.) the chairman said that he remembered the last beano very well. they had half a day--left off work on saturday at twelve instead of one--so there was only one hour's wages lost--they went home, had a wash and changed their clothes, and got up to the cricketers, where the brakes was waiting, at one. then they had the two hours' drive to tubberton, stopping on the way for drinks at the blue lion, the warrior's head, the bird in hand, the dewdrop inn and the world turned upside down. (applause.) they arrived at the queen elizabeth at three-thirty, and the dinner was ready; and it was one of the finest blow-outs he had ever had. (hear, hear.) there was soup, vegetables, roast beef, roast mutton, lamb and mint sauce, plum duff, yorkshire, and a lot more. the landlord of the elizabeth kept as good a drop of beer as anyone could wish to drink, and as for the teetotallers, they could have tea, coffee or ginger beer. having thus made another start, payne found it very difficult to leave off, and was proceeding to relate further details of the last beano when harlow again rose up from his heap of shavings and said he wished to call the chairman to order. (hear, hear.) what the hell was the use of all this discussion before they had even decided to have a beano at all! was the meeting in favour of a beano or not? that was the question. a prolonged and awkward silence followed. everyone was very uncomfortable, looking stolidly on the ground or staring straight in front of them. at last easton broke the silence by suggesting that it would not be a bad plan if someone was to make a motion that a beano be held. this was greeted with a general murmur of 'hear, hear,' followed by another awkward pause, and then the chairman asked easton if he would move a resolution to that effect. after some hesitation, easton agreed, and formally moved: 'that this meeting is in favour of a beano.' the semi-drunk said that, in order to get on with the business, he would second the resolution. but meantime, several arguments had broken out between the advocates of different places, and several men began to relate anecdotes of previous beanos. nearly everyone was speaking at once and it was some time before the chairman was able to put the resolution. finding it impossible to make his voice heard above the uproar, he began to hammer on the bench with a wooden mallet, and to shout requests for order, but this only served to increase the din. some of them looked at him curiously and wondered what was the matter with him, but the majority were so interested in their own arguments that they did not notice him at all. whilst the chairman was trying to get the attention of the meeting in order to put the question, bundy had become involved in an argument with several of the new hands who claimed to know of an even better place than the queen elizabeth, a pub called 'the new found out', at mirkfield, a few miles further on than tubberton, and another individual joined in the dispute, alleging that a house called 'the three loggerheads' at slushton-cum-dryditch was the finest place for a beano within a hundred miles of mugsborough. he went there last year with pushem and driver's crowd, and they had roast beef, goose, jam tarts, mince pies, sardines, blancmange, calves' feet jelly and one pint for each man was included in the cost of the dinner. in the middle of the discussion, they noticed that most of the others were holding up their hands, so to show there was no ill feeling they held up theirs also and then the chairman declared it was carried unanimously. bundy said he would like to ask the chairman to read out the resolution which had just been passed, as he had not caught the words. the chairman replied that there was no written resolution. the motion was just to express the feeling of this meeting as to whether there was to be an outing or not. bundy said he was only asking a civil question, a point of information: all he wanted to know was, what was the terms of the resolution? was they in favour of the beano or not? the chairman responded that the meeting was unanimously in favour. (applause.) harlow said that the next thing to be done was to decide upon the date. crass suggested the last saturday in august. that would give them plenty of time to pay in. sawkins asked whether it was proposed to have a day or only half a day. he himself was in favour of the whole day. it would only mean losing a morning's work. it was hardly worth going at all if they only had half the day. the semi-drunk remarked that he had just thought of a very good place to go if they decided to have a change. three years ago he was working for dauber and botchit and they went to 'the first in and the last out' at bashford. it was a very small place, but there was a field where you could have a game of cricket or football, and the dinner was a at lloyds. there was also a skittle alley attached to the pub and no charge was made for the use of it. there was a bit of a river there, and one of the chaps got so drunk that he went orf his onion and jumped into the water, and when they got him out the village policeman locked him up, and the next day he was took before the beak and fined two pounds or a month's hard labour for trying to commit suicide. easton pointed out that there was another way to look at it: supposing they decided to have the beano, he supposed it would come to about six shillings a head. if they had it at the end of august and started paying in now, say a tanner a week, they would have plenty of time to make up the amount, but supposing the work fell off and some of them got the push? crass said that in that case a man could either have his money back or he could leave it, and continue his payments even if he were working for some other firm; the fact that he was off from rushton's would not prevent him from going to the beano. harlow proposed that they decide to go to the queen elizabeth the same as last year, and that they have half a day. philpot said that, in order to get on with the business, he would second the resolution. bundy suggested--as an amendment--that it should be a whole day, starting from the cricketers at nine in the morning, and sawkins said that, in order to get on with the business, he would second the amendment. one of the new hands said he wished to move another amendment. he proposed to strike out the queen elizabeth and substitute the three loggerheads. the chairman--after a pause--inquired if there were any seconder to this, and the semi-drunk said that, although he did not care much where they went, still, to get on with the business, he would second the amendment, although for his own part he would prefer to go to the 'first in and last out' at bashford. the new hand offered to withdraw his suggestion re the three loggerheads in favour of the semi-drunks proposition, but the latter said it didn't matter; it could go as it was. as it was getting rather late, several men went home, and cries of 'put the question' began to be heard on all sides; the chairman accordingly was proceeding to put harlow's proposition when the new hand interrupted him by pointing out that it was his duty as chairman to put the amendments first. this produced another long discussion, in the course of which a very tall, thin man who had a harsh, metallic voice gave a long rambling lecture about the rules of order and the conduct of public meetings. he spoke very slowly and deliberately, using very long words and dealing with the subject in an exhaustive manner. a resolution was a resolution, and an amendment was an amendment; then there was what was called an amendment to an amendment; the procedure of the house of commons differed very materially from that of the house of lords--and so on. this man kept on talking for about ten minutes, and might have continued for ten hours if he had not been rudely interrupted by harlow, who said that it seemed to him that they were likely to stay there all night if they went on like they were going. he wanted his tea, and he would also like to get a few hours' sleep before having to resume work in the morning. he was getting about sick of all this talk. (hear, hear.) in order to get on with the business, he would withdraw his resolution if the others would withdraw their amendments. if they would agree to do this, he would then propose another resolution which--if carried--would meet all the requirements of the case. (applause.) the man with the metallic voice observed that it was not necessary to ask the consent of those who had moved amendments: if the original proposition was withdrawed, all the amendments fell to the ground. 'last year,' observed crass, 'when we was goin' out of the room after we'd finished our dinner at the queen elizabeth, the landlord pointed to the table and said, "there's enough left over for you all to 'ave another lot."' (cheers.) harlow said that he would move that it be held on the last saturday in august; that it be for half a day, starting at one o'clock so that they could work up till twelve, which would mean that they would only have to lose one hour's pay: that they go to the same place as last year--the queen elizabeth. (hear, hear.) that the same committee that acted last year--crass and bundy--be appointed to make all the arrangements and collect the subscriptions. (applause.) the tall man observed that this was what was called a compound resolution, and was proceeding to explain further when the chairman exclaimed that it did not matter a dam' what it was called--would anyone second it? the semi-drunk said that he would--in order to get on with the business. bundy moved, and sawkins seconded, as an amendment, that it should be a whole day. the new hand moved to substitute the loggerheads for the queen elizabeth. easton proposed to substitute madame tussaud's waxworks for the queen elizabeth. he said he moved this just to test the feeling of the meeting. harlow pointed out that it would cost at least a pound a head to defray the expenses of such a trip. the railway fares, tram fares in london, meals--for it would be necessary to have a whole day--and other incidental expenses; to say nothing of the loss of wages. it would not be possible for any of them to save the necessary amount during the next four months. (hear, hear.) philpot repeated his warning as to the danger of visiting madame tussaud's. he was certain that if she once got them in there she would never let them out again. he had no desire to pass the rest of his life as an image in a museum. one of the new hands--a man with a red tie--said that they would look well, after having been soaked for a month or two in petrifying liquid, chained up in the chamber of horrors with labels round their necks--'specimens of liberal and conservative upholders of the capitalist system, century'. crass protested against the introduction of politics into that meeting. (hear, hear.) the remarks of the last speakers were most uncalled-for. easton said that he would withdraw his amendment. acting under the directions of the man with the metallic voice, the chairman now proceeded to put the amendment to the vote. bundy's proposal that it should be a whole day was defeated, only himself, sawkins and the semi-drunk being in favour. the motion to substitute the loggerheads for the queen elizabeth was also defeated, and the compound resolution proposed by harlow was then carried nem. con. philpot now proposed a hearty vote of thanks to the chairman for the very able manner in which he had conducted the meeting. when this had been unanimously agreed to, the semi-drunk moved a similar tribute of gratitude to crass for his services to the cause and the meeting dispersed. chapter june during the early part of may the weather was exceptionally bad, with bitterly cold winds. rain fell nearly every day, covering the roads with a slush that penetrated the rotten leather of the cheap or second-hand boots worn by the workmen. this weather had the effect of stopping nearly all outside work, and also caused a lot of illness, for those who were so fortunate as to have inside jobs frequently got wet through on their way to work in the morning and had to work all day in damp clothing, and with their boots saturated with water. it was also a source of trouble to those of the men who had allotments, because if it had been fine they would have been able to do something to their gardens while they were out of work. newman had not succeeded in getting a job at the trade since he came out of prison, but he tried to make a little money by hawking bananas. philpot--when he was at work--used often to buy a tanner's or a bob's worth from him and give them to mrs linden's children. on saturdays old joe used to waylay these children and buy them bags of cakes at the bakers. one week when he knew that mrs linden had not had much work to do, he devised a very cunning scheme to help her. he had been working with slyme, who was papering a large boarded ceiling in a shop. it had to be covered with unbleached calico before it could be papered and when the work was done there were a number of narrow pieces of calico left over. these he collected and tore into strips about six inches wide which he took round to mrs linden, and asked her to sew them together, end to end, so as to make one long strip: then this long strip had to be cut into four pieces of equal length and the edges sewn together in such a manner that it would form a long tube. philpot told her that it was required for some work that rushton's were doing, and said he had undertaken to get the sewing done. the firm would have to pay for it, so she could charge a good price. 'you see,' he said with a wink, 'this is one of those jobs where we gets a chance to get some of our own back.' mary thought it was rather a strange sort of job, but she did as philpot directed and when he came for the stuff and asked how much it was she said threepence: it had only taken about half an hour. philpot ridiculed this: it was not nearly enough. they were not supposed to know how long it took: it ought to be a bob at the very least. so, after some hesitation she made out a bill for that amount on a half-sheet of note-paper. he brought her the money the next saturday afternoon and went off chuckling to himself over the success of the scheme. it did not occur to him until the next day that he might just as well have got her to make him an apron or two: and when he did think of this he said that after all it didn't matter, because if he had done that it would have been necessary to buy new calico, and anyhow, it could be done some other time. newman did not make his fortune out of the bananas--seldom more than two shillings a day--and consequently he was very glad when philpot called at his house one evening and told him there was a chance of a job at rushton's. newman accordingly went to the yard the next morning, taking his apron and blouse and his bag of tools with him, ready to start work. he got there at about quarter to six and was waiting outside when hunter arrived. the latter was secretly very glad to see him, for there was a rush of work in and they were short of men. he did not let this appear, of course, but hesitated for a few minutes when newman repeated the usual formula: 'any chance of a job, sir?' 'we wasn't at all satisfied with you last time you was on, you know,' said misery. 'still, i don't mind giving you another chance. but if you want to hold your job you'll have to move yourself a bit quicker than you did before.' towards the end of the month things began to improve all round. the weather became finer and more settled. as time went on the improvement was maintained and nearly everyone was employed. rushton's were so busy that they took on several other old hands who had been sacked the previous year for being too slow. thanks to the influence of crass, easton was now regarded as one of the regular hands. he had recently resumed the practice of spending some of his evenings at the cricketers. it is probable that even if it had not been for his friendship with crass, he would still have continued to frequent the public house, for things were not very comfortable at home. somehow or other, ruth and he seemed to be always quarrelling, and he was satisfied that it was not always his fault. sometimes, after the day's work was over he would go home resolved to be good friends with her: he would plan on his way homewards to suggest to her that they should have their tea and then go out for a walk with the child. once or twice she agreed, but on each occasion, they quarrelled before they got home again. so after a time he gave up trying to be friends with her and went out by himself every evening as soon as he had had his tea. mary linden, who was still lodging with them, could not help perceiving their unhappiness: she frequently noticed that ruth's eyes were red and swollen as if with crying, and she gently sought to gain her confidence, but without success. on one occasion when mary was trying to advise her, ruth burst out into a terrible fit of weeping, but she would not say what was the cause--except that her head was aching--she was not well, that was all. sometimes easton passed the evening at the cricketers but frequently he went over to the allotments, where harlow had a plot of ground. harlow used to get up about four o'clock in the morning and put in an hour or so at his garden before going to work; and every evening as soon as he had finished tea he used to go there again and work till it was dark. sometimes he did not go home to tea at all, but went straight from work to the garden, and his children used to bring his tea to him there in a glass bottle, with something to eat in a little basket. he had four children, none of whom were yet old enough to go to work, and as may be imagined, he found it a pretty hard struggle to live. he was not a teetotaller, but as he often remarked, 'what the publicans got from him wouldn't make them very fat', for he often went for weeks together without tasting the stuff, except a glass or two with the sunday dinner, which he did not regard as an unnecessary expense, because it was almost as cheap as tea or coffee. fortunately his wife was a good needlewoman, and as sober and industrious as himself; by dint of slaving incessantly from morning till night she managed to keep her home fairly comfortable and the children clean and decently dressed; they always looked respectable, although they did not always have enough proper food to eat. they looked so respectable that none of the 'visiting ladies' ever regarded them as deserving cases. harlow paid fifteen shillings a year for his plot of ground, and although it meant a lot of hard work it was also a source of pleasure and some profit. he generally made a few shillings out of the flowers, besides having enough potatoes and other vegetables to last them nearly all the year. sometimes easton went over to the allotments and lent harlow a hand with this gardening work, but whether he went there or to the cricketers, he usually returned home about half past nine, and then went straight to bed, often without speaking a single word to ruth, who for her part seldom spoke to him except to answer something he said, or to ask some necessary question. at first, easton used to think that it was all because of the way he had behaved to her in the public house, but when he apologized--as he did several times--and begged her to forgive him and forget about it, she always said it was all right; there was nothing to forgive. then, after a time, he began to think it was on account of their poverty and the loss of their home, for nearly all their furniture had been sold during the last winter. but whenever he talked of trying to buy some more things to make the place comfortable again, she did not appear to take any interest: the house was neat enough as it was: they could manage very well, she said, indifferently. one evening, about the middle of june, when he had been over to the allotments, easton brought her home a bunch of flowers that harlow had given him--some red and white roses and some pansies. when he came in, ruth was packing his food basket for the next day. the baby was asleep in its cot on the floor near the window. although it was nearly nine o'clock the lamp had not yet been lighted and the mournful twilight that entered the room through the open window increased the desolation of its appearance. the fire had burnt itself out and the grate was filled with ashes. on the hearth was an old rug made of jute that had once been printed in bright colours which had faded away till the whole surface had become almost uniformly drab, showing scarcely any trace of the original pattern. the rest of the floor was bare except for two or three small pieces of old carpet that ruth had bought for a few pence at different times at some inferior second-hand shop. the chairs and the table were almost the only things that were left of the original furniture of the room, and except for three or four plates of different patterns and sizes and a few cups and saucers, the shelves of the dresser were bare. the stillness of the atmosphere was disturbed only by the occasional sound of the wheels of a passing vehicle and the strangely distinct voices of some children who were playing in the street. 'i've brought you these,' said easton, offering her the flowers. 'i thought you'd like them. i got them from harlow. you know i've been helping him a little with his garden.' at first he thought she did not want to take them. she was standing at the table with her back to the window, so that he was unable to see the expression of her face, and she hesitated for a moment before she faltered out some words of thanks and took the flowers, which she put down on the table almost as soon as she touched them. offended at what he considered her contemptuous indifference, easton made no further attempt at conversation but went into the scullery to wash his hands, and then went up to bed. downstairs, for a long time after he was gone, ruth sat alone by the fireless grate, in the silence and the gathering shadows, holding the bunch of flowers in her hand, living over again the events of the last year, and consumed with an agony of remorse. the presence of mary linden and the two children in the house probably saved ruth from being more unhappy than she was. little elsie had made an arrangement with her to be allowed to take the baby out for walks, and in return ruth did elsie's housework. as for mary, she had not much time to do anything but sew, almost the only relaxation she knew being when she took the work home, and on sunday, which she usually devoted to a general clean-up of the room, and to mending the children's clothes. sometimes on sunday evening she used to go with ruth and the children to see mrs owen, who, although she was not ill enough to stay in bed, seldom went out of the house. she had never really recovered from the attack of illness which was brought on by her work at the boarding house. the doctor had been to see her once or twice and had prescribed--rest. she was to lie down as much as possible, not to do any heavy work--not to carry or lift any heavy articles, scrub floors, make beds, or anything of that sort: and she was to take plenty of nourishing food, beef tea, chicken, a little wine and so on. he did not suggest a trip round the world in a steam yacht or a visit to switzerland--perhaps he thought they might not be able to afford it. sometimes she was so ill that she had to observe one at least of the doctor's instructions--to lie down: and then she would worry and fret because she was not able to do the housework and because owen had to prepare his own tea when he came home at night. on one of these occasions it would have been necessary for owen to stay at home from work if it had not been for mrs easton, who came for several days in succession to look after her and attend to the house. fortunately, owen's health was better since the weather had become warmer. for a long time after the attack of haemorrhage he had while writing the show-card he used to dread going to sleep at night for fear it should recur. he had heard of people dying in their sleep from that cause. but this terror gradually left him. nora knew nothing of what occurred that night: to have told her would have done no good, but on the contrary would have caused her a lot of useless anxiety. sometimes he doubted whether it was right not to tell her, but as time went by and his health continued to improve he was glad he had said nothing about it. frankie had lately resumed his athletic exercises with the flat iron: his strength was returning since owen had been working regularly, because he had been having his porridge and milk again and also some parrish's food which a chemist at windley was selling large bottles of for a shilling. he used to have what he called a 'party' two or three times a week with elsie, charley and easton's baby as the guests. sometimes, if mrs owen were not well, elsie used to stay in with her after tea and do some housework while the boys went out to play, but more frequently the four children used to go together to the park to play or sail boats on the lake. once one of the boats was becalmed about a couple of yards from shore and while trying to reach it with a stick frankie fell into the water, and when charley tried to drag him out he fell in also. elsie put the baby down on the bank and seized hold of charley and while she was trying to get him out, the baby began rolling down, and would probably have tumbled in as well if a man who happened to be passing by had not rushed up in time to prevent it. fortunately the water at that place was only about two feet deep, so the boys were not much the worse for their ducking. they returned home wet through, smothered with mud, and feeling very important, like boys who had distinguished themselves. after this, whenever she could manage to spare the time, ruth easton used to go with the children to the park. there was a kind of summer-house near the shore of the lake, only a few feet away from the water's edge, surrounded and shaded by trees, whose branches arched over the path and drooped down to the surface of the water. while the children played ruth used to sit in this arbour and sew, but often her work was neglected and forgotten as she gazed pensively at the water, which just there looked very still, and dark, and deep, for it was sheltered from the wind and over-shadowed by the trees that lined the banks at the end of the lake. sometimes, if it happened to be raining, instead of going out the children used to have some games in the house. on one such occasion frankie produced the flat iron and went through the exercise, and charley had a go as well. but although he was slightly older and taller than frankie he could not lift the iron so often or hold it out so long as the other, a failure that frankie attributed to the fact that charley had too much tea and bread and butter instead of porridge and milk and parrish's food. charley was so upset about his lack of strength that he arranged with frankie to come home with him the next day after school to see his mother about it. mrs linden had a flat iron, so they gave a demonstration of their respective powers before her. mrs easton being also present, by request, because frankie said that the diet in question was suitable for babies as well as big children. he had been brought up on it ever since he could remember, and it was almost as cheap as bread and butter and tea. the result of the exhibition was that mrs linden promised to make porridge for charley and elsie whenever she could spare the time, and mrs easton said she would try it for the baby also. chapter the good old summer-time all through the summer the crowd of ragged-trousered philanthropists continued to toil and sweat at their noble and unselfish task of making money for mr rushton. painting the outsides of houses and shops, washing off and distempering ceilings, stripping old paper off walls, painting and papering rooms and staircases, building new rooms or other additions to old houses or business premises, digging up old drains, repairing leaky roofs and broken windows. their zeal and enthusiasm in the good cause was unbounded. they were supposed to start work at six o'clock, but most of them were usually to be found waiting outside the job at about a quarter to that hour, sitting on the kerbstones or the doorstep. their operations extended all over the town: at all hours of the day they were to be seen either going or returning from 'jobs', carrying ladders, planks, pots of paint, pails of whitewash, earthenware, chimney pots, drainpipes, lengths of guttering, closet pans, grates, bundles of wallpaper, buckets of paste, sacks of cement, and loads of bricks and mortar. quite a common spectacle--for gods and men--was a procession consisting of a handcart loaded up with such materials being pushed or dragged through the public streets by about half a dozen of these imperialists in broken boots and with battered, stained, discoloured bowler hats, or caps splashed with paint and whitewash; their stand-up collars dirty, limp and crumpled, and their rotten second-hand misfit clothing saturated with sweat and plastered with mortar. even the assistants in the grocers' and drapers' shops laughed and ridiculed and pointed the finger of scorn at them as they passed. the superior classes--those who do nothing--regarded them as a sort of lower animals. a letter appeared in the obscurer one week from one of these well-dressed loafers, complaining of the annoyance caused to the better-class visitors by workmen walking on the pavement as they passed along the grand parade in the evening on their way home from work, and suggesting that they should walk in the roadway. when they heard of the letter a lot of the workmen adopted the suggestion and walked in the road so as to avoid contaminating the idlers. this letter was followed by others of a somewhat similar kind, and one or two written in a patronizing strain in defence of the working classes by persons who evidently knew nothing about them. there was also a letter from an individual who signed himself 'morpheus' complaining that he was often awakened out of his beauty sleep in the middle of the night by the clattering noise of the workmen's boots as they passed his house on their way to work in the morning. 'morpheus' wrote that not only did they make a dreadful noise with their horrible iron-clad boots, but they were in the habit of coughing and spitting a great deal, which was very unpleasant to hear, and they conversed in loud tones. sometimes their conversation was not at all edifying, for it consisted largely of bad language, which 'morpheus' assumed to be attributable to the fact that they were out of temper because they had to rise so early. as a rule they worked till half-past five in the evening, and by the time they reached home it was six o'clock. when they had taken their evening meal and had a wash it was nearly eight: about nine most of them went to bed so as to be able to get up about half past four the next morning to make a cup of tea before leaving home at half past five to go to work again. frequently it happened that they had to leave home earlier than this, because their 'job' was more than half an hour's walk away. it did not matter how far away the 'job' was from the shop, the men had to walk to and fro in their own time, for trades union rules were a dead letter in mugsborough. there were no tram fares or train fares or walking time allowed for the likes of them. ninety-nine out of every hundred of them did not believe in such things as those: they had much more sense than to join trades unions: on the contrary, they believed in placing themselves entirely at the mercy of their good, kind liberal and tory masters. very frequently it happened, when only a few men were working together, that it was not convenient to make tea for breakfast or dinner, and then some of them brought tea with them ready made in bottles and drank it cold; but most of them went to the nearest pub and ate their food there with a glass of beer. even those who would rather have had tea or coffee had beer, because if they went to a temperance restaurant or coffee tavern it generally happened that they were not treated very civilly unless they bought something to eat as well as to drink, and the tea at such places was really dearer than beer, and the latter was certainly quite as good to drink as the stewed tea or the liquid mud that was sold as coffee at cheap 'workmen's' eating houses. there were some who were--as they thought--exceptionally lucky: the firms they worked for were busy enough to let them work two hours' overtime every night--till half past seven--without stopping for tea. most of these arrived home about eight, completely flattened out. then they had some tea and a wash and before they knew where they were it was about half past nine. then they went to sleep again till half past four or five the next morning. they were usually so tired when they got home at night that they never had any inclination for study or any kind of self-improvement, even if they had had the time. they had plenty of time to study during the winter: and their favourite subject then was, how to preserve themselves from starving to death. this overtime, however, was the exception, for although in former years it had been the almost invariable rule to work till half past seven in summer, most of the firms now made a practice of ceasing work at five-thirty. the revolution which had taken place in this matter was a favourite topic of conversation amongst the men, who spoke regretfully of the glorious past, when things were busy, and they used to work fifteen, sixteen and even eighteen hours a day. but nowadays there were nearly as many chaps out of work in the summer as in the winter. they used to discuss the causes of the change. one was, of course, the fact that there was not so much building going on as formerly, and another was the speeding up and slave-driving, and the manner in which the work was now done, or rather scamped. as old philpot said, he could remember the time, when he was a nipper, when such a 'job' as that at 'the cave' would have lasted at least six months, and they would have had more hands on it too! but it would have been done properly, not messed up like that was: all the woodwork would have been rubbed down with pumice stone and water: all the knots cut out and the holes properly filled up, and the work properly rubbed down with glass-paper between every coat. but nowadays the only place you'd see a bit of pumice stone was in a glass case in a museum, with a label on it. 'pumice stone: formerly used by house-painters.' most of them spoke of those bygone times with poignant regret, but there were a few--generally fellows who had been contaminated by contact with socialists or whose characters had been warped and degraded by the perusal of socialist literature--who said that they did not desire to work overtime at all--ten hours a day were quite enough for them--in fact they would rather do only eight. what they wanted, they said, was not more work, but more grub, more clothes, more leisure, more pleasure and better homes. they wanted to be able to go for country walks or bicycle rides, to go out fishing or to go to the seaside and bathe and lie on the beach and so forth. but these were only a very few; there were not many so selfish as this. the majority desired nothing but to be allowed to work, and as for their children, why, 'what was good enough for themselves oughter be good enough for the kids'. they often said that such things as leisure, culture, pleasure and the benefits of civilization were never intended for 'the likes of us'. they did not--all--actually say this, but that was what their conduct amounted to; for they not only refused to help to bring about a better state of things for their children, but they ridiculed and opposed and cursed and abused those who were trying to do it for them. the foulest words that came out of their mouths were directed against the men of their own class in the house of commons--the labour members--and especially the socialists, whom they spoke of as fellows who were too bloody lazy to work for a living, and who wanted the working classes to keep them. some of them said that they did not believe in helping their children to become anything better than their parents had been because in such cases the children, when they grew up, 'looked down' upon and were ashamed of their fathers and mothers! they seemed to think that if they loved and did their duty to their children, the probability was that the children would prove ungrateful: as if even if that were true, it would be any excuse for their indifference. another cause of the shortage of work was the intrusion into the trade of so many outsiders: fellows like sawkins and the other lightweights. whatever other causes there were, there could be no doubt that the hurrying and scamping was a very real one. every 'job' had to be done at once! as if it were a matter of life or death! it must be finished by a certain time. if the 'job' was at an empty house, misery's yarn was that it was let! the people were coming in at the end of the week! therefore everything must be finished by wednesday night. all the ceilings had to be washed off, the walls stripped and repapered, and two coats of paint inside and outside the house. new drains were to be put in, and all broken windows and locks and broken plaster repaired. a number of men--usually about half as many as there should have been--would be sent to do the work, and one man was put in charge of the 'job'. these sub-foremen or 'coddies' knew that if they 'made their jobs pay' they would be put in charge of others and be kept on in preference to other men as long as the firm had any work; so they helped misery to scheme and scamp the work and watched and drove the men under their charge; and these latter poor wretches, knowing that their only chance of retaining their employment was to 'tear into it', tore into it like so many maniacs. instead of cleaning any parts of the woodwork that were greasy or very dirty, they brushed them over with a coat of spirit varnish before painting to make sure that the paint would dry: places where the plaster of the walls was damaged were repaired with what was humorously called 'garden cement'--which was the technical term for dirt out of the garden--and the surface was skimmed over with proper material. ceilings that were not very dirty were not washed off, but dusted, and lightly gone over with a thin coat of whitewash. the old paper was often left upon the walls of rooms that were supposed to be stripped before being repapered, and to conceal this the joints of the old paper were rubbed down so that they should not be perceptible through the new paper. as far as possible, misery and the sub-foreman avoided doing the work the customers paid for, and even what little they did was hurried over anyhow. a reign of terror--the terror of the sack--prevailed on all the 'jobs', which were carried on to the accompaniment of a series of alarums and excursions: no man felt safe for a moment: at the most unexpected times misery would arrive and rush like a whirlwind all over the 'job'. if he happened to find a man having a spell the culprit was immediately discharged, but he did not get the opportunity of doing this very often for everybody was too terrified to leave off working even for a few minutes' rest. from the moment of hunter's arrival until his departure, a state of panic, hurry, scurry and turmoil reigned. his strident voice rang through the house as he bellowed out to them to 'rouse themselves! get it done! smear it on anyhow! tar it over! we've got another job to start when you've done this!' occasionally, just to keep the others up to concert pitch, he used to sack one of the men for being too slow. they all trembled before him and ran about whenever he spoke to or called them, because they knew that there were always a lot of other men out of work who would be willing and eager to fill their places if they got the sack. although it was now summer, and the distress committee and all the other committees had suspended operations, there was still always a large number of men hanging about the vicinity of the fountain on the parade--the wage slave market. when men finished up for the firm they were working for they usually made for that place. any master in want of a wage slave for a few hours, days or weeks could always buy one there. the men knew this and they also knew that if they got the sack from one firm it was no easy matter to get another job, and that was why they were terrified. when misery was gone--to repeat the same performance at some other job--the sub-foreman would have a crawl round to see how the chaps were getting on: to find out if they had used up all their paint yet, or to bring them some putty so that they should not have to leave their work to go to get anything themselves: and then very often rushton himself would come and stalk quietly about the house or stand silently behind the men, watching them as they worked. he seldom spoke to anyone, but just stood there like a graven image, or walked about like a dumb animal--a pig, as the men used to say. this individual had a very exalted idea of his own importance and dignity. one man got the sack for presuming to stop him in the street to ask some questions about some work that was being done. misery went round to all the jobs the next day and told all the 'coddies' to tell all the hands that they were never to speak to mr rushton if they met him in the street, and the following saturday the man who had so offended was given his back day, ostensibly because there was nothing for him to do, but really for the reason stated above. there was one job, the outside of a large house that stood on elevated ground overlooking the town. the men who were working there were even more than usually uncomfortable, for it was said that rushton used to sit in his office and watch them through a telescope. sometimes, when it was really necessary to get a job done by a certain time, they had to work late, perhaps till eight or nine o'clock. no time was allowed for tea, but some of them brought sufficient food with them in the morning to enable them to have a little about six o'clock in the evening. others arranged for their children to bring them some tea from home. as a rule, they partook of this without stopping work: they had it on the floor beside them and ate and drank and worked at the same time--a paint-brushful of white lead in one hand, and a piece of bread and margarine in the other. on some jobs, if the 'coddy' happened to be a decent sort, they posted a sentry to look out for hunter or rushton while the others knocked off for a few minutes to snatch a mouthful of grub; but it was not safe always to do this, for there was often some crawling sneak with an ambition to become a 'coddy' who would not scruple to curry favour with misery by reporting the crime. as an additional precaution against the possibility of any of the men idling or wasting their time, each one was given a time-sheet on which he was required to account for every minute of the day. the form of these sheets vary slightly with different firms: that of rushton & co., was as shown. time sheet of work done by in the employ of rushton & co builders & decorators : mugsborough no smoking or intoxicants allowed during working hours each piece of work must be fully described, what it was, and how long it took to do. -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ | | time when | time when | | | where working | started | finished | hours | what doing -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ sat | | | | | -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ mon | | | | | -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ tues | | | | | -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ wed | | | | | -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ thur | | | | | -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ fri | | | | | -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ | | total hours | | -----+---------------+-----------+-----------+-------+------------ one monday morning misery gave each of the sub-foremen an envelope containing one of the firm's memorandum forms. crass opened his and found the following: crass when you are on a job with men under you, check and initial their time-sheets every night. if they are called away and sent to some other job, or stood off, check and initial their time-sheets as they leave your job. any man coming on your job during the day, you must take note of the exact time of his arrival, and see that his sheet is charged right. any man who is slow or lazy, or any man that you notice talking more than is necessary during working hours, you must report him to mr hunter. we expect you and the other foremen to help us to carry out these rules, and any information given us about any man is treated in confidence. rushton & co. note: this applies to all men of all trades who come on the jobs of which you are the foreman. every week the time-sheets were scrutinized, and every now and then a man would be 'had up on the carpet' in the office before rushton and misery, and interrogated as to why he had taken fifteen hours to do ten hours work? in the event of the accused being unable to give a satisfactory explanation of his conduct he was usually sacked on the spot. misery was frequently called 'up on the carpet' himself. if he made a mistake in figuring out a 'job', and gave in too high a tender for it, so that the firm did not get the work, rushton grumbled. if the price was so low that there was not enough profit, rushton was very unpleasant about it, and whenever it happened that there was not only no profit but an actual loss, rushton created such a terrible disturbance that misery was nearly frightened to death and used to get on his bicycle and rush off to the nearest 'job' and howl and bellow at the 'chaps' to get it done. all the time the capabilities of the men--especially with regard to speed--were carefully watched and noted: and whenever there was a slackness of work and it was necessary to discharge some hands those that were slow or took too much pains were weeded out: this of course was known to the men and it had the desired effect upon them. in justice to rushton and hunter, it must be remembered that there was a certain amount of excuse for all this driving and cheating, because they had to compete with all the other firms, who conducted their business in precisely the same way. it was not their fault, but the fault of the system. a dozen firms tendered for every 'job', and of course the lowest tender usually obtained the work. knowing this, they all cut the price down to the lowest possible figure and the workmen had to suffer. the trouble was that there were too many 'masters'. it would have been far better for the workmen if nine out of every ten of the employers had never started business. then the others would have been able to get a better price for their work, and the men might have had better wages and conditions. the hands, however, made no such allowances or excuses as these for misery and rushton. they never thought or spoke of them except with hatred and curses. but whenever either of them came to the 'job' the 'coddies' cringed and grovelled before them, greeting them with disgustingly servile salutations, plentifully interspersed with the word 'sir', greetings which were frequently either ignored altogether or answered with an inarticulate grunt. they said 'sir' at nearly every second word: it made one feel sick to hear them because it was not courtesy: they were never courteous to each other, it was simply abject servility and self-contempt. one of the results of all the frenzied hurrying was that every now and then there was an accident: somebody got hurt: and it was strange that accidents were not more frequent, considering the risks that were taken. when they happened to be working on ladders in busy streets they were not often allowed to have anyone to stand at the foot, and the consequence was that all sorts and conditions of people came into violent collision with the bottoms of the ladders. small boys playing in the reckless manner characteristic of their years rushed up against them. errand boys, absorbed in the perusal of penny instalments of the adventures of claude duval, and carrying large baskets of green-groceries, wandered into them. blind men fell foul of them. adventurous schoolboys climbed up them. people with large feet became entangled in them. fat persons of both sexes who thought it unlucky to walk underneath, tried to negotiate the narrow strip of pavement between the foot of the ladder and the kerb, and in their passage knocked up against the ladder and sometimes fell into the road. nursemaids wheeling perambulators--lolling over the handle, which they usually held with their left hands, the right holding a copy of orange blossoms or some halfpenny paper, and so interested in the story of the marquis of lymejuice--a young man of noble presence and fabulous wealth, with a drooping golden moustache and very long legs, who, notwithstanding the diabolical machinations of lady sibyl malvoise, who loves him as well as a woman with a name like that is capable of loving anyone, is determined to wed none other than the scullery-maid at the village inn--inevitably bashed the perambulators into the ladders. even when the girls were not reading they nearly always ran into the ladders, which seemed to possess a magnetic attraction for perambulators and go-carts of all kinds, whether propelled by nurses or mothers. sometimes they would advance very cautiously towards the ladder: then, when they got very near, hesitate a little whether to go under or run the risk of falling into the street by essaying the narrow passage: then they would get very close up to the foot of the ladder, and dodge and dance about, and give the cart little pushes from side to side, until at last the magnetic influence exerted itself and the perambulator crashed into the ladder, perhaps at the very moment that the man at the top was stretching out to do some part of the work almost beyond his reach. once harlow had just started painting some rainpipes from the top of a -ft ladder when one of several small boys who were playing in the street ran violently against the foot. harlow was so startled that he dropped his brushes and clutched wildly at the ladder, which turned completely round and slid about six feet along the parapet into the angle of the wall, with harlow hanging beneath by his hands. the paint pot was hanging by a hook from one of the rungs, and the jerk scattered the brown paint it contained all over harlow and all over the brickwork of the front of the house. he managed to descend safely by clasping his legs round the sides of the ladder and sliding down. when misery came there was a row about what he called carelessness. and the next day harlow had to wear his sunday trousers to work. on another occasion they were painting the outside of a house called 'gothic lodge'. at one corner it had a tower surmounted by a spire or steeple, and this steeple terminated with an ornamental wrought-iron pinnacle which had to be painted. the ladder they had was not quite long enough, and besides that, as it had to stand in a sort of a courtyard at the base of the tower, it was impossible to slant it sufficiently: instead of lying along the roof of the steeple, it was sticking up in the air. when easton went up to paint the pinnacle he had to stand on almost the very top rung of the ladder, to be exact, the third from the top, and lean over to steady himself by holding on to the pinnacle with his left hand while he used the brush with his right. as it was only about twenty minutes' work there were two men to hold the foot of the ladder. it was cheaper to do it this way than to rig up a proper scaffold, which would have entailed perhaps two hours' work for two or three men. of course it was very dangerous, but that did not matter at all, because even if the man fell it would make no difference to the firm--all the men were insured and somehow or other, although they frequently had narrow escapes, they did not often come to grief. on this occasion, just as easton was finishing he felt the pinnacle that he was holding on to give way, and he got such a fright that his heart nearly stopped beating. he let go his hold and steadied himself on the ladder as well as he was able, and when he had descended three or four steps--into comparative safety--he remained clinging convulsively to the ladder and feeling so limp that he was unable to go down any further for several minutes. when he arrived at the bottom and the others noticed how white and trembling he was, he told them about the pinnacle being loose, and the 'coddy' coming along just then, they told him about it, and suggested that it should be repaired, as otherwise it might fall down and hurt someone: but the 'coddy' was afraid that if they reported it they might be blamed for breaking it, and the owner might expect the firm to put it right for nothing, so they decided to say nothing about it. the pinnacle is still on the apex of the steeple waiting for a sufficiently strong wind to blow it down on somebody's head. when the other men heard of easton's 'narrow shave', most of them said that it would have served him bloody well right if he had fallen and broken his neck: he should have refused to go up at all without a proper scaffold. that was what they would have done. if misery or the coddy had ordered any of them to go up and paint the pinnacle off that ladder, they would have chucked their tools down and demanded their ha'pence! that was what they said, but somehow or other it never happened that any of them ever 'chucked their tools down' at all, although such dangerous jobs were of very frequent occurrence. the scamping business was not confined to houses or properties of an inferior class: it was the general rule. large good-class houses, villas and mansions, the residences of wealthy people, were done in exactly the same way. generally in such places costly and beautiful materials were spoilt in the using. there was a large mansion where the interior woodwork--the doors, windows and staircase--had to be finished in white enamel. it was rather an old house and the woodwork needed rubbing down and filling up before being repainted, but of course there was not time for that, so they painted it without properly preparing it and when it was enamelled the rough, uneven surface of the wood looked horrible: but the owner appeared quite satisfied because it was nice and shiny. the dining-room of the same house was papered with a beautiful and expensive plush paper. the ground of this wall-hanging was made to imitate crimson watered silk, and it was covered with a raised pattern in plush of the same colour. the price marked on the back of this paper in the pattern book was eighteen shillings a roll. slyme was paid sixpence a roll for hanging it: the room took ten rolls, so it cost nine pounds for the paper and five shillings to hang it! to fix such a paper as this properly the walls should first be done with a plain lining paper of the same colour as the ground of the wallpaper itself, because unless the paperhanger 'lapps' the joints--which should not be done--they are apt to open a little as the paper dries and to show the white wall underneath--slyme suggested this lining to misery, who would not entertain the idea for a moment--they had gone to quite enough expense as it was, stripping the old paper off! so slyme went ahead, and as he had to make his wages, he could not spend a great deal of time over it. some of the joints were 'lapped' and some were butted, and two or three weeks after the owner of the house moved in, as the paper became more dry, the joints began to open and to show the white plaster of the wall, and then owen had to go there with a small pot of crimson paint and a little brush, and touch out the white line. while he was doing this he noticed and touched up a number of other faults; places where slyme--in his haste to get the work done--had slobbered and smeared the face of the paper with fingermarks and paste. the same ghastly mess was made of several other 'jobs' besides this one, and presently they adopted the plan of painting strips of colour on the wall in the places where the joints would come, so that if they opened the white wall would not show: but it was found that the paste on the back of the paper dragged the paint off the wall, and when the joints opened the white streaks showed all the same, so misery abandoned all attempts to prevent joints showing, and if a customer complained, he sent someone to 'touch it up': but the lining paper was never used, unless the customer or the architect knew enough about the work to insist upon it. in other parts of the same house the ceilings, the friezes, and the dados, were covered with 'embossed' or 'relief' papers. these hangings require very careful handling, for the raised parts are easily damaged; but the men who fixed them were not allowed to take the pains and time necessary to make good work: consequently in many places--especially at the joints--the pattern was flattened out and obliterated. the ceiling of the drawing-room was done with a very thick high-relief paper that was made in sheets about two feet square. these squares were not very true in shape: they had evidently warped in drying after manufacture: to make them match anything like properly would need considerable time and care. but the men were not allowed to take the necessary time. the result was that when it was finished it presented a sort of 'higgledy-piggledy' appearance. but it didn't matter: nothing seemed to matter except to get it done. one would think from the way the hands were driven and chivvied and hurried over the work that they were being paid five or six shillings an hour instead of as many pence. 'get it done!' shouted misery from morning till night. 'for god's sake get it done! haven't you finished yet? we're losing money over this "job"! if you chaps don't wake up and move a bit quicker, i shall see if i can't get somebody else who will.' these costly embossed decorations were usually finished in white; but instead of carefully coating them with specially prepared paint of patent distemper, which would need two or three coats, they slobbered one thick coat of common whitewash on to it with ordinary whitewash brushes. this was a most economical way to get over it, because it made it unnecessary to stop up the joints beforehand--the whitewash filled up all the cracks: and it also filled up the hollow parts, the crevices and interstices of the ornament, destroying the sharp outlines of the beautiful designs and reducing the whole to a lumpy, formless mass. but that did not matter either, so long as they got it done. the architect didn't notice it, because he knew that the more rushton & co. made out of the 'job', the more he himself would make. the man who had to pay for the work didn't notice it; he had the fullest confidence in the architect. at the risk of wearying the long-suffering reader, mention must be made of an affair that happened at this particular 'job'. the windows were all fitted with venetian blinds. the gentleman for whom all the work was being done had only just purchased the house, but he preferred roller blinds: he had had roller blinds in his former residence--which he had just sold--and as these roller blinds were about the right size, he decided to have them fitted to the windows of his new house: so he instructed mr rushton to have all the venetian blinds taken down and stored away up in the loft under the roof. mr rushton promised to have this done; but they were not all put away under the roof: he had four of them taken to his own place and fitted up in the conservatory. they were a little too large, so they had to be narrowed before they were fixed. the sequel was rather interesting, for it happened that when the gentleman attempted to take the roller blinds from his old house, the person to whom he had sold it refused to allow them to be removed; claiming that when he bought the house, he bought the blinds also. there was a little dispute, but eventually it was settled that way and the gentleman decided that he would have the venetian blinds in his new house after all, and instructed the people who moved his furniture to take the venetians down again from under the roof, and refix them, and then, of course, it was discovered that four of the blinds were missing. mr rushton was sent for, and he said that he couldn't understand it at all! the only possible explanation that he could think of was that some of his workmen must have stolen them! he would make inquiries, and endeavour to discover the culprits, but in any case, as this had happened while things were in his charge, if he did not succeed in recovering them, he would replace them. as the blinds had been narrowed to fit the conservatory he had to have four new ones made. the customer was of course quite satisfied, although very sorry for mr rushton. they had a little chat about it. rushton told the gentleman that he would be astonished if he knew all the facts: the difficulties one has to contend with in dealing with working men: one has to watch them continually! directly one's back is turned they leave off working! they come late in the morning, and go home before the proper time at night, and then unless one actually happens to catch them--they charge the full number of hours on their time sheets! every now and then something would be missing, and of course nobody knew anything about it. sometimes one would go unexpectedly to a 'job' and find a lot of them drunk. of course one tried to cope with these evils by means of rules and restrictions and organization, but it was very difficult--one could not be everywhere or have eyes at the back of one's head. the gentleman said that he had some idea of what it was like: he had had something to do with the lower orders himself at one time and another, and he knew they needed a lot of watching. rushton felt rather sick over this affair, but he consoled himself by reflecting that he had got clear away with several valuable rose trees and other plants which he had stolen out of the garden, and that a ladder which had been discovered in the hayloft over the stable and taken--by his instructions--to the 'yard' when the 'job' was finished had not been missed. another circumstance which helped to compensate for the blinds was that the brass fittings throughout the house, finger-plates, sash-lifts and locks, bolts and door handles, which were supposed to be all new and which the customer had paid a good price for--were really all the old ones which misery had had re-lacquered and refixed. there was nothing unusual about this affair of the blinds, for rushton and misery robbed everybody. they made a practice of annexing every thing they could lay their hands upon, provided it could be done without danger to themselves. they never did anything of a heroic or dare-devil character: they had not the courage to break into banks or jewellers' shops in the middle of the night, or to go out picking pockets: all their robberies were of the sneak-thief order. at one house that they 'did up' misery made a big haul. he had to get up into the loft under the roof to see what was the matter with the water tank. when he got up there he found a very fine hall gas lamp made of wrought brass and copper with stained and painted glass sides. although covered with dust, it was otherwise in perfect condition, so misery had it taken to his own house and cleaned up and fixed in the hall. in the same loft there were a lot of old brass picture rods and other fittings, and three very good planks, each about ten feet in length; these latter had been placed across the rafters so that one could walk easily and safely over to the tank. but misery thought they would be very useful to the firm for whitewashing ceilings and other work, so he had them taken to the yard along with the old brass, which was worth about fourpence a pound. there was another house that had to be painted inside: the people who used to live there had only just left: they had moved to some other town, and the house had been re-let before they vacated it. the new tenant had agreed with the agent that the house was to be renovated throughout before he took possession. the day after the old tenants moved away, the agent gave rushton the key so that he could go to see what was to be done and give an estimate for the work. while rushton and misery were looking over the house they discovered a large barometer hanging on the wall behind the front door: it had been overlooked by those who removed the furniture. before returning the key to the agent, rushton sent one of his men to the house for the barometer, which he kept in his office for a few weeks to see if there would be any inquiries about it. if there had been, it would have been easy to say that he had brought it there for safety--to take care of till he could find the owner. the people to whom it belonged thought the thing had been lost or stolen in transit, and afterwards one of the workmen who had assisted to pack and remove the furniture was dismissed from his employment on suspicion of having had something to do with its disappearance. no one ever thought of rushton in connection with the matter, so after about a month he had it taken to his own dwelling and hung up in the hall near the carved oak marble-topped console table that he had sneaked last summer from grand parade. and there it hangs unto this day: and close behind it, supported by cords of crimson silk, is a beautiful bevelled-edged card about a foot square, and upon this card is written, in letters of gold: 'christ is the head of this house; the unseen guest at every meal, the silent listener to every conversation.' and on the other side of the barometer is another card of the same kind and size which says: 'as for me and my house we will serve the lord.' from another place they stole two large brass chandeliers. this house had been empty for a very long time, and its owner--who did not reside in the town--wished to sell it. the agent, to improve the chances of a sale, decided to have the house overhauled and redecorated. rushton & co.'s tender being the lowest, they got the work. the chandeliers in the drawing-room and the dining-room were of massive brass, but they were all blackened and tarnished. misery suggested to the agent that they could be cleaned and relacquered, which would make them equal to new: in fact, they would be better than new ones, for such things as these were not made now, and for once misery was telling the truth. the agent agreed and the work was done: it was an extra, of course, and as the firm got twice as much for the job as they paid for having it done, they were almost satisfied. when this and all the other work was finished they sent in their account and were paid. some months afterwards the house was sold, and nimrod interviewed the new proprietor with the object of securing the order for any work that he might want done. he was successful. the papers on the walls of several of the rooms were not to the new owner's taste, and, of course, the woodwork would have to be re-painted to harmonize with the new paper. there was a lot of other work besides this: a new conservatory to build, a more modern bath and heating apparatus to be put in, and the electric light to be installed, the new people having an objection to the use of gas. the specifications were prepared by an architect, and rushton secured the work. when the chandeliers were taken down, the men, instructed by misery, put them on a handcart, and covered them over with sacks and dust-sheets and took them to the front shop, where they were placed for sale with the other stock. when all the work at the house was finished, it occurred to rushton and nimrod that when the architect came to examine and pass the work before giving them the certificate that would enable them to present their account, he might remember the chandeliers and inquire what had become of them. so they were again placed on the handcart, covered with sacks and dust-sheets, taken back to the house and put up in the loft under the roof so that, if he asked for them, there they were. the architect came, looked ever the house, passed the work, and gave his certificate; he never mentioned or thought of the chandeliers. the owner of the house was present and asked for rushton's bill, for which he at once gave them a cheque and rushton and misery almost grovelled and wallowed on the ground before him. throughout the whole interview the architect and the 'gentleman' had kept their hats on, but rushton and nimrod had been respectfully uncovered all the time, and as they followed the other two about the house their bearing had been expressive of the most abject servility. when the architect and the owner were gone the two chandeliers were taken down again from under the roof, and put upon a handcart, covered over with sacks and dust-sheets and taken back to the shop and again placed for sale with the other stock. these are only a few of the petty thefts committed by these people. to give anything approaching a full account of all the rest would require a separate volume. as a result of all the hurrying and scamping, every now and again the men found that they had worked themselves out of a job. several times during the summer the firm had scarcely anything to do, and nearly everybody had to stand off for a few days or weeks. when newman got his first start in the early part of the year he had only been working for about a fortnight when--with several others--he was 'stood off'. fortunately, however, the day after he left rushtons, he was lucky enough to get a start for another firm, driver and botchit, where he worked for nearly a month, and then he was again given a job at rushton's, who happened to be busy again. he did not have to lose much time, for he 'finished up' for driver and botchit on a thursday night and on the friday he interviewed misery, who told him they were about to commence a fresh 'job' on the following monday morning at six o'clock, and that he could start with them. so this time newman was only out of work the friday and saturday, which was another stroke of luck, because it often happens that a man has to lose a week or more after 'finishing up' for one firm before he gets another 'job'. all through the summer crass continued to be the general 'colour-man', most of his time being spent at the shop mixing up colours for all the different 'jobs'. he also acted as a sort of lieutenant to hunter, who, as the reader has already been informed, was not a practical painter. when there was a price to be given for some painting work, misery sometimes took crass with him to look over it and help him to estimate the amount of time and material it would take. crass was thus in a position of more than ordinary importance, not only being superior to the 'hands', but also ranking above the other sub-foremen who had charge of the 'jobs'. it was crass and these sub-foremen who were to blame for most of the scamping and driving, because if it had not been for them neither rushton nor hunter would have known how to scheme the work. of course, hunter and rushton wanted to drive and scamp, but not being practical men they would not have known how if it had not been for crass and the others, who put them up to all the tricks of the trade. crass knew that when the men stayed till half past seven they were in the habit of ceasing work for a few minutes to eat a mouthful of grub about six o'clock, so he suggested to misery that as it was not possible to stop this, it would be a good plan to make the men stop work altogether from half past five till six, and lose half an hour's pay; and to make up the time, instead of leaving off at seven-thirty, they could work till eight. misery had known of and winked at the former practice, for he knew that the men could not work all that time without something to eat, but crass's suggestion seemed a much better way, and it was adopted. when the other masters in mugsborough heard of this great reform they all followed suit, and it became the rule in that town, whenever it was necessary to work overtime, for the men to stay till eight instead of half past seven as formerly, and they got no more pay than before. previous to this summer it had been the almost invariable rule to have two men in each room that was being painted, but crass pointed out to misery that under such circumstances they wasted time talking to each other, and they also acted as a check on one another: each of them regulated the amount of work he did by the amount the other did, and if the 'job' took too long it was always difficult to decide which of the two was to blame: but if they were made to work alone, each of them would be on his mettle; he would not know how much the others were doing, and the fear of being considered slow in comparison with others would make them all tear into it all they could. misery thought this a very good idea, so the solitary system was introduced, and as far as practicable, one room, one man became the rule. they even tried to make the men distemper large ceilings single-handed, and succeeded in one or two cases, but after several ceilings had been spoilt and had to be washed off and done over again, they gave that up: but nearly all the other work was now arranged on the 'solitary system', and it worked splendidly: each man was constantly in a state of panic as to whether the others were doing more work than himself. another suggestion that crass made to misery was that the sub-foremen should be instructed never to send a man into a room to prepare it for painting. 'if you sends a man into a room to get it ready,' said crass, ''e makes a meal of it! 'e spends as much time messin' about rubbin' down and stoppin' up as it would take to paint it. but,' he added, with a cunning leer, 'give 'em a bit of putty and a little bit of glass-paper, and the paint at the stand, and then 'e gits it in 'is mind as 'e's going in there to paint it! and 'e doesn't mess about much over the preparing of it'. these and many other suggestions--all sorts of devices for scamping and getting over the work--were schemed out by crass and the other sub-foremen, who put them into practice and showed them to misery and rushton in the hope of currying favour with them and being 'kept on'. and between the lot of them they made life a veritable hell for themselves, and the hands, and everybody else around them. and the mainspring of it all was--the greed and selfishness of one man, who desired to accumulate money! for this was the only object of all the driving and bullying and hatred and cursing and unhappiness--to make money for rushton, who evidently considered himself a deserving case. it is sad and discreditable, but nevertheless true, that some of the more selfish of the philanthropists often became weary of well-doing, and lost all enthusiasm in the good cause. at such times they used to say that they were 'bloody well fed up' with the whole business and 'tired of tearing their bloody guts out for the benefit of other people' and every now and then some of these fellows would 'chuck up' work, and go on the booze, sometimes stopping away for two or three days or a week at a time. and then, when it was all over, they came back, very penitent, to ask for another 'start', but they generally found that their places had been filled. if they happened to be good 'sloggers'--men who made a practice of 'tearing their guts out' when they did work--they were usually forgiven, and after being admonished by misery, permitted to resume work, with the understanding that if ever it occurred again they would get the 'infernal'--which means the final and irrevocable--sack. there was once a job at a shop that had been a high-class restaurant kept by a renowned italian chef. it had been known as 'macaroni's royal italian cafe' situated on the grand parade, it was a favourite resort of the 'elite', who frequented it for afternoon tea and coffee and for little suppers after the theatre. it had plate-glass windows, resplendent with gilding, marble-topped tables with snow white covers, vases of flowers, and all the other appurtenances of glittering cut glass and silver. the obsequious waiters were in evening dress, the walls were covered with lofty plate-glass mirrors in carved and gilded frames, and at certain hours of the day and night an orchestra consisting of two violins and a harp discoursed selections of classic music. but of late years the business had not been paying, and finally the proprietor went bankrupt and was sold out. the place was shut up for several months before the shop was let to a firm of dealers in fancy articles, and the other part was transformed into flats. rushton had the contract for the work. when the men went there to 'do it up' they found the interior of the house in a state of indescribable filth: the ceilings discoloured with smoke and hung with cobwebs, the wallpapers smeared and black with grease, the handrails and the newel posts of the staircase were clammy with filth, and the edges of the doors near the handles were blackened with greasy dirt and finger-marks. the tops of the skirtings, the mouldings of the doors, the sashes of the windows and the corners of the floors were thick with the accumulated dust of years. in one of the upper rooms which had evidently been used as a nursery or playroom for the children of the renowned chef, the wallpaper for about two feet above the skirting was blackened with grease and ornamented with childish drawings made with burnt sticks and blacklead pencils, the door being covered with similar artistic efforts, to say nothing of some rude attempts at carving, evidently executed with an axe or a hammer. but all this filth was nothing compared with the unspeakable condition of the kitchen and scullery, a detailed description of which would cause the blood of the reader to curdle, and each particular hair of his head to stand on end. let it suffice to say that the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the paintwork, the gas-stove, the kitchen range, the dresser and everything else were uniformly absolutely and literally--black. and the black was composed of soot and grease. in front of the window there was a fixture--a kind of bench or table, deeply scored with marks of knives like a butcher's block. the sill of the window was about six inches lower than the top of the table, so that between the glass of the lower sash of the window, which had evidently never been raised, and the back of the table, there was a long narrow cavity or trough, about six inches deep, four inches wide and as long as the width of the window, the sill forming the bottom of the cavity. this trough was filled with all manner of abominations: fragments of fat and decomposed meat, legs of rabbits and fowls, vegetable matter, broken knives and forks, and hair: and the glass of the window was caked with filth of the same description. this job was the cause of the sacking of the semi-drunk and another man named bill bates, who were sent into the kitchen to clean it down and prepare it for painting and distempering. they commenced to do it, but it made them feel so ill that they went out and had a pint each, and after that they made another start at it. but it was not long before they felt that it was imperatively necessary to have another drink. so they went over to the pub, and this time they had two pints each. bill paid for the first two and then the semi-drunk refused to return to work unless bill would consent to have another pint with him before going back. when they had drunk the two pints, they decided--in order to save themselves the trouble and risk of coming away from the job--to take a couple of quarts back with them in two bottles, which the landlord of the pub lent them, charging twopence on each bottle, to be refunded when they were returned. when they got back to the job they found the 'coddy' in the kitchen, looking for them and he began to talk and grumble, but the semi-drunk soon shut him up: he told him he could either have a drink out of one of the bottles or a punch in the bloody nose--whichever he liked! or if he did not fancy either of these alternatives, he could go to hell! as the 'coddy' was a sensible man he took the beer and advised them to pull themselves together and try to get some work done before misery came, which they promised to do. when the 'coddy' was gone they made another attempt at the work. misery came a little while afterwards and began shouting at them because he said he could not see what they had done. it looked as if they had been asleep all the morning: here it was nearly ten o'clock, and as far as he could see, they had done nothing! when he was gone they drank the rest of the beer and then they began to feel inclined to laugh. what did they care for hunter or rushton either? to hell with both of 'em! they left off scraping and scrubbing, and began throwing buckets of water over the dresser and the walls, laughing uproariously all the time. 'we'll show the b--s how to wash down paintwork!' shouted the semi-drunk, as he stood in the middle of the room and hurled a pailful of water over the door of the cupboard. 'bring us another bucket of water, bill.' bill was out in the scullery filling his pail under the tap, and laughing so much that he could scarcely stand. as soon as it was full he passed it to the semi-drunk, who threw it bodily, pail and all, on to the bench in front of the window, smashing one of the panes of glass. the water poured off the table and all over the floor. bill brought the next pailful in and threw it at the kitchen door, splitting one of the panels from top to bottom, and then they threw about half a dozen more pailfuls over the dresser. 'we'll show the b--rs how to clean paintwork,' they shouted, as they hurled the buckets at the walls and doors. by this time the floor was deluged with water, which mingled with the filth and formed a sea of mud. they left the two taps running in the scullery and as the waste pipe of the sink was choked up with dirt, the sink filled up and overflowed like a miniature niagara. the water ran out under the doors into the back-yard, and along the passage out to the front door. but bill bates and the semi-drunk remained in the kitchen, smashing the pails at the walls and doors and the dresser, and cursing and laughing hysterically. they had just filled the two buckets and were bringing them into the kitchen when they heard hunter's voice in the passage, shouting out inquiries as to where all that water came from. then they heard him advancing towards them and they stood waiting for him with the pails in their hands, and directly he opened the door and put his head into the room they let fly the two pails at him. unfortunately, they were too drunk and excited to aim straight. one pail struck the middle rail of the door and the other the wall by the side of it. misery hastily shut the door again and ran upstairs, and presently the 'coddy' came down and called out to them from the passage. they went out to see what he wanted, and he told them that misery had gone to the office to get their wages ready: they were to make out their time sheets and go for their money at once. misery had said that if they were not there in ten minutes he would have the pair of them locked up. the semi-drunk said that nothing would suit them better than to have all their pieces at once--they had spent all their money and wanted another drink. bill bates concurred, so they borrowed a piece of blacklead pencil from the 'coddy' and made out their time sheets, took off their aprons, put them into their tool bags, and went to the office for their money, which misery passed out to them through the trap-door. the news of this exploit spread all over the town during that day and evening, and although it was in july, the next morning at six o'clock there were half a dozen men waiting at the yard to ask misery if there was 'any chance of a job'. bill bates and the semi-drunk had had their spree and had got the sack for it and most of the chaps said it served them right. such conduct as that was going too far. most of them would have said the same thing no matter what the circumstances might have been. they had very little sympathy for each other at any time. often, when, for instance, one man was sent away from one 'job' to another, the others would go into his room and look at the work he had been doing, and pick out all the faults they could find and show them to each other, making all sorts of ill-natured remarks about the absent one meanwhile. 'jist run yer nose over that door, jim,' one would say in a tone of disgust. 'wotcher think of it? did yer ever see sich a mess in yer life? calls hisself a painter!' and the other man would shake his head sadly and say that although the one who had done it had never been up to much as a workman, he could do it a bit better than that if he liked, but the fact was that he never gave himself time to do anything properly: he was always tearing his bloody guts out! why, he'd only been in this room about four hours from start to finish! he ought to have a watering cart to follow him about, because he worked at such a hell of a rate you couldn't see him for dust! and then the first man would reply that other people could do as they liked, but for his part, he was not going to tear his guts out for nobody! the second man would applaud these sentiments and say that he wasn't going to tear his out either: and then they would both go back to their respective rooms and tear into the work for all they were worth, making the same sort of 'job' as the one they had been criticizing, and afterwards, when the other's back was turned, each of them in turn would sneak into the other's room and criticize it and point out the faults to anyone else who happened to be near at hand. harlow was working at the place that had been macaroni's cafe when one day a note was sent to him from hunter at the shop. it was written on a scrap of wallpaper, and worded in the usual manner of such notes--as if the writer had studied how to avoid all suspicion of being unduly civil: harlow go to the yard at once take your tools with you. crass will tell you where you have to go. j.h. they were just finishing their dinners when the boy brought this note; and after reading it aloud for the benefit of the others, harlow remarked that it was worded in much the same way in which one would speak to a dog. the others said nothing; but after he was gone the other men--who all considered that it was ridiculous for the 'likes of us' to expect or wish to be treated with common civility--laughed about it, and said that harlow was beginning to think he was somebody: they supposed it was through readin' all those books what owen was always lendin' 'im. and then one of them got a piece of paper and wrote a note to be given to harlow at the first opportunity. this note was properly worded, written in a manner suitable for a gentleman like him, neatly folded and addressed: mr harlow esq., c/o macaroni's royal cafe till called for. mister harlow, dear sir: wood you kinely oblige me bi cummin to the paint shop as soon as you can make it convenient as there is a sealin' to be wite-woshed hoppin this is not trubbling you to much i remane yours respeckfully pontius pilate. this note was read out for the amusement of the company and afterwards stored away in the writer's pocket till such a time as an opportunity should occur of giving it to harlow. as the writer of the note was on his way back to his room to resume work he was accosted by a man who had gone into harlow's room to criticize it, and had succeeded in finding several faults which he pointed out to the other, and of course they were both very much disgusted with harlow. 'i can't think why the coddy keeps him on the job,' said the first man. 'between you and me, if i had charge of a job, and misery sent harlow there--i'd send 'im back to the shop.' 'same as you,' agreed the other as he went back to tear into his own room. 'same as you, old man: i shouldn't 'ave 'im neither.' it must not be supposed from this that either of these two men were on exceptionally bad terms with harlow; they were just as good friends with him--to his face--as they were with each other--to each other's faces--and it was just their way: that was all. if it had been one or both of these two who had gone away instead of harlow, just the same things would have been said about them by the others who remained--it was merely their usual way of speaking about each other behind each other's backs. it was always the same: if any one of them made a mistake or had an accident or got into any trouble he seldom or never got any sympathy from his fellow workmen. on the contrary, most of them at such times seemed rather pleased than otherwise. there was a poor devil--a stranger in the town; he came from london--who got the sack for breaking some glass. he had been sent to 'burn off' some old paint of the woodwork of a window. he was not very skilful in the use of the burning-off lamp, because on the firm when he had been working in london it was a job that the ordinary hands were seldom or never called upon to do. there were one or two men who did it all. for that matter, not many of rushton's men were very skilful at it either. it was a job everybody tried to get out of, because nearly always the lamp went wrong and there was a row about the time the work took. so they worked this job on to the stranger. this man had been out of work for a long time before he got a start at rushton's, and he was very anxious not to lose the job, because he had a wife and family in london. when the 'coddy' told him to go and burn off this window he did not like to say that he was not used to the work: he hoped to be able to do it. but he was very nervous, and the end was that although he managed to do the burning off all right, just as he was finishing he accidentally allowed the flame of the lamp to come into contact with a large pane of glass and broke it. they sent to the shop for a new pane of glass, and the man stayed late that night and put it in in his own time, thus bearing half the cost of repairing it. things were not very busy just then, and on the following saturday two of the hands were 'stood off'. the stranger was one of them, and nearly everybody was very pleased. at mealtimes the story of the broken window was repeatedly told amid jeering laughter. it really seemed as if a certain amount of indignation was felt that a stranger--especially such an inferior person as this chap who did not know how to use a lamp--should have had the cheek to try to earn his living at all! one thing was very certain--they said, gleefully--he would never get another job at rushton's: that was one good thing. and yet they all knew that this accident might have happened to any one of them. once a couple of men got the sack because a ceiling they distempered had to be washed off and done again. it was not really the men's fault at all: it was a ceiling that needed special treatment and they had not been allowed to do it properly. but all the same, when they got the sack most of the others laughed and sneered and were glad. perhaps because they thought that the fact that these two unfortunates had been disgraced, increased their own chances of being 'kept on'. and so it was with nearly everything. with a few exceptions, they had an immense amount of respect for rushton and hunter, and very little respect or sympathy for each other. exactly the same lack of feeling for each other prevailed amongst the members of all the different trades. everybody seemed glad if anybody got into trouble for any reason whatever. there was a garden gate that had been made at the carpenter's shop: it was not very well put together, and for the usual reason; the man had not been allowed the time to do it properly. after it was fixed, one of his shopmates wrote upon it with lead pencil in big letters: 'this is good work for a joiner. order one ton of putty.' but to hear them talking in the pub of a saturday afternoon just after pay-time one would think them the best friends and mates and the most independent spirits in the world, fellows whom it would be very dangerous to trifle with, and who would stick up for each other through thick and thin. all sorts of stories were related of the wonderful things they had done and said; of jobs they had 'chucked up', and masters they had 'told off': of pails of whitewash thrown over offending employers, and of horrible assaults and batteries committed upon the same. but strange to say, for some reason or other, it seldom happened that a third party ever witnessed any of these prodigies. it seemed as if a chivalrous desire to spare the feelings of their victims had always prevented them from doing or saying anything to them in the presence of witnesses. when he had drunk a few pints, crass was a very good hand at these stories. here is one that he told in the bar of the cricketers on the saturday afternoon of the same week that bill bates and the semi-drunk got the sack. the cricketers was only a few minutes walk from the shop and at pay-time a number of the men used to go in there to take a drink before going home. 'last thursday night about five o'clock, 'unter comes inter the paint-shop an' ses to me, "i wants a pail o' wash made up tonight, crass," 'e ses, "ready for fust thing in the mornin'," 'e ses. "oh," i ses, lookin' 'im straight in the bloody eye, "oh, yer do, do yer?"--just like that. "yes," 'e ses. "well, you can bloody well make it yerself!" i ses, "'cos i ain't agoin' to," i ses--just like that. "wot the 'ell do yer mean," i ses, "by comin' 'ere at this time o' night with a order like that?" i ses. you'd a larfed,' continued crass, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after taking another drink out of his glass, and looking round to note the effect of the story, 'you'd a larfed if you'd bin there. 'e was fairly flabbergasted! and wen i said that to 'im i see 'is jaw drop! an' then 'e started apoligizing and said as 'e 'adn't meant no offence, but i told 'im bloody straight not to come no more of it. "you bring the horder at a reasonable time," i ses--just like that--"and i'll attend to it," i ses, "but not otherwise," i ses.' as he concluded this story, crass drained his glass and gazed round upon the audience, who were full of admiration. they looked at each other and at crass and nodded their heads approvingly. yes, undoubtedly, that was the proper way to deal with such bounders as nimrod; take up a strong attitude, an' let 'em see as you'll stand no nonsense! 'yer don't blame me, do yer?' continued crass. 'why should we put up with a lot of old buck from the likes of 'im! we're not a lot of bloody chinamen, are we?' so far from blaming him, they all assured him that they would have acted in precisely the same way under similar circumstances. 'for my part, i'm a bloke like this,' said a tall man with a very loud voice--a chap who nearly fell down dead every time rushton or misery looked at him. 'i'm a bloke like this 'ere: i never stands no cheek from no gaffers! if a guv'nor ses two bloody words to me, i downs me tools and i ses to 'im, "wot! don't i suit yer, guv'ner? ain't i done enuff for yer? werry good! gimmie me bleedin' a'pence."' 'quite right too,' said everybody. that was the way to serve 'em. if only everyone would do the same as the tall man--who had just paid for another round of drinks--things would be a lot more comfortable than they was. 'last summer i was workin' for ole buncer,' said a little man with a cutaway coat several sizes too large for him. 'i was workin' for ole buncer, over at windley, an' you all knows as 'e don't arf lower it. well, one day, when i knowed 'e was on the drunk, i 'ad to first coat a room out--white; so thinks i to meself, "if i buck up i shall be able to get this lot done by about four o'clock, an' then i can clear orf 'ome. 'cos i reckoned as 'e'd be about flattened out by that time, an' you know 'e ain't got no foreman. so i tears into it an' gets this 'ere room done about a quarter past four, an' i'd just got me things put away for the night w'en 'oo should come fallin' up the bloody stairs but ole buncer, drunk as a howl! an' no sooner 'e gits inter the room than 'e starts yappin' an' rampin'." "is this 'ere hall you've done?" 'e shouts out. "wotcher bin up to hall day?" 'e ses, an' 'e keeps on shouting' an' swearin' till at last i couldn't stand it no longer, 'cos you can guess i wasn't in a very good temper with 'im comin' along jist then w'en i thought i was goin' to get orf a bit early--so w'en 'e kept on shoutin' i never made no answer to 'im, but ups with me fist an' i gives 'im a slosh in the dial an' stopped 'is clock! then i chucked the pot o' w'ite paint hover 'im, an' kicked 'im down the bloody stairs.' 'serve 'im blooming well right, too,' said crass as he took a fresh glass of beer from one of the others, who had just 'stood' another round. 'what did the b--r say to that?' inquired the tall man. 'not a bloody word!' replied the little man, ''e picked 'isself up, and called a keb wot was passin' an' got inter it an' went 'ome; an' i never seen no more of 'im until about 'arf-past eleven the next day, w'en i was second-coatin' the room, an' 'e comes up with a noo suit o' clothes on, an' arsts me if i'd like to come hover to the pub an' 'ave a drink? so we goes hover, an' 'e calls for a w'iskey an' soda for isself an' arsts me wot i'd 'ave, so i 'ad the same. an' w'ile we was gettin' it down us, 'e ses to me, "ah, garge," 'e ses. "you losed your temper with me yesterday,"' 'e ses.' 'there you are, you see!' said the tall man. 'there's an example for yer! if you 'adn't served 'im as you did you'd most likely 'ave 'ad to put up with a lot more ole buck.' they all agreed that the little man had done quite right: they all said that they didn' blame him in the least: they would all have done the same: in fact, this was the way they all conducted themselves whenever occasion demanded it. to hear them talk, one would imagine that such affairs as the recent exploit of bill bates and the semi-drunk were constantly taking place, instead of only occurring about once in a blue moon. crass stood the final round of drinks, and as he evidently thought that circumstance deserved to be signalized in some special manner, he proposed the following toast, which was drunk with enthusiasm: 'to hell with the man, may he never grow fat, what carries two faces, under one 'at.' rushton & co. did a lot of work that summer. they did not have many big jobs, but there were a lot of little ones, and the boy bert was kept busy running from one to the other. he spent most of his time dragging a handcart with loads of paint, or planks and steps, and seldom went out to work with the men, for when he was not taking things out to the various places where the philanthropists were working, he was in the paintshop at the yard, scraping out dirty paint-pots or helping crass to mix up colours. although scarcely anyone seemed to notice it, the boy presented a truly pitiable spectacle. he was very pale and thin. dragging the handcart did not help him to put on flesh, for the weather was very hot and the work made him sweat. his home was right away on the other side of windley. it took him more than three-quarters of an hour to walk to the shop, and as he had to be at work at six, that meant that he had to leave home at a few minutes past five every morning, so that he always got up about half past four. he was wearing a man's coat--or rather jacket--which gave the upper part of his body a bulky appearance. the trousers were part of a suit of his own, and were somewhat narrowly cut, as is the rule with boys' cheap ready-made trousers. these thin legs appearing under the big jacket gave him a rather grotesque appearance, which was heightened by the fact that all his clothes, cap, coat, waistcoat, trousers and boots, were smothered with paint and distemper of various colours, and there were generally a few streaks of paint of some sort or other upon his face, and of course his hands--especially round the fingernails--were grimed with it. but the worst of all were the dreadful hobnailed boots: the leather of the uppers of these was an eighth of an inch thick, and very stiff. across the fore part of the boot this hard leather had warped into ridges and valleys, which chafed his feet, and made them bleed. the soles were five-eighths of an inch thick, covered with hobnails, and were as hard and inflexible and almost as heavy as iron. these boots hurt his feet dreadfully and made him feel very tired and miserable, for he had such a lot of walking to do. he used to be jolly glad when dinner-time came, for then he used to get out of sight in some quiet spot and lie down for the whole hour. his favourite dining-place was up in the loft over the carpenter's shop, where they stored the mouldings and architraves. no one ever came there at that hour, and after he had eaten his dinner he used to lie down and think and rest. he nearly always had an hour for dinner, but he did not always have it at the same time: sometimes he had it at twelve o'clock and sometimes not till two. it all depended upon what stuff had to be taken to the job. often it happened that some men at a distant job required some material to use immediately after dinner, and perhaps crass was not able to get it ready till twelve o'clock, so that it was not possible to take it before dinner-time, and if bert left it till after dinner the men would be wasting their time waiting for it: so in such cases he took it there first and had his dinner when he came back. sometimes he got back about half past twelve, and it was necessary for him to take out another lot of material at one o'clock. in such a case he 'charged' half an hour overtime on his time sheet--he used to get twopence an hour for overtime. sometimes crass sent him with a handcart to one job to get a pair of steps or tressels, or a plank, or some material or other, and take them to another job, and on these occasions it was often very late before he was able to take his meals. instead of getting his breakfast at eight, it was often nearly nine before he got back to the shop, and frequently he had to go without dinner until half past one or two. sometimes he could scarcely manage to carry the pots of paint to the jobs; his feet were so hot and sore. when he had to push the cart it was worse still, and often when knocking-off time came he felt so tired that he could scarcely manage to walk home. but the weather was not always hot or fine: sometimes it was quite cold, almost like winter, and there was a lot of rain that summer. at such times the boy frequently got wet through several times a day as he went from one job to another, and he had to work all the time in his wet clothes and boots, which were usually old and out of repair and let in the water. one of the worst jobs that he had to do was when a new stock of white lead came in. this stuff came in wooden barrels containing two hundredweight, and he used to have to dig it out of these barrels with a trowel, and put it into a metal tank, where it was kept covered with water, and the empty barrels were returned to the makers. when he was doing this work he usually managed to get himself smeared all over with the white lead, and this circumstance, and the fact that he was always handling paint or some poisonous material or other was doubtless the cause of the terrible pains he often had in his stomach--pains that sometimes caused him to throw himself down and roll on the ground in agony. one afternoon crass sent him with a handcart to a job that easton, philpot, harlow and owen were just finishing. he got there about half past four and helped the men to load up the things, and afterwards walked alongside the cart with them back to the shop. on the way they all noticed and remarked to each other that the boy looked tired and pale and that he seemed to limp: but he did not say anything, although he guessed that they were talking about him. they arrived at the shop a little before knocking-off time--about ten minutes past five. bert helped them to unload, and afterwards, while they were putting their things away and 'charging up' the unused materials they had brought back, he pushed the cart over to the shed where it was kept, on the other side of the yard. he did not return to the shop at once and a few minutes later when harlow came out into the yard to get a bucket of water to wash their hands with, he saw the boy leaning on the side of the cart, crying, and holding one foot off the ground. harlow asked him what was the matter, and while he was speaking to him the others came out to see what was up: the boy said he had rheumatism or growing pains or something in his leg, 'just here near the knee'. but he didn't say much, he just cried miserably, and turned his head slowly from side to side, avoiding the looks of the men because he felt ashamed that they should see him cry. when they saw how ill and miserable he looked, the men all put their hands in their pockets to get some coppers to give to him so that he could ride home on the tram. they gave him fivepence altogether, more than enough to ride all the way; and crass told him to go at once--there was no need to wait till half past; but before he went philpot got a small glass bottle out of his tool bag and filled it with oil and turps--two of turps and one of oil--which he gave to bert to rub into his leg before going to bed: the turps--he explained--was to cure the pain and the oil was to prevent it from hurting the skin. he was to get his mother to rub it in for him if he were too tired to do it himself. bert promised to observe these directions, and, drying his tears, took his dinner basket and limped off to catch the tram. it was a few days after this that hunter met with an accident. he was tearing off on his bicycle to one of the jobs about five minutes to twelve to see if he could catch anyone leaving off for dinner before the proper time, and while going down a rather steep hill the front brake broke--the rubbers of the rear one were worn out and failed to act--so misery to save himself from being smashed against the railings of the houses at the bottom of the hill, threw himself off the machine, with the result that his head and face and hands were terribly cut and bruised. he was so badly knocked about that he had to remain at home for nearly three weeks, much to the delight of the men and the annoyance--one might even say the indignation--of mr rushton, who did not know enough about the work to make out estimates without assistance. there were several large jobs to be tendered for at the same time, so rushton sent the specifications round to hunter's house for him to figure out the prices, and nearly all the time that misery was at home he was sitting up in bed, swathed in bandages, trying to calculate the probable cost of these jobs. rushton did not come to see him, but he sent bert nearly every day, either with some specifications, or some accounts, or something of that sort, or with a note inquiring when hunter thought he would be able to return to work. all sorts of rumours became prevalent amongst the men concerning hunter's condition. he had 'broken his spiral column', he had 'conjunction of the brain', or he had injured his 'innards' and would probably never be able to 'do no more slave-drivin''. crass--who had helped mr rushton to 'price up' several small jobs--began to think it might not be altogether a bad thing for himself if something were to happen to hunter, and he began to put on side and to assume airs of authority. he got one of the light-weights to assist him in his work of colourman and made him do all the hard work, while he spent part of his own time visiting the different jobs to see how the work progressed. crass's appearance did him justice. he was wearing a pair of sporting trousers the pattern of which consisted of large black and white squares. the previous owner of these trousers was taller and slighter than crass, so although the legs were about a couple of inches too long, they fitted him rather tightly, so much so that it was fortunate that he had his present job of colourman, for if he had had to do any climbing up and down ladders or steps, the trousers would have burst. his jacket was also two or three sizes too small, and the sleeves were so short that the cuffs of his flanelette shirt were visible. this coat was made of serge, and its colour had presumably once been blue, but it was now a sort of heliotrope and violet: the greater part being of the former tint, and the parts under the sleeves of the latter. this jacket fitted very tightly across the shoulders and back and being much too short left his tightly clad posteriors exposed to view. he however seemed quite unconscious of anything peculiar in his appearance and was so bumptious and offensive that most of the men were almost glad when nimrod came back. they said that if crass ever got the job he would be a dam' sight worse than hunter. as for the latter, for a little while after his return to work it was said that his illness had improved his character: he had had time to think things over; and in short, he was ever so much better than before: but it was not long before this story began to be told the other way round. he was worse than ever! and a thing that happened about a fortnight after his return caused more ill feeling and resentment against him and rushton than had ever existed previously. what led up to it was something that was done by bundy's mate, ted dawson. this poor wretch was scarcely ever seen without a load of some sort or other: carrying a sack of cement or plaster, a heavy ladder, a big bucket of mortar, or dragging a load of scaffolding on a cart. he must have been nearly as strong as a horse, because after working in this manner for rushton & co. from six in the morning till half past five at night, he usually went to work in his garden for two or three hours after tea, and frequently went there for an hour or so in the morning before going to work. the poor devil needed the produce of his garden to supplement his wages, for he had a wife and three children to provide for and he earned only--or rather, to be correct, he was paid only--fourpence an hour. there was an old house to which they were making some alterations and repairs, and there was a lot of old wood taken out of it: old, decayed floorboards and stuff of that kind, wood that was of no use whatever except to burn. bundy and his mate were working there, and one night, misery came a few minutes before half past five and caught dawson in the act of tying up a small bundle of this wood. when hunter asked him what he was going to do with it he made no attempt at prevarication or concealment: he said he was going to take it home for fire-wood, because it was of no other use. misery kicked up a devil of a row and ordered him to leave the wood where it was: it had to be taken to the yard, and it was nothing to do with dawson or anyone else whether it was any use or not! if he caught anyone taking wood away he would sack them on the spot. hunter shouted very loud so that all the others might hear, and as they were all listening attentively in the next room, where they were taking their aprons off preparatory to going home, they got the full benefit of his remarks. the following saturday when the hands went to the office for their money they were each presented with a printed card bearing the following legend: under no circumstances is any article or material, however trifling, to be taken away by workmen for their private use, whether waste material or not, from any workshop or place where work is being done. foremen are hereby instructed to see that this order is obeyed and to report any such act coming to their knowledge. any man breaking this rule will be either dismissed without notice or given into custody. rushton & co. most of the men took these cards with the envelopes containing their wages and walked away without making any comment--in fact, most of them were some distance away before they realized exactly what the card was about. two or three of them stood a few steps away from the pay window in full view of rushton and misery and ostentatiously tore the thing into pieces and threw them into the street. one man remained at the pay window while he read the card--and then flung it with an obscene curse into rushton's face, and demanded his back day, which they gave him without any remark or delay, the other men who were not yet paid having to wait while he made out his time-sheet for that morning. the story of this card spread all over the place in a very short time. it became the talk of every shop in the town. whenever any of rushton's men encountered the employees of another firm, the latter used to shout after them--'however trifling!'--or 'look out, chaps! 'ere comes some of rushton's pickpockets.' amongst rushton's men themselves it became a standing joke or form of greeting to say when one met another--'remember! however trifling!' if one of their number was seen going home with an unusual amount of paint or whitewash on his hands or clothes, the others would threaten to report him for stealing the material. they used to say that however trifling the quantity, it was against orders to take it away. harlow drew up a list of rules which he said mr rushton had instructed him to communicate to the men. one of these rules provided that everybody was to be weighed upon arrival at the job in the morning and again at leaving-off time: any man found to have increased in weight was to be discharged. there was also much cursing and covert resentment about it; the men used to say that such a thing as that looked well coming from the likes of rushton and hunter, and they used to remind each other of the affair of the marble-topped console table, the barometer, the venetian blinds and all the other robberies. none of them ever said anything to either misery or rushton about the cards, but one morning when the latter was reading his letters at the breakfast table, on opening one of them he found that it contained one of the notices, smeared with human excrement. he did not eat any more breakfast that morning. it was not to be much wondered at that none of them had the courage to openly resent the conditions under which they had to work, for although it was summer, there were many men out of employment, and it was much easier to get the sack than it was to get another job. none of the men were ever caught stealing anything, however trifling, but all the same during the course of the summer five or six of them were captured by the police and sent to jail--for not being able to pay their poor rates. all through the summer owen continued to make himself objectionable and to incur the ridicule of his fellow workmen by talking about the causes of poverty and of ways to abolish it. most of the men kept two shillings or half a crown of their wages back from their wives for pocket money, which they spent on beer and tobacco. there were a very few who spent a little more than this, and there were a still smaller number who spent so much in this way that their families had to suffer in consequence. most of those who kept back half a crown or three shillings from their wives did so on the understanding that they were to buy their clothing out of it. some of them had to pay a shilling a week to a tallyman or credit clothier. these were the ones who indulged in shoddy new suits--at long intervals. others bought--or got their wives to buy for them--their clothes at second-hand shops, 'paying off' about a shilling or so a week and not receiving the things till they were paid for. there were a very large proportion of them who did not spend even a shilling a week for drink: and there were numerous others who, while not being formally total abstainers, yet often went for weeks together without either entering a public house or tasting intoxicating drink in any form. then there were others who, instead of drinking tea or coffee or cocoa with their dinners or suppers, drank beer. this did not cost more than the teetotal drinks, but all the same there are some persons who say that those who swell the 'nation's drink bill' by drinking beer with their dinners or suppers are a kind of criminal, and that they ought to be compelled to drink something else: that is, if they are working people. as for the idle classes, they of course are to be allowed to continue to make merry, 'drinking whisky, wine and sherry', to say nothing of having their beer in by the barrel and the dozen--or forty dozen--bottles. but of course that's a different matter, because these people make so much money out of the labour of the working classes that they can afford to indulge in this way without depriving their children of the necessaries of life. there is no more cowardly, dastardly slander than is contained in the assertion that the majority or any considerable proportion of working men neglect their families through drink. it is a condemned lie. there are some who do, but they are not even a large minority. they are few and far between, and are regarded with contempt by their fellow workmen. it will be said that their families had to suffer for want of even the little that most of them spent in that way: but the persons that use this argument should carry it to its logical conclusion. tea is an unnecessary and harmful drink; it has been condemned by medical men so often that to enumerate its evil qualities here would be waste of time. the same can be said of nearly all the cheap temperance drinks; they are unnecessary and harmful and cost money, and, like beer, are drunk only for pleasure. what right has anyone to say to working men that when their work is done they should not find pleasure in drinking a glass or two of beer together in a tavern or anywhere else? let those who would presume to condemn them carry their argument to its logical conclusion and condemn pleasure of every kind. let them persuade the working classes to lead still simpler lives; to drink water instead of such unwholesome things as tea, coffee, beer, lemonade and all the other harmful and unnecessary stuff. they would then be able to live ever so much more cheaply, and as wages are always and everywhere regulated by the cost of living, they would be able to work for lower pay. these people are fond of quoting the figures of the 'nation's drink bill,' as if all this money were spent by the working classes! but if the amount of money spent in drink by the 'aristocracy', the clergy and the middle classes were deducted from the 'nation's drink bill', it would be seen that the amount spent per head by the working classes is not so alarming after all; and would probably not be much larger than the amount spent on drink by those who consume tea and coffee and all the other unwholesome and unnecessary 'temperance' drinks. the fact that some of rushton's men spent about two shillings a week on drink while they were in employment was not the cause of their poverty. if they had never spent a farthing for drink, and if their wretched wages had been increased fifty percent, they would still have been in a condition of the most abject and miserable poverty, for nearly all the benefits and privileges of civilization, nearly everything that makes life worth living, would still have been beyond their reach. it is inevitable, so long as men have to live and work under such heartbreaking, uninteresting conditions as at present that a certain proportion of them will seek forgetfulness and momentary happiness in the tavern, and the only remedy for this evil is to remove the cause; and while that is in process, there is something else that can be done and that is, instead of allowing filthy drinking dens, presided over by persons whose interest it is to encourage men to drink more bad beer than is good for them or than they can afford,--to have civilized institutions run by the state or the municipalities for use and not merely for profit. decent pleasure houses, where no drunkenness or filthiness would be tolerated--where one could buy real beer or coffee or tea or any other refreshments; where men could repair when their day's work was over and spend an hour or two in rational intercourse with their fellows or listen to music and singing. taverns to which they could take their wives and children without fear of defilement, for a place that is not fit for the presence of a woman or a child is not fit to exist at all. owen, being a teetotaller, did not spend any of his money on drink; but he spent a lot on what he called 'the cause'. every week he bought some penny or twopenny pamphlets or some leaflets about socialism, which he lent or gave to his mates; and in this way and by means of much talk he succeeded in converting a few to his party. philpot, harlow and a few others used to listen with interest, and some of them even paid for the pamphlets they obtained from owen, and after reading them themselves, passed them on to others, and also occasionally 'got up' arguments on their own accounts. others were simply indifferent, or treated the subject as a kind of joke, ridiculing the suggestion that it was possible to abolish poverty. they repeated that there had 'always been rich and poor in the world and there always would be, so there was an end of it'. but the majority were bitterly hostile; not to owen, but to socialism. for the man himself most of them had a certain amount of liking, especially the ordinary hands because it was known that he was not a 'master's man' and that he had declined to 'take charge' of jobs which misery had offered to him. but to socialism they were savagely and malignantly opposed. some of those who had shown some symptoms of socialism during the past winter when they were starving had now quite recovered and were stout defenders of the present system. barrington was still working for the firm and continued to maintain his manner of reserve, seldom speaking unless addressed but all the same, for several reasons, it began to be rumoured that he shared owen's views. he always paid for the pamphlets that owen gave him, and on one occasion, when owen bought a thousand leaflets to give away, barrington contributed a shilling towards the half-crown that owen paid for them. but he never took any part in the arguments that sometimes raged during the dinner-hour or at breakfast-time. it was a good thing for owen that he had his enthusiasm for 'the cause' to occupy his mind. socialism was to him what drink was to some of the others--the thing that enable them to forget and tolerate the conditions under which they were forced to exist. some of them were so muddled with beer, and others so besotted with admiration of their liberal and tory masters, that they were oblivious of the misery of their own lives, and in a similar way, owen was so much occupied in trying to rouse them from their lethargy and so engrossed in trying to think out new arguments to convince them of the possibility of bringing about an improvement in their condition that he had no time to dwell upon his own poverty; the money that he spent on leaflets and pamphlets to give away might have been better spent on food and clothing for himself, because most of those to whom he gave them were by no means grateful; but he never thought of that; and after all, nearly everyone spends money on some hobby or other. some people deny themselves the necessaries or comforts of life in order that they may be able to help to fatten a publican. others deny themselves in order to enable a lazy parson to live in idleness and luxury; and others spend much time and money that they really need for themselves in buying socialist literature to give away to people who don't want to know about socialism. one sunday morning towards the end of july, a band of about twenty-five men and women on bicycles invaded the town. two of them--who rode a few yards in front of the others, had affixed to the handlebars of each of their machines a slender, upright standard from the top of one of which fluttered a small flag of crimson silk with 'international brotherhood and peace' in gold letters. the other standard was similar in size and colour, but with a different legend: 'one for all and all for one.' as they rode along they gave leaflets to the people in the streets, and whenever they came to a place where there were many people they dismounted and walked about, giving their leaflets to whoever would accept them. they made several long halts during their progress along the grand parade, where there was a considerable crowd, and then they rode over the hill to windley, which they reached a little before opening time. there were little crowds waiting outside the several public houses and a number of people passing through the streets on their way home from church and chapel. the strangers distributed leaflets to all those who would take them, and they went through a lot of the side streets, putting leaflets under the doors and in the letter-boxes. when they had exhausted their stock they remounted and rode back the way they came. meantime the news of their arrival had spread, and as they returned through the town they were greeted with jeers and booing. presently someone threw a stone, and as there happened to be plenty of stones just there several others followed suit and began running after the retreating cyclists, throwing stones, hooting and cursing. the leaflet which had given rise to all this fury read as follows: what is socialism? at present the workers, with hand and brain produce continually food, clothing and all useful and beautiful things in great abundance. but they labour in vain--for they are mostly poor and often in want. they find it a hard struggle to live. their women and children suffer, and their old age is branded with pauperism. socialism is a plan by which poverty will be abolished, and everyone enabled to live in plenty and comfort, with leisure and opportunity for ampler life. if you wish to hear more of this plan, come to the field at the cross roads on the hill at windley, on tuesday evening next at p.m. and look out for the socialist van the cyclists rode away amid showers of stones without sustaining much damage. one had his hand cut and another, who happened to look round, was struck on the forehead, but these were the only casualties. on the following tuesday evening, long before the appointed time, there was a large crowd assembled at the cross roads or the hill at windley, waiting for the appearance of the van, and they were evidently prepared to give the socialists a warm reception. there was only one policeman in uniform there but there were several in plain clothes amongst the crowd. crass, dick wantley, the semi-drunk, sawkins, bill bates and several other frequenters of the cricketers were amongst the crowd, and there were also a sprinkling of tradespeople, including the old dear and mr smallman, the grocer, and a few ladies and gentlemen--wealthy visitors--but the bulk of the crowd were working men, labourers, mechanics and boys. as it was quite evident that the crowd meant mischief--many of them had their pockets filled with stones and were armed with sticks--several of the socialists were in favour of going to meet the van to endeavour to persuade those in charge from coming, and with that object they withdrew from the crowd, which was already regarding them with menacing looks, and went down the road in the direction from which the van was expected to come. they had not gone very far, however, before the people, divining what they were going to do, began to follow them and while they were hesitating what course to pursue, the socialist van, escorted by five or six men on bicycles, appeared round the corner at the bottom of the hill. as soon as the crowd saw it, they gave an exultant cheer, or, rather, yell, and began running down the hill to meet it, and in a few minutes it was surrounded by a howling mob. the van was drawn by two horses; there was a door and a small platform at the back and over this was a sign with white letters on a red ground: 'socialism, the only hope of the workers.' the driver pulled up, and another man on the platform at the rear attempted to address the crowd, but his voice was inaudible in the din of howls, catcalls, hooting and obscene curses. after about an hour of this, as the crowd began pushing against the van and trying to overturn it, the terrified horses commenced to get restive and uncontrollable, and the man on the box attempted to drive up the hill. this seemed to still further infuriate the horde of savages who surrounded the van. numbers of them clutched the wheels and turned them the reverse way, screaming that it must go back to where it came from; several of them accordingly seized the horses' heads and, amid cheers, turned them round. the man on the platform was still trying to make himself heard, but without success. the strangers who had come with the van and the little group of local socialists, who had forced their way through the crowd and gathered together close to the platform in front of the would-be speaker, only increased the din by their shouts of appeal to the crowd to 'give the man a fair chance'. this little bodyguard closed round the van as it began to move slowly downhill, but they were not sufficiently numerous to protect it from the crowd, which, not being satisfied with the rate at which the van was proceeding, began to shout to each other to 'run it away!' 'take the brake off!' and several savage rushes were made with the intention of putting these suggestions into execution. some of the defenders were hampered with their bicycles, but they resisted as well as they were able, and succeeded in keeping the crowd off until the foot of the hill was reached, and then someone threw the first stone, which by a strange chance happened to strike one of the cyclists whose head was already bandaged--it was the same man who had been hit on the sunday. this stone was soon followed by others, and the man on the platform was the next to be struck. he got it right on the mouth, and as he put up his handkerchief to staunch the blood another struck him on the forehead just above the temple, and he dropped forward on his face on to the platform as if he had been shot. as the speed of the vehicle increased, a regular hail of stones fell upon the roof and against the sides of the van and whizzed past the retreating cyclists, while the crowd followed close behind, cheering, shrieking out volleys of obscene curses, and howling like wolves. 'we'll give the b--rs socialism!' shouted crass, who was literally foaming at the mouth. 'we'll teach 'em to come 'ere trying to undermined our bloody morality,' howled dick wantley as he hurled a lump of granite that he had torn up from the macadamized road at one of the cyclists. they ran on after the van until it was out of range, and then they bethought themselves of the local socialists; but they were nowhere to be seen; they had prudently withdrawn as soon as the van had got fairly under way, and the victory being complete, the upholders of the present system returned to the piece of waste ground on the top of the hill, where a gentleman in a silk hat and frockcoat stood up on a little hillock and made a speech. he said nothing about the distress committee or the soup kitchen or the children who went to school without proper clothes or food, and made no reference to what was to be done next winter, when nearly everybody would be out of work. these were matters he and they were evidently not at all interested in. but he said a good deal about the glorious empire! and the flag! and the royal family. the things he said were received with rapturous applause, and at the conclusion of his address, the crowd sang the national anthem with great enthusiasm and dispersed, congratulating themselves that they had shown to the best of their ability what mugsborough thought of socialism and the general opinion of the crowd was that they would hear nothing more from the socialist van. but in this they were mistaken, for the very next sunday evening a crowd of socialists suddenly materialized at the cross roads. some of them had come by train, others had walked from different places and some had cycled. a crowd gathered and the socialists held a meeting, two speeches being delivered before the crowd recovered from their surprise at the temerity of these other britishers who apparently had not sense enough to understand that they had been finally defeated and obliterated last tuesday evening: and when the cyclist with the bandaged head got up on the hillock some of the crowd actually joined in the hand-clapping with which the socialists greeted him. in the course of his speech he informed them that the man who had come with the van and who had been felled whilst attempting to speak from the platform was now in hospital. for some time it had been probable that he would not recover, but he was now out of danger, and as soon as he was well enough there was no doubt that he would come there again. upon this crass shouted out that if ever the vanners did return, they would finish what they had begun last tuesday. he would not get off so easy next time. but when he said this, crass--not being able to see into the future--did not know what the reader will learn in due time, that the man was to return to that place under different circumstances. when they had finished their speech-making one of the strangers who was acting as chairman invited the audience to put questions, but as nobody wanted to ask any, he invited anyone who disagreed with what had been said to get up on the hillock and state his objections, so that the audience might have an opportunity of judging for themselves which side was right; but this invitation was also neglected. then the chairman announced that they were coming there again next sunday at the same time, when a comrade would speak on 'unemployment and poverty, the cause and the remedy', and then the strangers sang a song called 'england arise', the first verse being: england arise, the long, long night is over, faint in the east, behold the dawn appear out of your evil dream of toil and sorrow arise, o england! for the day is here! during the progress of the meeting several of the strangers had been going out amongst the crowd giving away leaflets, which many of the people gloomily refused to accept, and selling penny pamphlets, of which they managed to dispose of about three dozen. before declaring the meeting closed, the chairman said that the speaker who was coming next week resided in london: he was not a millionaire, but a workman, the same as nearly all those who were there present. they were not going to pay him anything for coming, but they intended to pay his railway fare. therefore next sunday after the meeting there would be a collection, and anything over the amount of the fare would be used for the purchase of more leaflets such as those they were now giving away. he hoped that anyone who thought that any of the money went into the pockets of those who held the meeting would come and join: then they could have their share. the meeting now terminated and the socialists were suffered to depart in peace. some of them, however, lingered amongst the crowd after the main body had departed, and for a long time after the meeting was over little groups remained on the field excitedly discussing the speeches or the leaflets. the next sunday evening when the socialists came they found the field at the cross roads in the possession of a furious, hostile mob, who refused to allow them to speak, and finally they had to go away without having held a meeting. they came again the next sunday, and on this occasion they had a speaker with a very loud--literally a stentorian--voice, and he succeeded in delivering an address, but as only those who were very close were able to hear him, and as they were all socialists, it was not of much effect upon those for whom it was intended. they came again the next sunday and nearly every other sunday during the summer: sometimes they were permitted to hold their meeting in comparative peace and at other times there was a row. they made several converts, and many people declared themselves in favour of some of the things advocated, but they were never able to form a branch of their society there, because nearly all those who were convinced were afraid to publicly declare themselves lest they should lose their employment or customers. chapter the beano now and then a transient gleam of sunshine penetrated the gloom in which the lives of the philanthropists were passed. the cheerless monotony was sometimes enlivened with a little innocent merriment. every now and then there was a funeral which took misery and crass away for the whole afternoon, and although they always tried to keep the dates secret, the men generally knew when they were gone. sometimes the people in whose houses they were working regaled them with tea, bread and butter, cake or other light refreshments, and occasionally even with beer--very different stuff from the petrifying liquid they bought at the cricketers for twopence a pint. at other places, where the people of the house were not so generously disposed, the servants made up for it, and entertained them in a similar manner without the knowledge of their masters and mistresses. even when the mistresses were too cunning to permit of this, they were seldom able to prevent the men from embracing the domestics, who for their part were quite often willing to be embraced; it was an agreeable episode that helped to vary the monotony of their lives, and there was no harm done. it was rather hard lines on the philanthropists sometimes when they happened to be working in inhabited houses of the better sort. they always had to go in and out by the back way, generally through the kitchen, and the crackling and hissing of the poultry and the joints of meat roasting in the ovens, and the odours of fruit pies and tarts, and plum puddings and sage and onions, were simply maddening. in the back-yards of these houses there were usually huge stacks of empty beer, stout and wine bottles, and others that had contained whisky, brandy or champagne. the smells of the delicious viands that were being prepared in the kitchen often penetrated into the dismantled rooms that the philanthropists were renovating, sometimes just as they were eating their own wretched fare out of their dinner basket, and washing it down with draughts of the cold tea or the petrifying liquid they sometimes brought with them in bottles. sometimes, as has been said, the people of the house used to send up some tea and bread and butter or cakes or other refreshments to the workmen, but whenever hunter got to know of it being done he used to speak to the people about it and request that it be discontinued, as it caused the men to waste their time. but the event of the year was the beano, which took place on the last saturday in august, after they had been paying in for about four months. the cost of the outing was to be five shillings a head, so this was the amount each man had to pay in, but it was expected that the total cost--the hire of the brakes and the cost of the dinner--would come out at a trifle less than the amount stated, and in that case the surplus would be shared out after the dinner. the amount of the share-out would be greater or less according to other circumstances, for it generally happened that apart from the subscriptions of the men, the beano fund was swelled by charitable donations from several quarters, as will be seen later on. when the eventful day arrived, the hands, instead of working till one, were paid at twelve o'clock and rushed off home to have a wash and change. the brakes were to start from the 'cricketers' at one, but it was arranged, for the convenience of those who lived at windley, that they were to be picked up at the cross roads at one-thirty. there were four brakes altogether--three large ones for the men and one small one for the accommodation of mr rushton and a few of his personal friends, didlum, grinder, mr toonarf, an architect and mr lettum, a house and estate agent. one of the drivers was accompanied by a friend who carried a long coachman's horn. this gentleman was not paid to come, but, being out of work, he thought that the men would be sure to stand him a few drinks and that they would probably make a collection for him in return for his services. most of the chaps were smoking twopenny cigars, and had one or two drinks with each other to try to cheer themselves up before they started, but all the same it was a melancholy procession that wended its way up the hill to windley. to judge from the mournful expression on the long face of misery, who sat on the box beside the driver of the first large brake, and the downcast appearance of the majority of the men, one might have thought that it was a funeral rather than a pleasure party, or that they were a contingent of lost souls being conducted to the banks of the styx. the man who from time to time sounded the coachman's horn might have passed as the angel sounding the last trump, and the fumes of the cigars were typical of the smoke of their torment, which ascendeth up for ever and ever. a brief halt was made at the cross roads to pick up several of the men, including philpot, harlow, easton, ned dawson, sawkins, bill bates and the semi-drunk. the two last-named were now working for smeariton and leavit, but as they had been paying in from the first, they had elected to go to the beano rather than have their money back. the semi-drunk and one or two other habitual boozers were very shabby and down at heel, but the majority of the men were decently dressed. some had taken their sunday clothes out of pawn especially for the occasion. others were arrayed in new suits which they were going to pay for at the rate of a shilling a week. some had bought themselves second-hand suits, one or two were wearing their working clothes brushed and cleaned up, and some were wearing sunday clothes that had not been taken out of pawn for the simple reason that the pawnbrokers would not take them in. these garments were in what might be called a transition stage--old-fashioned and shiny with wear, but yet too good to take for working in, even if their owners had been in a position to buy some others to take their place for best. crass, slyme and one or two of the single men, however, were howling swells, sporting stand-up collars and bowler hats of the latest type, in contradistinction to some of the others, who were wearing hats of antique patterns, and collars of various shapes with jagged edges. harlow had on an old straw hat that his wife had cleaned up with oxalic acid, and easton had carefully dyed the faded binding of his black bowler with ink. their boots were the worst part of their attire: without counting rushton and his friends, there were thirty-seven men altogether, including nimrod, and there were not half a dozen pairs of really good boots amongst the whole crowd. when all were seated a fresh start was made. the small brake, with rushton, didlum, grinder and two or three other members of the band, led the way. next came the largest brake with misery on the box. beside the driver of the third brake was payne, the foreman carpenter. crass occupied a similar position of honour on the fourth brake, on the back step of which was perched the man with the coachman's horn. crass--who had engaged the brakes--had arranged with the drivers that the cortege should pass through the street where he and easton lived, and as they went by mrs crass was standing at the door with the two young men lodgers, who waved their handkerchiefs and shouted greetings. a little further on mrs linden and easton's wife were standing at the door to see them go by. in fact, the notes of the coachman's horn alarmed most of the inhabitants, who crowded to their windows and doors to gaze upon the dismal procession as it passed. the mean streets of windley were soon left far behind and they found themselves journeying along a sunlit, winding road, bordered with hedges of hawthorn, holly and briar, past rich, brown fields of standing corn, shimmering with gleams of gold, past apple-orchards where bending boughs were heavily loaded with mellow fruits exhaling fragrant odours, through the cool shades of lofty avenues of venerable oaks, whose overarched and interlacing branches formed a roof of green, gilt and illuminated with quivering spots and shafts of sunlight that filtered through the trembling leaves; over old mossy stone bridges, spanning limpid streams that duplicated the blue sky and the fleecy clouds; and then again, stretching away to the horizon on every side over more fields, some rich with harvest, others filled with drowsing cattle or with flocks of timid sheep that scampered away at the sound of the passing carriages. several times they saw merry little companies of rabbits frisking gaily in and out of the hedges or in the fields beside the sheep and cattle. at intervals, away in the distance, nestling in the hollows or amid sheltering trees, groups of farm buildings and stacks of hay; and further on, the square ivy-clad tower of an ancient church, or perhaps a solitary windmill with its revolving sails alternately flashing and darkening in the rays of the sun. past thatched wayside cottages whose inhabitants came out to wave their hands in friendly greeting. past groups of sunburnt, golden-haired children who climbed on fences and five-barred gates, and waved their hats and cheered, or ran behind the brakes for the pennies the men threw down to them. from time to time the men in the brakes made half-hearted attempts at singing, but it never came to much, because most of them were too hungry and miserable. they had not had time to take any dinner and would not have taken any even if they had the time, for they wished to reserve their appetites for the banquet at the queen elizabeth, which they expected to reach about half past three. however, they cheered up a little after the first halt--at the blue lion, where most of them got down and had a drink. some of them, including the semi-drunk, ned dawson, bill bates and joe philpot--had two or three drinks, and felt so much happier for them that, shortly after they started off again, sounds of melody were heard from the brake the three first named rode in--the one presided over by crass--but it was not very successful, and even after the second halt--about five miles further on--at the warrior's head, they found it impossible to sing with any heartiness. fitful bursts of song arose from time to time from each of the brakes in turn, only to die mournfully away. it is not easy to sing on an empty stomach even if one has got a little beer in it; and so it was with most of them. they were not in a mood to sing, or to properly appreciate the scenes through which they were passing. they wanted their dinners, and that was the reason why this long ride, instead of being a pleasure, became after a while, a weary journey that seemed as if it were never coming to an end. the next stop was at the bird in hand, a wayside public house that stood all by itself in a lonely hollow. the landlord was a fat, jolly-looking man, and there were several customers in the bar--men who looked like farm-labourers, but there were no other houses to be seen anywhere. this extraordinary circumstance exercised the minds of our travellers and formed the principal topic of conversation until they arrived at the dew drop inn, about half an hour afterwards. the first brake, containing rushton and his friends, passed on without stopping here. the occupants of the second brake, which was only a little way behind the first, were divided in opinion whether to stop or go on. some shouted out to the driver to pull up, others ordered him to proceed, and more were undecided which course to pursue--a state of mind that was not shared by the coachman, who, knowing that if they stopped somebody or other would be sure to stand him a drink, had no difficulty whatever in coming to a decision, but drew rein at the inn, an example that was followed by both the other carriages as they drove up. it was a very brief halt, not more than half the men getting down at all, and those who remained in the brakes grumbled so much at the delay that the others drank their beer as quickly as possible and the journey was resumed once more, almost in silence. no attempts at singing, no noisy laughter; they scarcely spoke to each other, but sat gloomily gazing out over the surrounding country. instructions had been given to the drivers not to stop again till they reached the queen elizabeth, and they therefore drove past the world turned upside down without stopping, much to the chagrin of the landlord of that house, who stood at the door with a sickly smile upon his face. some of those who knew him shouted out that they would give him a call on their way back, and with this he had to be content. they reached the long-desired queen elizabeth at twenty minutes to four, and were immediately ushered into a large room where a round table and two long ones were set for dinner--and they were set in a manner worthy of the reputation of the house. the cloths that covered the tables and the serviettes, arranged fanwise in the drinking glasses, were literally as white as snow, and about a dozen knives and forks and spoons were laid for each person. down the centre of the table glasses of delicious yellow custard and cut-glass dishes of glistening red and golden jelly alternated with vases of sweet-smelling flowers. the floor of the dining-room was covered with oilcloth--red flowers on a pale yellow ground; the pattern was worn off in places, but it was all very clean and shining. whether one looked at the walls with the old-fashioned varnished oak paper, or at the glossy piano standing across the corner near the white-curtained window, at the shining oak chairs or through the open casement doors that led into the shady garden beyond, the dominating impression one received was that everything was exquisitely clean. the landlord announced that dinner would be served in ten minutes, and while they were waiting some of them indulged in a drink at the bar--just as an appetizer--whilst the others strolled in the garden or, by the landlord's invitation, looked over the house. amongst other places, they glanced into the kitchen, where the landlady was superintending the preparation of the feast, and in this place, with its whitewashed walls and red-tiled floor, as in every other part of the house, the same absolute cleanliness reigned supreme. 'it's a bit differint from the royal caff, where we got the sack, ain't it?' remarked the semi-drunk to bill bates as they made their way to the dining-room in response to the announcement that dinner was ready. 'not arf!' replied bill. rushton, with didlum and grinder and his other friends, sat at the round table near the piano. hunter took the head of the longer of the other two tables and crass the foot, and on either side of crass were bundy and slyme, who had acted with him as the committee who had arranged the beano. payne, the foreman carpenter, occupied the head of the other table. the dinner was all that could be desired; it was almost as good as the kind of dinner that is enjoyed every day by those persons who are too lazy to work but are cunning enough to make others work for them. there was soup, several entrees, roast beef, boiled mutton, roast turkey, roast goose, ham, cabbage, peas, beans and sweets galore, plum pudding, custard, jelly, fruit tarts, bread and cheese and as much beer or lemonade as they liked to pay for, the drinks being an extra; and afterwards the waiters brought in cups of coffee for those who desired it. everything was up to the knocker, and although they were somewhat bewildered by the multitude of knives and forks, they all, with one or two exceptions, rose to the occasion and enjoyed themselves famously. the excellent decorum observed being marred only by one or two regrettable incidents. the first of these occurred almost as soon as they sat down, when ned dawson who, although a big strong fellow, was not able to stand much beer, not being used to it, was taken ill and had to be escorted from the room by his mate bundy and another man. they left him somewhere outside and he came back again about ten minutes afterwards, much better but looking rather pale, and took his seat with the others. the turkeys, the roast beef and the boiled mutton, the peas and beans and the cabbage, disappeared with astonishing rapidity, which was not to be wondered at, for they were all very hungry from the long drive, and nearly everyone made a point of having at least one helping of everything there was to be had. some of them went in for two lots of soup. then for the next course, boiled mutton and ham or turkey: then some roast beef and goose. then a little more boiled mutton with a little roast beef. each of the three boys devoured several times his own weight of everything, to say nothing of numerous bottles of lemonade and champagne ginger beer. crass frequently paused to mop the perspiration from his face and neck with his serviette. in fact everybody had a good time. there was enough and to spare of everything to eat, the beer was of the best, and all the time, amid the rattle of the crockery and the knives and forks, the proceedings were enlivened by many jests and flashes of wit that continuously kept the table in a roar. 'chuck us over another dollop of that there white stuff, bob,' shouted the semi-drunk to crass, indicating the blancmange. crass reached out his hand and took hold of the dish containing the 'white stuff', but instead of passing it to the semi-drunk, he proceeded to demolish it himself, gobbling it up quickly directly from the dish with a spoon. 'why, you're eating it all yerself, yer bleeder,' cried the semi-drunk indignantly, as soon as he realized what was happening. 'that's all right, matey,' replied crass affably as he deposited the empty dish on the table. 'it don't matter, there's plenty more where it come from. tell the landlord to bring in another lot.' upon being applied to, the landlord, who was assisted by his daughter, two other young women and two young men, brought in several more lots and so the semi-drunk was appeased. as for the plum-pudding--it was a fair knock-out; just like christmas: but as ned dawson and bill bates had drunk all the sauce before the pudding was served, they all had to have their first helping without any. however, as the landlord brought in another lot shortly afterwards, that didn't matter either. as soon as dinner was over, crass rose to make his statement as secretary. thirty-seven men had paid five shillings each: that made nine pounds five shillings. the committee had decided that the three boys--the painters' boy, the carpenters' boy and the front shop boy--should be allowed to come half-price: that made it nine pounds twelve and six. in addition to paying the ordinary five-shilling subscription, mr rushton had given one pound ten towards the expenses. (loud cheers.) and several other gentlemen had also given something towards it. mr sweater, of the cave, one pound. (applause.) mr grinder, ten shillings in addition to the five-shilling subscription. (applause.) mr lettum, ten shillings, as well as the five-shilling subscription. (applause.) mr didlum, ten shillings in addition to the five shillings. (cheers.) mr toonarf, ten shillings as well as the five-shilling subscription. they had also written to some of the manufacturers who supplied the firm with materials, and asked them to give something: some of 'em had sent half a crown, some five shillings, some hadn't answered at all, and two of 'em had written back to say that as things is cut so fine nowadays, they didn't hardly get no profit on their stuff, so they couldn't afford to give nothing; but out of all the firms they wrote to they managed to get thirty-two and sixpence altogether, making a grand total of seventeen pounds. as for the expenses, the dinner was two and six a head, and there was forty-five of them there, so that came to five pounds twelve and six. then there was the hire of the brakes, also two and six a head, five pound twelve and six, which left a surplus of five pound fifteen to be shared out (applause), which came to three shillings each for the thirty-seven men, and one and fourpence for each of the boys. (loud and prolonged cheers.) crass, slyme and bundy now walked round the tables distributing the share-out, which was very welcome to everybody, especially those who had spent nearly all their money during the journey from mugsborough, and when this ceremony was completed, philpot moved a hearty vote of thanks to the committee for the manner in which they had carried out their duties, which was agreed to with acclamation. then they made a collection for the waiters, and the three waitresses, which amounted to eleven shillings, for which the host returned thanks on behalf of the recipients, who were all smiles. then mr rushton requested the landlord to serve drinks and cigars all round. some had cigarettes and the teetotallers had lemonade or ginger beer. those who did not smoke themselves took the cigar all the same and gave it to someone else who did. when all were supplied there suddenly arose loud cries of 'order!' and it was seen that hunter was upon his feet. as soon as silence was obtained, misery said that he believed that everyone there present would agree with him, when he said that they should not let the occasion pass without drinking the 'ealth of their esteemed and respected employer, mr rushton. (hear, hear.) some of them had worked for mr rushton on and off for many years, and as far as they was concerned it was not necessary for him (hunter) to say much in praise of mr rushton. (hear, hear.) they knew mr rushton as well as he did himself and to know him was to esteem him. (cheers.) as for the new hands, although they did not know mr rushton as well as the old hands did, he felt sure that they would agree that as no one could wish for a better master. (loud applause.) he had much pleasure in asking them to drink mr rushton's health. everyone rose. 'musical honours, chaps,' shouted crass, waving his glass and leading off the singing which was immediately joined in with great enthusiasm by most of the men, the semi-drunk conducting the music with a table knife: for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fel-ell-o, and so say all of us, so 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray! so 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray! for he's a jolly good fellow, for 'e's a jolly good fellow for 'e's a jolly good fel-ell-o, and so say all of us. 'now three cheers!' shouted crass, leading off. hip, hip, hip, hooray! hip, hip, hip, hooray! hip, hip, hip, hooray! everyone present drank rushton's health, or at any rate went through the motions of doing so, but during the roar of cheering and singing that preceded it several of the men stood with expressions of contempt or uneasiness upon their faces, silently watching the enthusiasts or looking at the ceiling or on the floor. 'i will say this much,' remarked the semidrunk as they all resumed their seats--he had had several drinks during dinner, besides those he had taken on the journey--i will say this much, although i did have a little misunderstanding with mr hunter when i was workin' at the royal caff, i must admit that this is the best firm that's ever worked under me.' this statement caused a shout of laughter, which, however, died away as mr rushton rose to acknowledge the toast to his health. he said that he had now been in business for nearly sixteen years and this was--he believed--the eleventh outing he had had the pleasure of attending. during all that time the business had steadily progressed and had increased in volume from year to year, and he hoped and believed that the progress made in the past would be continued in the future. (hear, hear.) of course, he realized that the success of the business depended very largely upon the men as well as upon himself; he did his best in trying to get work for them, and it was necessary--if the business was to go on and prosper--that they should also do their best to get the work done when he had secured it for them. (hear, hear.) the masters could not do without the men, and the men could not live without the masters. (hear, hear.) it was a matter of division of labour: the men worked with their hands and the masters worked with their brains, and one was no use without the other. he hoped the good feeling which had hitherto existed between himself and his workmen would always continue, and he thanked them for the way in which they had responded to the toast of his health. loud cheers greeted the conclusion of this speech, and then crass stood up and said that he begged to propose the health of mr 'unter. (hear, hear.) he wasn't going to make a long speech as he wasn't much of a speaker. (cries of 'you're all right,' 'go on,' etc.) but he felt sure as they would all hagree with him when he said that--next to mr rushton--there wasn't no one the men had more respect and liking for than mr 'unter. (cheers.) a few weeks ago when mr 'unter was laid up, many of them began to be afraid as they was going to lose 'im. he was sure that all the 'ands was glad to 'ave this hoppertunity of congratulating him on his recovery (hear, hear) and of wishing him the best of 'ealth in the future and hoping as he would be spared to come to a good many more beanos. loud applause greeted the conclusion of crass's remarks, and once more the meeting burst into song: for he's a jolly good fellow for he's a jolly good fellow. for he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us. so 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray! so 'ip, 'ip, 'ip, 'ooray! when they had done cheering, nimrod rose. his voice trembled a little as he thanked them for their kindness, and said that he hoped he deserved their goodwill. he could only say that as he was sure as he always tried to be fair and considerate to everyone. (cheers.) he would now request the landlord to replenish their glasses. (hear, hear.) as soon as the drinks were served, nimrod again rose and said he wished to propose the healths of their visitors who had so kindly contributed to their expenses--mr lettum, mr didlum, mr toonarf and mr grinder. (cheers.) they were very pleased and proud to see them there (hear, hear), and he was sure the men would agree with him when he said that messrs lettum, didlum, toonarf and grinder were jolly good fellows. to judge from the manner in which they sang the chorus and cheered, it was quite evident that most of the hands did agree. when they left off, grinder rose to reply on behalf of those included in the toast. he said that it gave them much pleasure to be there and take part in such pleasant proceedings and they were glad to think that they had been able to help to bring it about. it was very gratifying to see the good feeling that existed between mr rushton and his workmen, which was as it should be, because masters and men was really fellow workers--the masters did the brain work, the men the 'and work. they was both workers, and their interests was the same. he liked to see men doing their best for their master and knowing that their master was doing his best for them, that he was not only a master, but a friend. that was what he (grinder) liked to see--master and men pulling together--doing their best, and realizing that their interests was identical. (cheers.) if only all masters and men would do this they would find that everything would go on all right, there would be more work and less poverty. let the men do their best for their masters, and the masters do their best for their men, and they would find that that was the true solution of the social problem, and not the silly nonsense that was talked by people what went about with red flags. (cheers and laughter.) most of those fellows were chaps who was too lazy to work for their livin'. (hear, hear.) they could take it from him that, if ever the socialists got the upper hand there would just be a few of the hartful dodgers who would get all the cream, and there would be nothing left but 'ard work for the rest. (hear. hear.) that's wot hall those hagitators was after: they wanted them (his hearers) to work and keep 'em in idleness. (hear, hear.) on behalf of mr didlum, mr toonarf, mr lettum and himself, he thanked them for their good wishes, and hoped to be with them on a sim'ler occasion in the future. loud cheers greeted the termination of his speech, but it was obvious from some of the men's faces that they resented grinder's remarks. these men ridiculed socialism and regularly voted for the continuance of capitalism, and yet they were disgusted and angry with grinder! there was also a small number of socialists--not more than half a dozen altogether--who did not join in the applause. these men were all sitting at the end of the long table presided over by payne. none of them had joined in the applause that greeted the speeches, and so far neither had they made any protest. some of them turned very red as they listened to the concluding sentences of grinder's oration, and others laughed, but none of them said anything. they knew before they came that there was sure to be a lot of 'jolly good fellow' business and speechmaking, and they had agreed together beforehand to take no part one way or the other, and to refrain from openly dissenting from anything that might be said, but they had not anticipated anything quite so strong as this. when grinder sat down some of those who had applauded him began to jeer at the socialists. 'what have you got to say to that?' they shouted. 'that's up against yer!' 'they ain't got nothing to say now.' 'why don't some of you get up and make a speech?' this last appeared to be a very good idea to those liberals and tories who had not liked grinder's observations, so they all began to shout 'owen!' 'owen!' 'come on 'ere. get up and make a speech!' 'be a man!' and so on. several of those who had been loudest in applauding grinder also joined in the demand that owen should make a speech, because they were certain that grinder and the other gentlemen would be able to dispose of all his arguments; but owen and the other socialists made no response except to laugh, so presently crass tied a white handkerchief on a cane walking-stick that belonged to mr didlum, and stuck it in the vase of flowers that stood on the end of the table where the socialist group were sitting. when the noise had in some measure ceased, grinder again rose. 'when i made the few remarks that i did, i didn't know as there was any socialists 'ere: i could tell from the look of you that most of you had more sense. at the same time i'm rather glad i said what i did, because it just shows you what sort of chaps these socialists are. they're pretty artful--they know when to talk and when to keep their mouths shut. what they like is to get hold of a few ignorant workin' men in a workshop or a public house, and then they can talk by the mile--reg'ler shop lawyers, you know wot i mean--i'm right and everybody else is wrong. (laughter.) you know the sort of thing i mean. when they finds theirselves in the company of edicated people wot knows a little more than they does theirselves, and who isn't likely to be misled by a lot of claptrap, why then, mum's the word. so next time you hears any of these shop lawyers' arguments, you'll know how much it's worth.' most of the men were delighted with this speech, which was received with much laughing and knocking on the tables. they remarked to each other that grinder was a smart man: he'd got the socialists weighed up just about right--to an ounce. then, it was seen that barrington was on his feet facing grinder and a sudden, awe-filled silence fell. 'it may or may not be true,' began barrington, 'that socialists always know when to speak and when to keep silent, but the present occasion hardly seemed a suitable one to discuss such subjects. 'we are here today as friends and want to forget our differences and enjoy ourselves for a few hours. but after what mr grinder has said i am quite ready to reply to him to the best of my ability. 'the fact that i am a socialist and that i am here today as one of mr rushton's employees should be an answer to the charge that socialists are too lazy to work for their living. and as to taking advantage of the ignorance and simplicity of working men and trying to mislead them with nonsensical claptrap, it would have been more to the point if mr grinder had taken some particular socialist doctrine and had proved it to be untrue or misleading, instead of adopting the cowardly method of making vague general charges that he cannot substantiate. he would find it far more difficult to do that than it would be for a socialist to show that most of what mr grinder himself has been telling us is nonsensical claptrap of the most misleading kind. he tells us that the employers work with their brains and the men with their hands. if it is true that no brains are required to do manual labour, why put idiots into imbecile asylums? why not let them do some of the hand work for which no brains are required? as they are idiots, they would probably be willing to work for even less than the ideal "living wage". if mr grinder had ever tried, he would know that manual workers have to concentrate their minds and their attention on their work or they would not be able to do it at all. his talk about employers being not only the masters but the "friends" of their workmen is also mere claptrap because he knows as well as we do, that no matter how good or benevolent an employer may be, no matter how much he might desire to give his men good conditions, it is impossible for him to do so, because he has to compete against other employers who do not do that. it is the bad employer--the sweating, slave-driving employer--who sets the pace and the others have to adopt the same methods--very often against their inclinations--or they would not be able to compete with him. if any employer today were to resolve to pay his workmen not less wages than he would be able to live upon in comfort himself, that he would not require them to do more work in a day than he himself would like to perform every day of his own life, mr grinder knows as well as we do that such an employer would be bankrupt in a month; because he would not be able to get any work except by taking it at the same price as the sweaters and the slave-drivers. 'he also tells us that the interests of masters and men are identical; but if an employer has a contract, it is to his interest to get the work done as soon as possible; the sooner it is done the more profit he will make; but the more quickly it is done, the sooner will the men be out of employment. how then can it be true that their interests are identical? 'again, let us suppose that an employer is, say, thirty years of age when he commences business, and that he carries it on for twenty years. let us assume that he employs forty men more or less regularly during that period and that the average age of these men is also thirty years at the time the employer commences business. at the end of the twenty years it usually happens that the employer has made enough money to enable him to live for the remainder of his life in ease and comfort. but what about the workman? all through those twenty years they have earned but a bare living wage and have had to endure such privations that those who are not already dead are broken in health. 'in the case of the employer there had been twenty years of steady progress towards ease and leisure and independence. in the case of the majority of the men there were twenty years of deterioration, twenty years of steady, continuous and hopeless progress towards physical and mental inefficiency: towards the scrap-heap, the work-house, and premature death. what is it but false, misleading, nonsensical claptrap to say that their interests were identical with those of their employer? 'such talk as that is not likely to deceive any but children or fools. we are not children, but it is very evident that mr grinder thinks that we are fools. 'occasionally it happens, through one or more of a hundred different circumstances over which he has no control, or through some error of judgement, that after many years of laborious mental work an employer is overtaken by misfortune, and finds himself no better and even worse off than when he started; but these are exceptional cases, and even if he becomes absolutely bankrupt he is no worse off than the majority of the workmen. 'at the same time it is quite true that the real interests of employers and workmen are the same, but not in the sense that mr grinder would have us believe. under the existing system of society but a very few people, no matter how well off they may be, can be certain that they or their children will not eventually come to want; and even those who think they are secure themselves, find their happiness diminished by the knowledge of the poverty and misery that surrounds them on every side. 'in that sense only is it true that the interests of masters and men are identical, for it is to the interest of all, both rich and poor, to help to destroy a system that inflicts suffering upon the many and allows true happiness to none. it is to the interest of all to try and find a better way.' here crass jumped up and interrupted, shouting out that they hadn't come there to listen to a lot of speechmaking--a remark that was greeted with unbounded applause by most of those present. loud cries of 'hear, hear!' resounded through the room, and the semi-drunk suggested that someone should sing a song. the men who had clamoured for a speech from owen said nothing, and mr grinder, who had been feeling rather uncomfortable, was secretly very glad of the interruption. the semi-drunk's suggestion that someone should sing a song was received with unqualified approbation by everybody, including barrington and the other socialists, who desired nothing better than that the time should be passed in a manner suitable to the occasion. the landlord's daughter, a rosy girl of about twenty years of age, in a pink print dress, sat down at the piano, and the semi-drunk, taking his place at the side of the instrument and facing the audience, sang the first song with appropriate gestures, the chorus being rendered enthusiastically by the full strength of the company, including misery, who by this time was slightly drunk from drinking gin and ginger beer: 'come, come, come an' 'ave a drink with me down by the ole bull and bush. come, come, come an' shake 'ands with me down by the ole bull and bush. wot cheer me little germin band! fol the diddle di do! come an' take 'old of me 'and come, come, come an' 'ave a drink with me, down by the old bull and bush, bush! bush!' protracted knocking on the tables greeted the end of the song, but as the semi-drunk knew no other except odd verses and choruses, he called upon crass for the next, and that gentleman accordingly sang 'work, boys, work' to the tune of 'tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching'. as this song is the marseillaise of the tariff reform party, voicing as it does the highest ideals of the tory workmen of this country, it was an unqualified success, for most of them were conservatives. 'now i'm not a wealthy man, but i lives upon a plan wot will render me as 'appy as a king; an' if you will allow, i'll sing it to you now, for time you know is always on the wing. work, boys, work and be contented so long as you've enough to buy a meal. for if you will but try, you'll be wealthy--bye and bye-- if you'll only put yer shoulder to the wheel.' 'altogether, boys,' shouted grinder, who was a strong tariff reformer, and was delighted to see that most of the men were of the same way of thinking; and the 'boys' roared out the chorus once more: work, boys, work and be contented so long as you've enough to buy a meal for if you will but try, you'll be wealthy--bye and bye if you'll only put your shoulder to the wheel. as they sang the words of this noble chorus the tories seemed to become inspired with lofty enthusiasm. it is of course impossible to say for certain, but probably as they sang there arose before their exalted imaginations, a vision of the past, and looking down the long vista of the years that were gone, they saw that from their childhood they had been years of poverty and joyless toil. they saw their fathers and mothers, weaned and broken with privation and excessive labour, sinking unhonoured into the welcome oblivion of the grave. and then, as a change came over the spirit of their dream, they saw the future, with their own children travelling along the same weary road to the same kind of goal. it is possible that visions of this character were conjured up in their minds by the singing, for the words of the song gave expression to their ideal of what human life should be. that was all they wanted--to be allowed to work like brutes for the benefit of other people. they did not want to be civilized themselves and they intended to take good care that the children they had brought into the world should never enjoy the benefits of civilization either. as they often said: 'who and what are our children that they shouldn't be made to work for their betters? they're not gentry's children, are they? the good things of life was never meant for the likes of them. let 'em work! that's wot the likes of them was made for, and if we can only get tariff reform for 'em they will always be sure of plenty of it--not only full time, but overtime! as for edication, travellin' in furrin' parts, an' enjoying life an' all sich things as that, they was never meant for the likes of our children--they're meant for gentry's children! our children is only like so much dirt compared with gentry's children! that's wot the likes of us is made for--to work for gentry, so as they can 'ave plenty of time to enjoy theirselves; and the gentry is made to 'ave a good time so as the likes of us can 'ave plenty of work.' there were several more verses, and by the time they had sung them all, the tories were in a state of wild enthusiasm. even ned dawson, who had fallen asleep with his head pillowed on his arms on the table, roused himself up at the end of each verse, and after having joined in the chorus, went to sleep again. at the end of the song they gave three cheers for tariff reform and plenty of work, and then crass, who, as the singer of the last song, had the right to call upon the next man, nominated philpot, who received an ovation when he stood up, for he was a general favourite. he never did no harm to nobody, and he was always wiling to do anyone a good turn whenever he had the opportunity. shouts of 'good old joe' resounded through the room as he crossed over to the piano, and in response to numerous requests for 'the old song' he began to sing 'the flower show': 'whilst walkin' out the other night, not knowing where to go i saw a bill upon a wall about a flower show. so i thought the flowers i'd go and see to pass away the night. and when i got into that show it was a curious sight. so with your kind intention and a little of your aid, tonight some flowers i'll mention which i hope will never fade.' omnes: to-night some flowers i'll mention which i hope will never fade.' there were several more verses, from which it appeared that the principal flowers in the show were the rose, the thistle and the shamrock. when he had finished, the applause was so deafening and the demands for an encore so persistent that to satisfy them he sang another old favourite--'won't you buy my pretty flowers?' 'ever coming, ever going, men and women hurry by, heedless of the tear-drops gleaming, in her sad and wistful eye how her little heart is sighing thro' the cold and dreary hours, only listen to her crying, "won't you buy my pretty flowers?"' when the last verse of this sang had been sung five er six times, philpot exercised his right of nominating the next singer, and called upon dick wantley, who with many suggestive gestures and grimaces sang 'put me amongst the girls', and afterwards called upon payne, the foreman carpenter, who gave 'i'm the marquis of camberwell green'. there was a lot of what music-hall artists call 'business' attached to his song, and as he proceeded, payne, who was ghastly pale and very nervous, went through a lot of galvanic motions and gestures, bowing and scraping and sliding about and flourishing his handkerchief in imitation of the courtly graces of the marquis. during this performance the audience maintained an appalling silence, which so embarrassed payne that before he was half-way through the song he had to stop because he could not remember the rest. however, to make up for this failure he sang another called 'we all must die, like the fire in the grate'. this also was received in a very lukewarm manner by the crowd, same of whom laughed and others suggested that if he couldn't sing any better than that, the sooner he was dead the better. this was followed by another tory ballad, the chorus being as follows: his clothes may be ragged, his hands may be soiled. but where's the disgrace if for bread he has toiled. his 'art is in the right place, deny it no one can the backbone of old england is the honest workin' man.' after a few more songs it was decided to adjourn to a field at the rear of the tavern to have a game of cricket. sides were formed, rushton, didlum, grinder, and the other gentlemen taking part just as if they were only common people, and while the game was in progress the rest played ring quoits or reclined on the grass watching the players, whilst the remainder amused themselves drinking beer and playing cards and shove-ha'penny in the bar parlour, or taking walks around the village sampling the beer at the other pubs, of which there were three. the time passed in this manner until seven o'clock, the hour at which it had been arranged to start on the return journey; but about a quarter of an hour before they set out an unpleasant incident occurred. during the time that they were playing cricket a party of glee singers, consisting of four young girls and five men, three of whom were young fellows, the other two being rather elderly, possibly the fathers of some of the younger members of the party, came into the field and sang several part songs for their entertainment. towards the close of the game most of the men had assembled in this field, and during a pause in the singing the musicians sent one of their number, a shy girl about eighteen years of age--who seemed as if she would rather that someone else had the task--amongst the crowd to make a collection. the girl was very nervous and blushed as she murmured her request, and held out a straw hat that evidently belonged to one of the male members of the glee party. a few of the men gave pennies, some refused or pretended not to see either the girl or the hat, others offered to give her some money for a kiss, but what caused the trouble was that two or three of those who had been drinking more than was good for them dropped the still burning ends of their cigars, all wet with saliva as they were, into the hat and dick wantley spit into it. the girl hastily returned to her companions, and as she went some of the men who had witnessed the behaviour of those who had insulted her, advised them to make themselves scarce, as they stood a good chance of getting a thrashing from the girl's friends. they said it would serve them dam' well right if they did get a hammering. partly sobered by fear, the three culprits sneaked off and hid themselves, pale and trembling with terror, under the box seats of the three brakes. they had scarcely left when the men of the glee party came running up, furiously demanding to see those who had insulted the girl. as they could get no satisfactory answer, one of their number ran back and presently returned, bringing the girl with him, the other young women following a little way behind. she said she could not see the men they were looking for, so they went down to the public house to see if they could find them there, some of the rushton's men accompanying them and protesting their indignation. the time passed quickly enough and by half past seven the brakes were loaded up again and a start made for the return journey. they called at all the taverns on the road, and by the time they reached the blue lion half of them were three sheets in the wind, and five or six were very drunk, including the driver of crass's brake and the man with the bugle. the latter was so far gone that they had to let him lie down in the bottom of the carriage amongst their feet, where he fell asleep, while the others amused themselves by blowing weird shrieks out of the horn. there was an automatic penny-in-the-slot piano at the blue lion and as that was the last house of the road they made a rather long stop there, playing hooks and rings, shove-ha'penny, drinking, singing, dancing and finally quarrelling. several of them seemed disposed to quarrel with newman. all sorts of offensive remarks were made at him in his hearing. once someone ostentatiously knocked his glass of lemonade over, and a little later someone else collided violently with him just as he was in the act of drinking, causing his lemonade to spill all over his clothes. the worst of it was that most of these rowdy ones were his fellow passengers in crass's brake, and there was not much chance of getting a seat in either of the other carriages, for they were overcrowded already. from the remarks he overheard from time to time, newman guessed the reason of their hostility, and as their manner towards him grew more menacing, he became so nervous that he began to think of quietly sneaking off and walking the remainder of the way home by himself, unless he could get somebody in one of the other brakes to change seats with him. whilst these thoughts were agitating his mind, dick wantley suddenly shouted out that he was going to go for the dirty tyke who had offered to work under price last winter. it was his fault that they were all working for sixpence halfpenny and he was going to wipe the floor with him. some of his friends eagerly offered to assist, but others interposed, and for a time it looked as if there was going to be a free fight, the aggressors struggling hard to get at their inoffensive victim. eventually, however, newman found a seat in misery's brake, squatting on the floor with his back to the horses, thankful enough to be out of reach of the drunken savages, who were now roaring out ribald songs and startling the countryside, as they drove along, with unearthly blasts on the coach horn. meantime, although none of them seemed to notice it, the brake was travelling at a furious rate, and swaying about from side to side in a very erratic manner. it would have been the last carriage, but things had got a bit mixed at the blue lion and, instead of bringing up the rear of the procession, it was now second, just behind the small vehicle containing rushton and his friends. crass several times reminded them that the other carriage was so near that rushton must be able to hear every word that was said, and these repeated admonitions at length enraged the semi-drunk, who shouted out that they didn't care a b--r if he could hear. who the bloody hell was he? to hell with him! 'damn rushton, and you too!' cried bill bates, addressing crass. 'you're only a dirty toe-rag! that's all you are--a bloody rotter! that's the only reason you gets put in charge of jobs--'cos you're a good nigger-driver! you're a bloody sight worse than rushton or misery either! who was it started the one-man, one-room dodge, eh? why, you, yer bleeder!' 'knock 'im orf 'is bleedin' perch,' suggested bundy. everybody seemed to think this was a very good idea, but when the semi-drunk attempted to rise for the purpose of carrying it out, he was thrown down by a sudden lurch of the carriage on the top of the prostrate figure of the bugle man and by the time the others had assisted him back to his seat they had forgotten all about their plan of getting rid of crass. meantime the speed of the vehicle had increased to a fearful rate. rushton and the other occupants of the little wagonette in front had been for some time shouting to them to moderate the pace of their horses, but as the driver of crass's brake was too drunk to understand what they said he took no notice, and they had no alternative but to increase their own speed to avoid being run down. the drunken driver now began to imagine that they were trying to race him, and became fired with the determination to pass them. it was a very narrow road, but there was just about room to do it, and he had sufficient confidence in his own skill with the ribbons to believe that he could get past in safety. the terrified gesticulations and the shouts of rushton's party only served to infuriate him, because he imagined that they were jeering at him for not being able to overtake them. he stood up on the footboard and lashed the horses till they almost flew over the ground, while the carriage swayed and skidded in a fearful manner. in front, the horses of rushton's conveyance were also galloping at top speed, the vehicle bounding and reeling from one side of the road to the other, whilst its terrified occupants, whose faces were blanched with apprehension, sat clinging to their seats and to each other, their eyes projecting from the sockets as they gazed back with terror at their pursuers, some of whom were encouraging the drunken driver with promises of quarts of beer, and urging on the horses with curses and yells. crass's fat face was pallid with fear as he clung trembling to his seat. another man, very drunk and oblivious of everything, was leaning over the side of the brake, spewing into the road, while the remainder, taking no interest in the race, amused themselves by singing--conducted by the semi-drunk--as loud as they could roar: 'has anyone seen a germin band, germin band, germin band? i've been lookin' about, pom--pom, pom, pom, pom! 'i've searched every pub, both near and far, near and far, near and far, i want my fritz, what plays tiddley bits on the big trombone!' the other two brakes had fallen far behind. the one presided over by hunter contained a mournful crew. nimrod himself, from the effects of numerous drinks of ginger beer with secret dashes of gin in it, had become at length crying drunk, and sat weeping in gloomy silence beside the driver, a picture of lachrymose misery and but dimly conscious of his surroundings, and slyme, who rode with hunter because he was a fellow member of the shining light chapel. then there was another paperhanger--an unhappy wretch who was afflicted with religious mania; he had brought a lot of tracts with him which he had distributed to the other men, to the villagers of tubberton and to anybody else who would take them. most of the other men who rode in nimrod's brake were of the 'religious' working man type. ignorant, shallow-pated dolts, without as much intellectuality as an average cat. attendants at various psas and 'church mission halls' who went every sunday afternoon to be lectured on their duty to their betters and to have their minds--save the mark!--addled and stultified by such persons as rushton, sweater, didlum and grinder, not to mention such mental specialists as the holy reverend belchers and boshers, and such persons as john starr. at these meetings none of the 'respectable' working men were allowed to ask any questions, or to object to, or find fault with anything that was said, or to argue, or discuss, or criticize. they had to sit there like a lot of children while they were lectured and preached at and patronized. even as sheep before their shearers are dumb, so they were not permitted to open their mouths. for that matter they did not wish to be allowed to ask any questions, or to discuss anything. they would not have been able to. they sat there and listened to what was said, but they had but a very hazy conception of what it was all about. most of them belonged to these psas merely for the sake of the loaves and fishes. every now and then they were awarded prizes--self-help by smiles, and other books suitable for perusal by persons suffering from almost complete obliteration of the mental faculties. besides other benefits there was usually a christmas club attached to the 'psa' or 'mission' and the things were sold to the members slightly below cost as a reward for their servility. they were for the most part tame, broken-spirited, poor wretches who contentedly resigned themselves to a life of miserable toil and poverty, and with callous indifference abandoned their offspring to the same fate. compared with such as these, the savages of new guinea or the red indians are immensely higher in the scale of manhood. they are free! they call no man master; and if they do not enjoy the benefits of science and civilization, neither do they toil to create those things for the benefit of others. and as for their children--most of those savages would rather knock them on the head with a tomahawk than allow them to grow up to be half-starved drudges for other men. but these were not free: their servile lives were spent in grovelling and cringing and toiling and running about like little dogs at the behest of their numerous masters. and as for the benefits of science and civilization, their only share was to work and help to make them, and then to watch other men enjoy them. and all the time they were tame and quiet and content and said, 'the likes of us can't expect to 'ave nothing better, and as for our children wot's been good enough for us is good enough for the likes of them.' but although they were so religious and respectable and so contented to be robbed on a large scale, yet in small matters, in the commonplace and petty affairs of their everyday existence, most of these men were acutely alive to what their enfeebled minds conceived to be their own selfish interests, and they possessed a large share of that singular cunning which characterizes this form of dementia. that was why they had chosen to ride in nimrod's brake--because they wished to chum up with him as much as possible, in order to increase their chances of being kept on in preference to others who were not so respectable. some of these poor creatures had very large heads, but a close examination would have shown that the size was due to the extraordinary thickness of the bones. the cavity of the skull was not so large as the outward appearance of the head would have led a casual observer to suppose, and even in those instances where the brain was of a fair size, it was of inferior quality, being coarse in texture and to a great extent composed of fat. although most of them were regular attendants at some place of so-called worship, they were not all teetotallers, and some of them were now in different stages of intoxication, not because they had had a great deal to drink, but because--being usually abstemious--it did not take very much to make them drunk. from time to time this miserable crew tried to enliven the journey by singing, but as most of them only knew odd choruses it did not come to much. as for the few who did happen to know all the words of a song, they either had no voices or were not inclined to sing. the most successful contribution was that of the religious maniac, who sang several hymns, the choruses being joined in by everybody, both drunk and sober. the strains of these hymns, wafted back through the balmy air to the last coach, were the cause of much hilarity to its occupants who also sang the choruses. as they had all been brought up under 'christian' influences and educated in 'christian' schools, they all knew the words: 'work, for the night is coming', 'turn poor sinner and escape eternal fire', 'pull for the shore' and 'where is my wandering boy?' the last reminded harlow of a song he knew nearly all the words of, 'take the news to mother', the singing of which was much appreciated by all present and when it was finished they sang it all over again, philpot being so affected that he actually shed tears; and easton confided to owen that there was no getting away from the fact that a boy's best friend is his mother. in this last carriage, as in the other two, there were several men who were more or less intoxicated and for the same reason--because not being used to taking much liquor, the few extra glasses they had drunk had got into their heads. they were as sober a lot of fellows as need be at ordinary times, and they had flocked together in this brake because they were all of about the same character--not tame, contented imbeciles like most of those in misery's carnage, but men something like harlow, who, although dissatisfied with their condition, doggedly continued the hopeless, weary struggle against their fate. they were not teetotallers and they never went to either church or chapel, but they spent little in drink or on any form of enjoyment--an occasional glass of beer or a still rarer visit to a music-hall and now and then an outing more or less similar to this being the sum total of their pleasures. these four brakes might fitly be regarded as so many travelling lunatic asylums, the inmates of each exhibiting different degrees and forms of mental disorder. the occupants of the first--rushton, didlum and co.--might be classed as criminal lunatics who injured others as well as themselves. in a properly constituted system of society such men as these would be regarded as a danger to the community, and would be placed under such restraint as would effectually prevent them from harming themselves or others. these wretches had abandoned every thought and thing that tends to the elevation of humanity. they had given up everything that makes life good and beautiful, in order to carry on a mad struggle to acquire money which they would never be sufficiently cultured to properly enjoy. deaf and blind to every other consideration, to this end they had degraded their intellects by concentrating them upon the minutest details of expense and profit, and for their reward they raked in their harvest of muck and lucre along with the hatred and curses of those they injured in the process. they knew that the money they accumulated was foul with the sweat of their brother men, and wet with the tears of little children, but they were deaf and blind and callous to the consequences of their greed. devoid of every ennobling thought or aspiration, they grovelled on the filthy ground, tearing up the flowers to get at the worms. in the coach presided over by crass, bill bates, the semi-drunk and the other two or three habitual boozers were all men who had been driven mad by their environment. at one time most of them had been fellows like harlow, working early and late whenever they got the chance, only to see their earnings swallowed up in a few minutes every saturday by the landlord and all the other host of harpies and profitmongers, who were waiting to demand it as soon as it was earned. in the years that were gone, most of these men used to take all their money home religiously every saturday and give it to the 'old girl' for the house, and then, lo and behold, in a moment, yea, even in the twinkling of an eye, it was all gone! melted away like snow in the sun! and nothing to show for it except an insufficiency of the bare necessaries of life! but after a time they had become heartbroken and sick and tired of that sort of thing. they hankered after a little pleasure, a little excitement, a little fun, and they found that it was possible to buy something like those in quart pots at the pub. they knew they were not the genuine articles, but they were better than nothing at all, and so they gave up the practice of giving all their money to the old girl to give to the landlord and the other harpies, and bought beer with some of it instead; and after a time their minds became so disordered from drinking so much of this beer, that they cared nothing whether the rent was paid or not. they cared but little whether the old girl and the children had food or clothes. they said, 'to hell with everything and everyone,' and they cared for nothing so long as they could get plenty of beer. the occupants of nimrod's coach have already been described and most of them may correctly be classed as being similar to cretin idiots of the third degree--very cunning and selfish, and able to read and write, but with very little understanding of what they read except on the most common topics. as for those who rode with harlow in the last coach, most of them, as has been already intimated, were men of similar character to himself. the greater number of them fairly good workmen and--unlike the boozers in crass's coach--not yet quite heartbroken, but still continuing the hopeless struggle against poverty. these differed from nimrod's lot inasmuch as they were not content. they were always complaining of their wretched circumstances, and found a certain kind of pleasure in listening to the tirades of the socialists against the existing social conditions, and professing their concurrence with many of the sentiments expressed, and a desire to bring about a better state of affairs. most of them appeared to be quite sane, being able to converse intelligently on any ordinary subject without discovering any symptoms of mental disorder, and it was not until the topic of parliamentary elections was mentioned that evidence of their insanity was forthcoming. it then almost invariably appeared that they were subject to the most extraordinary hallucinations and extravagant delusions, the commonest being that the best thing that the working people could do to bring about an improvement in their condition, was to continue to elect their liberal and tory employers to make laws for and to rule over them! at such times, if anyone ventured to point out to them that that was what they had been doing all their lives, and referred them to the manifold evidences that met them wherever they turned their eyes of its folly and futility, they were generally immediately seized with a paroxysm of the most furious mania, and were with difficulty prevented from savagely assaulting those who differed from them. they were usually found in a similar condition of maniacal excitement for some time preceding and during a parliamentary election, but afterwards they usually manifested that modification of insanity which is called melancholia. in fact they alternated between these two forms of the disease. during elections, the highest state of exalted mania; and at ordinary times--presumably as a result of reading about the proceedings in parliament of the persons whom they had elected--in a state of melancholic depression, in their case an instance of hope deferred making the heart sick. this condition occasionally proved to be the stage of transition into yet another modification of the disease--that known as dipsomania, the phase exhibited by bill bates and the semi-drunk. yet another form of insanity was that shown by the socialists. like most of their fellow passengers in the last coach, the majority of these individuals appeared to be of perfectly sound mind. upon entering into conversation with them one found that they reasoned correctly and even brilliantly. they had divided their favourite subject into three parts. first; an exact definition of the condition known as poverty. secondly; a knowledge of the causes of poverty; and thirdly, a rational plan for the cure of poverty. those who were opposed to them always failed to refute their arguments, and feared, and nearly always refused, to meet them in fair fight--in open debate--preferring to use the cowardly and despicable weapons of slander and misrepresentation. the fact that these socialists never encountered their opponents except to defeat them, was a powerful testimony to the accuracy of their reasonings and the correctness of their conclusions--and yet they were undoubtedly mad. one might converse with them for an indefinite time on the three divisions of their subject without eliciting any proofs of insanity, but directly one inquired what means they proposed to employ in order to bring about the adoption of their plan, they replied that they hoped to do so by reasoning with the others! although they had sense enough to understand the real causes of poverty, and the only cure for poverty, they were nevertheless so foolish that they entertained the delusion that it is possible to reason with demented persons, whereas every sane person knows that to reason with a maniac is not only fruitless, but rather tends to fix more deeply the erroneous impressions of his disordered mind. the wagonette containing rushton and his friends continued to fly over the road, pursued by the one in which rode crass, bill bates, and the semi-drunk; but notwithstanding all the efforts of the drunken driver, they were unable to overtake or pass the smaller vehicle, and when they reached the foot of the hill that led up to windley the distance between the two carriages rapidly increased, and the race was reluctantly abandoned. when they reached the top of the hill rushton and his friends did not wait for the others, but drove off towards mugsborough as fast as they could. crass's brake was the next to arrive at the summit, and they halted there to wait for the other two conveyances and when they came up all those who lived nearby got out, and some of them sang 'god save the king', and then with shouts of 'good night', and cries of 'don't forget six o'clock monday morning', they dispersed to their homes and the carriages moved off once more. at intervals as they passed through windley brief stoppages were made in order to enable others to get out, and by the time they reached the top of the long incline that led down into mugsborough it was nearly twelve o'clock and the brakes were almost empty, the only passengers being owen and four or five others who lived down town. by ones and twos these also departed, disappearing into the obscurity of the night, until there was none left, and the beano was an event of the past. chapter the great oration the outlook for the approaching winter was--as usual--gloomy in the extreme. one of the leading daily newspapers published an article prophesying a period of severe industrial depression. 'as the warehouses were glutted with the things produced by the working classes, there was no need for them to do any more work--at present; and so they would now have to go and starve until such time as their masters had sold or consumed the things already produced.' of course, the writer of the article did not put it exactly like that, but that was what it amounted to. this article was quoted by nearly all the other papers, both liberal and conservative. the tory papers--ignoring the fact that all the protectionist countries were in exactly the same condition, published yards of misleading articles about tariff reform. the liberal papers said tariff reform was no remedy. look at america and germany--worse than here! still, the situation was undoubtedly very serious--continued the liberal papers--and something would have to be done. they did not say exactly what, because, of course, they did not know; but something would have to be done--tomorrow. they talked vaguely about re-afforestation, and reclaiming of foreshores, and sea walls: but of course there was the question of cost! that was a difficulty. but all the same something would have to be done. some experiments must be tried! great caution was necessary in dealing with such difficult problems! we must go slow, and if in the meantime a few thousand children die of starvation, or become 'rickety' or consumptive through lack of proper nutrition it is, of course, very regrettable, but after all they are only working-class children, so it doesn't matter a great deal. most of the writers of these liberal and tory papers seemed to think that all that was necessary was to find 'work' for the 'working' class! that was their conception of a civilized nation in the twentieth century! for the majority of the people to work like brutes in order to obtain a 'living wage' for themselves and to create luxuries for a small minority of persons who are too lazy to work at all! and although this was all they thought was necessary, they did not know what to do in order to bring even that much to pass! winter was returning, bringing in its train the usual crop of horrors, and the liberal and tory monopolists of wisdom did not know what to do! rushton's had so little work in that nearly all the hands expected that they would be slaughtered the next saturday after the 'beano' and there was one man--jim smith he was called--who was not allowed to live even till then: he got the sack before breakfast on the monday morning after the beano. this man was about forty-five years old, but very short for his age, being only a little over five feet in height. the other men used to say that little jim was not made right, for while his body was big enough for a six-footer, his legs were very short, and the fact that he was rather inclined to be fat added to the oddity of his appearance. on the monday morning after the beano he was painting an upper room in a house where several other men were working, and it was customary for the coddy to shout 'yo! ho!' at mealtimes, to let the hands know when it was time to leave off work. at about ten minutes to eight, jim had squared the part of the work he had been doing--the window--so he decided not to start on the door or the skirting until after breakfast. whilst he was waiting for the foreman to shout 'yo! ho!' his mind reverted to the beano, and he began to hum the tunes of some of the songs that had been sung. he hummed the tune of 'he's a jolly good fellow', and he could not get the tune out of his mind: it kept buzzing in his head. he wondered what time it was? it could not be very far off eight now, to judge by the amount of work he had done since six o'clock. he had rubbed down and stopped all the woodwork and painted the window. a jolly good two hours' work! he was only getting sixpence-halfpenny an hour and if he hadn't earned a bob he hadn't earned nothing! anyhow, whether he had done enough for 'em or not he wasn't goin' to do no more before breakfast. the tune of 'he's a jolly good fellow' was still buzzing in his head; he thrust his hands deep down in his trouser pockets, and began to polka round the room, humming softly: 'i won't do no more before breakfast! i won't do no more before breakfast! i won't do no more before breakfast! so 'ip 'ip 'ip 'ooray! so 'ip 'ip 'ip 'ooray so 'ip 'ip 'ooray! i won't do no more before breakfast--etc.' 'no! and you won't do but very little after breakfast, here!' shouted hunter, suddenly entering the room. 'i've bin watchin' of you through the crack of the door for the last 'arf hour; and you've not done a dam' stroke all the time. you make out yer time sheet, and go to the office at nine o'clock and git yer money; we can't afford to pay you for playing the fool.' leaving the man dumbfounded and without waiting for a reply, misery went downstairs and after kicking up a devil of a row with the foreman for the lack of discipline on the job, he instructed him that smith was not to be permitted to resume work after breakfast. then he rode away. he had come in so stealthily that no one had known anything of his arrival until they heard him bellowing at smith. the latter did not stay to take breakfast but went off at once, and when he was gone the other chaps said it served him bloody well right: he was always singing, he ought to have more sense. you can't do as you like nowadays you know! easton--who was working at another job with crass as his foreman--knew that unless some more work came in he was likely to be one of those who would have to go. as far as he could see it was only a week or two at the most before everything would be finished up. but notwithstanding the prospect of being out of work so soon he was far happier than he had been for several months past, for he imagined he had discovered the cause of ruth's strange manner. this knowledge came to him on the night of the beano. when he arrived home he found that ruth had already gone to bed: she had not been well, and it was mrs linden's explanation of her illness that led easton to think that he had discovered the cause of the unhappiness of the last few months. now that he knew--as he thought--he blamed himself for not having been more considerate and patient with her. at the same time he was at a loss to understand why she had not told him about it herself. the only explanation he could think of was the one suggested by mrs linden--that at such times women often behaved strangely. however that might be, he was glad to think he knew the reason of it all, and he resolved that he would be more gentle and forebearing with her. the place where he was working was practically finished. it was a large house called 'the refuge', very similar to 'the cave', and during the last week or two, it had become what they called a 'hospital'. that is, as the other jobs became finished the men were nearly all sent to this one, so that there was quite a large crowd of them there. the inside work was all finished--with the exception of the kitchen, which was used as a mess room, and the scullery, which was the paint shop. everybody was working on the job. poor old joe philpot, whose rheumatism had been very bad lately, was doing a very rough job--painting the gable from a long ladder. but though there were plenty of younger men more suitable for this, philpot did not care to complain for fear crass or misery should think he was not up to his work. at dinner time all the old hands assembled in the kitchen, including crass, easton, harlow, bundy and dick wantley, who still sat on a pail behind his usual moat. philpot and harlow were absent and everybody wondered what had become of them. several times during the morning they had been seen whispering together and comparing scraps of paper, and various theories were put forward to account for their disappearance. most of the men thought they must have heard something good about the probable winner of the handicap and had gone to put something on. some others thought that perhaps they had heard of another 'job' about to be started by some other firm and had gone to inquire about it. 'looks to me as if they'll stand a very good chance of gettin' drowned if they're gone very far,' remarked easton, referring to the weather. it had been threatening to rain all the morning, and during the last few minutes it had become so dark that crass lit the gas, so that--as he expressed it--they should be able to see the way to their mouths. outside, the wind grew more boisterous every moment; the darkness continued to increase, and presently there succeeded a torrential downfall of rain, which beat fiercely against the windows, and poured in torrents down the glass. the men glanced gloomily at each other. no more work could be done outside that day, and there was nothing left to do inside. as they were paid by the hour, this would mean that they would have to lose half a day's pay. 'if it keeps on like this we won't be able to do no more work, and we won't be able to go home either,' remarked easton. 'well, we're all right 'ere, ain't we?' said the man behind the moat; 'there's a nice fire and plenty of heasy chairs. wot the 'ell more do you want?' 'yes,' remarked another philosopher. 'if we only had a shove-ha'penny table or a ring board, i reckon we should be able to enjoy ourselves all right.' philpot and harlow were still absent, and the others again fell to wondering where they could be. 'i see old joe up on 'is ladder only a few minutes before twelve,' remarked wantley. everyone agreed that it was a mystery. at this moment the two truants returned, looking very important. philpot was armed with a hammer and carried a pair of steps, while harlow bore a large piece of wallpaper which the two of them proceeded to tack on the wall, much to the amusement of the others, who read the announcement opposite written in charcoal. every day at meals since barrington's unexpected outburst at the beano dinner, the men had been trying their best to 'kid him on' to make another speech, but so far without success. if anything, he had been even more silent and reserved than before, as if he felt some regret that he had spoken as he had on that occasion. crass and his disciples attributed barrington's manner to fear that he was going to get the sack for his trouble and they agreed amongst themselves that it would serve him bloody well right if 'e did get the push. when they had fixed the poster on the wall, philpot stood the steps in the corner of the room, with the back part facing outwards, and then, everything being ready for the lecturer, the two sat down in their accustomed places and began to eat their dinners, harlow remarking that they would have to buck up or they would be too late for the meeting; and the rest of the crowd began to discuss the poster. 'wot the 'ell does plo mean?' demanded bundy, with a puzzled expression. 'plain layer on,' answered philpot modestly. ''ave you ever 'eard the professor preach before?' inquired the man on the pail, addressing bundy. imperial bankquet hall 'the refuge' on thursday at . prompt professor barrington will deliver a oration entitled the great secret, or how to live without work the rev. joe philpot plo (late absconding secretary of the light refreshment fund) will take the chair and anything else he can lay his hands on. at the end of the lecture a meeting will be arranged and carried out according to the marquis of queensbury's rules. a collection will be took up in aid of the cost of printing 					 'only once, at the beano,' replied that individual; 'an' that was once too often!' 'finest speaker i ever 'eard,' said the man on the pail with enthusiasm. 'i wouldn't miss this lecture for anything: this is one of 'is best subjects. i got 'ere about two hours before the doors was opened, so as to be sure to get a seat.' 'yes, it's a very good subject,' said crass, with a sneer. 'i believe most of the labour members in parliament is well up in it.' 'and wot about the other members?' demanded philpot. 'seems to me as if most of them knows something about it too.' 'the difference is,' said owen, 'the working classes voluntarily pay to keep the labour members, but whether they like it or not, they have to keep the others.' 'the labour members is sent to the 'ouse of commons,' said harlow, 'and paid their wages to do certain work for the benefit of the working classes, just the same as we're sent 'ere and paid our wages by the bloke to paint this 'ouse.' 'yes,' said crass; 'but if we didn't do the work we're paid to do, we should bloody soon get the sack.' 'i can't see how we've got to keep the other members,' said slyme; 'they're mostly rich men, and they live on their own money.' 'of course,' said crass. 'and i should like to know where we should be without 'em! talk about us keepin' them! it seems to me more like it that they keeps us! the likes of us lives on rich people. where should we be if it wasn't for all the money they spend and the work they 'as done? if the owner of this 'ouse 'adn't 'ad the money to spend to 'ave it done up, most of us would 'ave bin out of work this last six weeks, and starvin', the same as lots of others 'as been.' 'oh yes, that's right enough,' agreed bundy. 'labour is no good without capital. before any work can be done there's one thing necessary, and that's money. it would be easy to find work for all the unemployed if the local authorities could only raise the money.' 'yes; that's quite true,' said owen. 'and that proves that money is the cause of poverty, because poverty consists in being short of the necessaries of life: the necessaries of life are all produced by labour applied to the raw materials: the raw materials exist in abundance and there are plenty of people able and willing to work; but under present conditions no work can be done without money; and so we have the spectacle of a great army of people compelled to stand idle and starve by the side of the raw materials from which their labour could produce abundance of all the things they need--they are rendered helpless by the power of money! those who possess all the money say that the necessaries of life shall not be produced except for their profit.' 'yes! and you can't alter it,' said crass, triumphantly. 'it's always been like it, and it always will be like it.' ''ear! 'ear!' shouted the man behind the moat. 'there's always been rich and poor in the world, and there always will be.' several others expressed their enthusiastic agreement with crass's opinion, and most of them appeared to be highly delighted to think that the existing state of affairs could never be altered. 'it hasn't always been like it, and it won't always be like it,' said owen. 'the time will come, and it's not very far distant, when the necessaries of life will be produced for use and not for profit. the time is coming when it will no longer be possible for a few selfish people to condemn thousands of men and women and little children to live in misery and die of want.' 'ah well, it won't be in your time, or mine either,' said crass gleefully, and most of the others laughed with imbecile satisfaction. 'i've 'eard a 'ell of a lot about this 'ere socialism,' remarked the man behind the moat, 'but up to now i've never met nobody wot could tell you plainly exactly wot it is.' 'yes; that's what i should like to know too,' said easton. 'socialism means, "what's yours is mine, and what's mine's me own,"' observed bundy, and during the laughter that greeted this definition slyme was heard to say that socialism meant materialism, atheism and free love, and if it were ever to come about it would degrade men and women to the level of brute beasts. harlow said socialism was a beautiful ideal, which he for one would be very glad to see realized, and he was afraid it was altogether too good to be practical, because human nature is too mean and selfish. sawkins said that socialism was a lot of bloody rot, and crass expressed the opinion--which he had culled from the delectable columns of the obscurer--that it meant robbing the industrious for the benefit of the idle and thriftless. philpot had by this time finished his bread and cheese, and, having taken a final draught of tea, he rose to his feet, and crossing over to the corner of the room, ascended the pulpit, being immediately greeted with a tremendous outburst of hooting, howling and booing, which he smilingly acknowledged by removing his cap from his bald head and bowing repeatedly. when the storm of shrieks, yells, groans and catcalls had in some degree subsided, and philpot was able to make himself heard, he addressed the meeting as follows: 'gentlemen: first of all i beg to thank you very sincerely for the magnificent and cordial reception you have given me on this occasion, and i shall try to deserve your good opinion by opening the meeting as briefly as possible. 'putting all jokes aside, i think we're all agreed about one thing, and that is, that there's plenty of room for improvement in things in general. (hear, hear.) as our other lecturer, professor owen, pointed out in one of 'is lectures and as most of you 'ave read in the newspapers, although british trade was never so good before as it is now, there was never so much misery and poverty, and so many people out of work, and so many small shopkeepers goin' up the spout as there is at this partickiler time. now, some people tells us as the way to put everything right is to 'ave free trade and plenty of cheap food. well, we've got them all now, but the misery seems to go on all around us all the same. then there's other people tells us as the 'friscal policy' is the thing to put everything right. ("hear, hear" from crass and several others.) and then there's another lot that ses that socialism is the only remedy. well, we all know pretty well wot free trade and protection means, but most of us don't know exactly what socialism means; and i say as it's the dooty of every man to try and find out which is the right thing to vote for, and when 'e's found it out, to do wot 'e can to 'elp to bring it about. and that's the reason we've gorn to the enormous expense of engaging professor barrington to come 'ere this afternoon and tell us exactly what socialism is. ''as i 'ope you're all just as anxious to 'ear it as i am myself, i will not stand between you and the lecturer no longer, but will now call upon 'im to address you.' philpot was loudly applauded as he descended from the pulpit, and in response to the clamorous demands of the crowd, barrington, who in the meantime had yielded to owen's entreaties that he would avail himself of this opportunity of proclaiming the glad tidings of the good time that is to be, got up on the steps in his turn. harlow, desiring that everything should be done decently and in order, had meantime arranged in front of the pulpit a carpenter's sawing stool, and an empty pail with a small piece of board laid across it, to serve as a seat and a table for the chairman. over the table he draped a large red handkerchief. at the right he placed a plumber's large hammer; at the left, a battered and much-chipped jam-jar, full of tea. philpot having taken his seat on the pail at this table and announced his intention of bashing out with the hammer the brains of any individual who ventured to disturb the meeting, barrington commenced: 'mr chairman and gentlemen. for the sake of clearness, and in order to avoid confusing one subject with another, i have decided to divide the oration into two parts. first, i will try to explain as well as i am able what socialism is. i will try to describe to you the plan or system upon which the co-operative commonwealth of the future will be organized; and, secondly, i will try to tell you how it can be brought about. but before proceeding with the first part of the subject, i would like to refer very slightly to the widespread delusion that socialism is impossible because it means a complete change from an order of things which has always existed. we constantly hear it said that because there have always been rich and poor in the world, there always must be. i want to point out to you first of all, that it is not true that even in its essential features, the present system has existed from all time; it is not true that there have always been rich and poor in the world, in the sense that we understand riches and poverty today. 'these statements are lies that have been invented for the purpose of creating in us a feeling of resignation to the evils of our condition. they are lies which have been fostered by those who imagine that it is to their interest that we should be content to see our children condemned to the same poverty and degradation that we have endured ourselves. i do not propose--because there is not time, although it is really part of my subject--to go back to the beginnings of history, and describe in detail the different systems of social organization which evolved from and superseded each other at different periods, but it is necessary to remind you that the changes that have taken place in the past have been even greater than the change proposed by socialists today. the change from savagery and cannibalism when men used to devour the captives they took in war--to the beginning of chattel slavery, when the tribes or clans into which mankind were divided--whose social organization was a kind of communism, all the individuals belonging to the tribe being practically social equals, members of one great family--found it more profitable to keep their captives as slaves than to eat them. the change from the primitive communism of the tribes, into the more individualistic organization of the nations, and the development of private ownership of the land and slaves and means of subsistence. the change from chattel slavery into feudalism; and the change from feudalism into the earlier form of capitalism; and the equally great change from what might be called the individualistic capitalism which displaced feudalism, to the system of co-operative capitalism and wage slavery of today.' 'i believe you must 'ave swollered a bloody dictionary,' exclaimed the man behind the moat. 'keep horder,' shouted philpot, fiercely, striking the table with the hammer, and there were loud shouts of 'chair' and 'chuck 'im out,' from several quarters. when order was restored, the lecturer proceeded: 'so it is not true that practically the same state of affairs as we have today has always existed. it is not true that anything like the poverty that prevails at present existed at any previous period of the world's history. when the workers were the property of their masters, it was to their owners' interest to see that they were properly clothed and fed; they were not allowed to be idle, and they were not allowed to starve. under feudalism also, although there were certain intolerable circumstances, the position of the workers was, economically, infinitely better than it is today. the worker was in subjection to his lord, but in return his lord had certain responsibilities and duties to perform, and there was a large measure of community of interest between them. 'i do not intend to dwell upon this pout at length, but in support of what i have said i will quote as nearly as i can from memory the words of the historian froude. '"i do not believe," says mr froude, "that the condition of the people in mediaeval europe was as miserable as is pretended. i do not believe that the distribution of the necessaries of life was as unequal as it is at present. if the tenant lived hard, the lord had little luxury. earls and countesses breakfasted at five in the morning, on salt beef and herring, a slice of bread and a draught of ale from a blackjack. lords and servants dined in the same hall and shared the same meal." 'when we arrive at the system that displaced feudalism, we find that the condition of the workers was better in every way than it is at present. the instruments of production--the primitive machinery and the tools necessary for the creation of wealth--belonged to the skilled workers who used them, and the things they produced were also the property of those who made them. 'in those days a master painter, a master shoemaker, a master saddler, or any other master tradesmen, was really a skilled artisan working on his own account. he usually had one or two apprentices, who were socially his equals, eating at the same table and associating with the other members of his family. it was quite a common occurrence for the apprentice--after he had attained proficiency in his work--to marry his master's daughter and succeed to his master's business. in those days to be a "master" tradesman meant to be master of the trade, not merely of some underpaid drudges in one's employment. the apprentices were there to master the trade, qualifying themselves to become master workers themselves; not mere sweaters and exploiters of the labour of others, but useful members of society. in those days, because there was no labour-saving machinery the community was dependent for its existence on the productions of hand labour. consequently the majority of the people were employed in some kind of productive work, and the workers were honoured and respected citizens, living in comfort on the fruits of their labour. they were not rich as we understand wealth now, but they did not starve and they were not regarded with contempt, as are their successors of today. 'the next great change came with the introduction of steam machinery. that power came to the aid of mankind in their struggle for existence, enabling them to create easily and in abundance those things of which they had previously been able to produce only a bare sufficiency. a wonderful power--equalling and surpassing the marvels that were imagined by the writers of fairy tales and eastern stories--a power so vast--so marvellous, that it is difficult to find words to convey anything like an adequate conception of it. 'we all remember the story, in the arabian nights, of aladdin, who in his poverty became possessed of the wonderful lamp and--he was poor no longer. he merely had to rub the lamp--the genie appeared, and at aladdin's command he produced an abundance of everything that the youth could ask or dream of. with the discovery of steam machinery, mankind became possessed of a similar power to that imagined by the eastern writer. at the command of its masters the wonderful lamp of machinery produces an enormous, overwhelming, stupendous abundance and superfluity of every material thing necessary for human existence and happiness. with less labour than was formerly required to cultivate acres, we can now cultivate miles of land. in response to human industry, aided by science and machinery, the fruitful earth teems with such lavish abundance as was never known or deemed possible before. if you go into the different factories and workshops you will see prodigious quantities of commodities of every kind pouring out of the wonderful machinery, literally like water from a tap. 'one would naturally and reasonably suppose that the discovery or invention of such an aid to human industry would result in increased happiness and comfort for every one; but as you all know, the reverse is the case; and the reason of that extraordinary result, is the reason of all the poverty and unhappiness that we see around us and endure today--it is simply because--the machinery became the property of a comparatively few individuals and private companies, who use it not for the benefit of the community but to create profits for themselves. 'as this labour-saving machinery became more extensively used, the prosperous class of skilled workers gradually disappeared. some of the wealthier of them became distributers instead of producers of wealth; that is to say, they became shopkeepers, retailing the commodities that were produced for the most part by machinery. but the majority of them in course of time degenerated into a class of mere wage earners, having no property in the machines they used, and no property in the things they made. 'they sold their labour for so much per hour, and when they could not find any employer to buy it from them, they were reduced to destitution. 'whilst the unemployed workers were starving and those in employment not much better off, the individuals and private companies who owned the machinery accumulated fortunes; but their profits were diminished and their working expenses increased by what led to the latest great change in the organization of the production of the necessaries of life--the formation of the limited companies and the trusts; the decision of the private companies to combine and co-operate with each other in order to increase their profits and decrease their working expenses. the results of these combines have been--an increase in the quantities of the things produced: a decrease in the number of wage earners employed--and enormously increased profits for the shareholders. 'but it is not only the wage-earning class that is being hurt; for while they are being annihilated by the machinery and the efficient organization of industry by the trusts that control and are beginning to monopolize production, the shopkeeping classes are also being slowly but surely crushed out of existence by the huge companies that are able by the greater magnitude of their operations to buy and sell more cheaply than the small traders. 'the consequence of all this is that the majority of the people are in a condition of more or less abject poverty--living from hand to mouth. it is an admitted fact that about thirteen millions of our people are always on the verge of starvation. the significant results of this poverty face us on every side. the alarming and persistent increase of insanity. the large number of would-be recruits for the army who have to be rejected because they are physically unfit; and the shameful condition of the children of the poor. more than one-third of the children of the working classes in london have some sort of mental or physical defect; defects in development; defects of eyesight; abnormal nervousness; rickets, and mental dullness. the difference in height and weight and general condition of the children in poor schools and the children of the so-called better classes, constitutes a crime that calls aloud to heaven for vengeance upon those who are responsible for it. 'it is childish to imagine that any measure of tariff reform or political reform such as a paltry tax on foreign-made goods or abolishing the house of lords, or disestablishing the church--or miserable old age pensions, or a contemptible tax on land, can deal with such a state of affairs as this. they have no house of lords in america or france, and yet their condition is not materially different from ours. you may be deceived into thinking that such measures as those are great things. you may fight for them and vote for them, but after you have got them you will find that they will make no appreciable improvement in your condition. you will still have to slave and drudge to gain a bare sufficiency of the necessaries of life. you will still have to eat the same kind of food and wear the same kind of clothes and boots as now. your masters will still have you in their power to insult and sweat and drive. your general condition will be just the same as at present because such measures as those are not remedies but red herrings, intended by those who trail them to draw us away from the only remedy, which is to be found only in the public ownership of the machinery, and the national organization of industry for the production and distribution of the necessaries of life, not for the profit of a few but for the benefit of all! 'that is the next great change; not merely desirable, but imperatively necessary and inevitable! that is socialism! 'it is not a wild dream of superhuman unselfishness. no one will be asked to sacrifice himself for the benefit of others or to love his neighbours better than himself as is the case under the present system, which demands that the majority shall unselfishly be content to labour and live in wretchedness for the benefit of a few. there is no such principle of philanthropy in socialism, which simply means that even as all industries are now owned by shareholders, and organized and directed by committees and officers elected by the shareholders, so shall they in future belong to the state, that is, the whole people--and they shall be organized and directed by committees and officers elected by the community. 'under existing circumstances the community is exposed to the danger of being invaded and robbed and massacred by some foreign power. therefore the community has organized and owns and controls an army and navy to protect it from that danger. under existing circumstances the community is menaced by another equally great danger--the people are mentally and physically degenerating from lack of proper food and clothing. socialists say that the community should undertake and organize the business of producing and distributing all these things; that the state should be the only employer of labour and should own all the factories, mills, mines, farms, railways, fishing fleets, sheep farms, poultry farms and cattle ranches. 'under existing circumstances the community is degenerating mentally and physically because the majority cannot afford to have decent houses to live in. socialists say that the community should take in hand the business of providing proper houses for all its members, that the state should be the only landlord, that all the land and all the houses should belong to the whole people... 'we must do this if we are to keep our old place in the van of human progress. a nation of ignorant, unintelligent, half-starved, broken-spirited degenerates cannot hope to lead humanity in its never-ceasing march onward to the conquest of the future. 'vain, mightiest fleet of iron framed; vain the all-shattering guns unless proud england keep, untamed, the stout hearts of her sons. 'all the evils that i have referred to are only symptoms of the one disease that is sapping the moral, mental and physical life of the nation, and all attempts to cure these symptoms are foredoomed to failure, simply because they are the symptoms and not the disease. all the talk of temperance, and the attempts to compel temperance, are foredoomed to failure, because drunkenness is a symptom, and not the disease. 'india is a rich productive country. every year millions of pounds worth of wealth are produced by her people, only to be stolen from them by means of the money trick by the capitalist and official class. her industrious sons and daughters, who are nearly all total abstainers, live in abject poverty, and their misery is not caused by laziness or want of thrift, or by intemperance. they are poor for the same reason that we are poor--because we are robbed. 'the hundreds of thousands of pounds that are yearly wasted in well-meant but useless charity accomplish no lasting good, because while charity soothes the symptoms it ignores the disease, which is--the private ownership of the means of producing the necessaries of life, and the restriction of production, by a few selfish individuals for their own profit. and for that disease there is no other remedy than the one i have told you of--the public ownership and cultivation of the land, the public ownership of the mines, railways, canals, ships, factories and all the other means of production, and the establishment of an industrial civil service--a national army of industry--for the purpose of producing the necessaries, comforts and refinements of life in that abundance which has been made possible by science and machinery--for the use and benefit of the whole of the people.' 'yes: and where's the money to come from for all this?' shouted crass, fiercely. 'hear, hear,' cried the man behind the moat. 'there's no money difficulty about it,' replied barrington. 'we can easily find all the money we shall need.' 'of course,' said slyme, who had been reading the daily ananias, 'there's all the money in the post office savings bank. the socialists could steal that for a start; and as for the mines and land and factories, they can all be took from the owners by force.' 'there will be no need for force and no need to steal anything from anybody.' 'and there's another thing i objects to,' said crass. 'and that's all this 'ere talk about hignorance: wot about all the money wots spent every year for edication?' 'you should rather say--"what about all the money that's wasted every year on education?" what can be more brutal and senseless than trying to "educate" a poor little, hungry, ill-clad child? such so-called "instruction" is like the seed in the parable of the sower, which fell on stony ground and withered away because it had no depth of earth; and even in those cases where it does take root and grow, it becomes like the seed that fell among thorns and the thorns grew up and choked it, and it bore no fruit. 'the majority of us forget in a year or two all that we learnt at school because the conditions of our lives are such as to destroy all inclination for culture or refinement. we must see that the children are properly clothed and fed and that they are not made to get up in the middle of the night to go to work for several hours before they go to school. we must make it illegal for any greedy, heartless profit-hunter to hire them and make them labour for several hours in the evening after school, or all day and till nearly midnight on saturday. we must first see that our children are cared for, as well as the children of savage races, before we can expect a proper return for the money that we spend on education.' 'i don't mind admitting that this 'ere scheme of national ownership and industries is all right if it could only be done,' said harlow, 'but at present, all the land, railways and factories, belongs to private capitalists; they can't be bought without money, and you say you ain't goin' to take 'em away by force, so i should like to know how the bloody 'ell you are goin' to get 'em?' 'we certainly don't propose to buy them with money, for the simple reason that there is not sufficient money in existence to pay for them. 'if all the gold and silver money in the world were gathered together into one heap, it would scarcely be sufficient to buy all the private property in england. the people who own all these things now never really paid for them with money--they obtained possession of them by means of the "money trick" which owen explained to us some time ago.' 'they obtained possession of them by usin' their brain,' said crass. 'exactly,' replied the lecturer. 'they tell us themselves that that is how they got them away from us; they call their profits the "wages of intelligence". whilst we have been working, they have been using their intelligence in order to obtain possession of the things we have created. the time has now arrived for us to use our intelligence in order to get back the things they have robbed us of, aid to prevent them from robbing us any more. as for how it is to be done, we might copy the methods that they have found so successful.' 'oh, then you do mean to rob them after all,' cried slyme, triumphantly. 'if it's true that they robbed the workers, and if we're to adopt the same method then we'll be robbers too!' 'when a thief is caught having in his possession the property of others it is not robbery to take the things away from him and to restore them to their rightful owners,' retorted barrington. 'i can't allow this 'ere disorder to go on no longer,' shouted philpot, banging the table with the plumber's hammer as several men began talking at the same time. 'there will be plenty of tuneropperty for questions and opposition at the hend of the horation, when the pulpit will be throwed open to anyone as likes to debate the question. i now calls upon the professor to proceed with the second part of the horation: and anyone wot interrupts will get a lick under the ear-'ole with this'--waving the hammer--'and the body will be chucked out of the bloody winder.' loud cheers greeted this announcement. it was still raining heavily, so they thought they might as well pass the time listening to barrington as in any other way. 'a large part of the land may be got back in the same way as it was taken from us. the ancestors of the present holders obtained possession of it by simply passing acts of enclosure: the nation should regain possession of those lands by passing acts of resumption. and with regard to the other land, the present holders should be allowed to retain possession of it during their lives and then it should revert to the state, to be used for the benefit of all. britain should belong to the british people, not to a few selfish individuals. as for the railways, they have already been nationalized in some other countries, and what other countries can do we can do also. in new zealand, australia, south africa, germany, belgium, italy, japan and some other countries some of the railways are already the property of the state. as for the method by which we can obtain possession of them, the difficulty is not to discover a method, but rather to decide which of many methods we shall adopt. one method would be to simply pass an act declaring that as it was contrary to the public interest that they should be owned by private individuals, the railways would henceforth be the property of the nation. all railways servants, managers and officials would continue in their employment; the only difference being that they would now be in the employ of the state. as to the shareholders--' 'they could all be knocked on the 'ead, i suppose,' interrupted crass. 'or go to the workhouse,' said slyme. 'or to 'ell,' suggested the man behind the moat. '--the state would continue to pay to the shareholders the same dividends they had received on an average for, say, the previous three years. these payments would be continued to the present shareholders for life, or the payments might be limited to a stated number of years and the shares would be made non-transferable, like the railway tickets of today. as for the factories, shops, and other means of production and distribution, the state must adopt the same methods of doing business as the present owners. i mean that even as the big trusts and companies are crushing--by competition--the individual workers and small traders, so the state should crush the trusts by competition. it is surely justifiable for the state to do for the benefit of the whole people that which the capitalists are already doing for the profit of a few shareholders. the first step in this direction will be the establishment of retail stores for the purpose of supplying all national and municipal employees with the necessaries of life at the lowest possible prices. at first the administration will purchase these things from the private manufacturers, in such large quantities that it will be able to obtain them at the very cheapest rate, and as there will be no heavy rents to pay for showy shops, and no advertising expenses, and as the object of the administration will be not to make profit, but to supply its workmen and officials with goods at the lowest price, they will be able to sell them much cheaper than the profit-making private stores. 'the national service retail stores will be for the benefit of only those in the public service; and gold, silver or copper money will not be accepted in payment for the things sold. at first, all public servants will continue to be paid in metal money, but those who desire it will be paid all or part of their wages in paper money of the same nominal value, which will be accepted in payment for their purchases at the national stores and at the national hotels, restaurants and other places which will be established for the convenience of those in the state service. the money will resemble bank-notes. it will be made of a special very strong paper, and will be of all value, from a penny to a pound. 'as the national service stores will sell practically everything that could be obtained elsewhere, and as twenty shillings in paper money will be able to purchase much more at the stores than twenty shillings of metal money would purchase anywhere else, it will not be long before nearly all public servants will prefer to be paid in paper money. as far as paying the salaries and wages of most of its officials and workmen is concerned, the administration will not then have any need of metal money. but it will require metal money to pay the private manufacturers who supply the goods sold in the national stores. but--all these things are made by labour; so in order to avoid having to pay metal money for them, the state will now commence to employ productive labour. all the public land suitable for the purpose will be put into cultivation and state factories will be established for manufacturing food, boots, clothing, furniture and all other necessaries and comforts of life. all those who are out of employment and willing to work, will be given employment on these farms and in these factories. in order that the men employed shall not have to work unpleasantly hard, and that their hours of labour may be as short as possible--at first, say, eight hours per day--and also to make sure that the greatest possible quantity of everything shall be produced, these factories and farms will be equipped with the most up-to-date and efficient labour-saving machinery. the people employed in the farms and factories will be paid with paper money... the commodities they produce will go to replenish the stocks of the national service stores, where the workers will be able to purchase with their paper money everything they need. 'as we shall employ the greatest possible number of labour-saving machines, and adopt the most scientific methods in our farms and factories, the quantities of goods we shall be able to produce will be so enormous that we shall be able to pay our workers very high wages--in paper money--and we shall be able to sell our produce so cheaply, that all public servants will be able to enjoy abundance of everything. 'when the workers who are being exploited and sweated by the private capitalists realize how much worse off they are than the workers in the employ of the state, they will come and ask to be allowed to work for the state, and also, for paper money. that will mean that the state army of productive workers will be continually increasing in numbers. more state factories will be built, more land will be put into cultivation. men will be given employment making bricks, woodwork, paints, glass, wallpapers and all kinds of building materials and others will be set to work building--on state land--beautiful houses, which will be let to those employed in the service of the state. the rent will be paid with paper money. 'state fishing fleets will be established and the quantities of commodities of all kinds produced will be so great that the state employees and officials will not be able to use it all. with their paper money they will be able to buy enough and more than enough to satisfy all their needs abundantly, but there will still be a great and continuously increasing surplus stock in the possession of the state. 'the socialist administration will now acquire or build fleets of steam trading vessels, which will of course be manned and officered by state employees--the same as the royal navy is now. these fleets of national trading vessels will carry the surplus stocks i have mentioned, to foreign countries, and will there sell or exchange them for some of the products of those countries, things that we do not produce ourselves. these things will be brought to england and sold at the national service stores, at the lowest possible price, for paper money, to those in the service of the state. this of course will only have the effect of introducing greater variety into the stocks--it will not diminish the surplus: and as there would be no sense in continuing to produce more of these things than necessary, it would then be the duty of the administration to curtail or restrict production of the necessaries of life. this could be done by reducing the hours of the workers without reducing their wages so as to enable them to continue to purchase as much as before. 'another way of preventing over production of mere necessaries and comforts will be to employ a large number of workers producing the refinements and pleasures of life, more artistic houses, furniture, pictures, musical instruments and so forth. 'in the centre of every district a large institute or pleasure house could be erected, containing a magnificently appointed and decorated theatre; concert hall, lecture hall, gymnasium, billiard rooms, reading rooms, refreshment rooms, and so on. a detachment of the industrial army would be employed as actors, artistes, musicians, singers and entertainers. in fact everyone that could be spared from the most important work of all--that of producing the necessaries of life--would be employed in creating pleasure, culture, and education. all these people--like the other branches of the public service--would be paid with paper money, and with it all of them would be able to purchase abundance of all those things which constitute civilization. 'meanwhile, as a result of all this, the kind-hearted private employers and capitalists would find that no one would come and work for them to be driven and bullied and sweated for a miserable trifle of metal money that is scarcely enough to purchase sufficient of the necessaries of life to keep body and soul together. 'these kind-hearted capitalists will protest against what they will call the unfair competition of state industry, and some of them may threaten to leave the country and take their capital with them... as most of these persons are too lazy to work, and as we will not need their money, we shall be very glad to see them go. but with regard to their real capital--their factories, farms, mines or machinery--that will be a different matter... to allow these things to remain idle and unproductive would constitute an injury to the community. so a law will be passed, declaring that all land not cultivated by the owner, or any factory shut down for more than a specified time, will be taken possession of by the state and worked for the benefit of the community... fair compensation will be paid in paper money to the former owners, who will be granted an income or pension of so much a year either for life or for a stated period according to circumstances and the ages of the persons concerned. 'as for the private traders, the wholesale and retail dealers in the things produced by labour, they will be forced by the state competition to close down their shops and warehouses--first, because they will not be able to replenish their stocks; and, secondly, because even if they were able to do so, they would not be able to sell them. this will throw out of work a great host of people who are at present engaged in useless occupations; the managers and assistants in the shops of which we now see half a dozen of the same sort in a single street; the thousands of men and women who are slaving away their lives producing advertisements, for, in most cases, a miserable pittance of metal money, with which many of them are unable to procure sufficient of the necessaries of life to secure them from starvation. 'the masons, carpenters, painters, glaziers, and all the others engaged in maintaining these unnecessary stores and shops will all be thrown out of employment, but all of them who are willing to work will be welcomed by the state and will be at once employed helping either to produce or distribute the necessaries and comforts of life. they will have to work fewer hours than before... they will not have to work so hard--for there will be no need to drive or bully, because there will be plenty of people to do the work, and most of it will be done by machinery--and with their paper money they will be able to buy abundance of the things they help to produce. the shops and stores where these people were formerly employed will be acquired by the state, which will pay the former owners fair compensation in the same manner as to the factory owners. some of the buildings will be utilized by the state as national service stores, others transformed into factories and others will be pulled down to make room for dwellings, or public buildings... it will be the duty of the government to build a sufficient number of houses to accommodate the families of all those in its employment, and as a consequence of this and because of the general disorganization and decay of what is now called "business", all other house property of all kinds will rapidly depreciate in value. the slums and the wretched dwellings now occupied by the working classes--the miserable, uncomfortable, jerry-built "villas" occupied by the lower middle classes and by "business" people, will be left empty and valueless upon the hands of their rack renting landlords, who will very soon voluntarily offer to hand them and the ground they stand upon to the state on the same terms as those accorded to the other property owners, namely--in return for a pension. some of these people will be content to live in idleness on the income allowed them for life as compensation by the state: others will devote themselves to art or science and some others will offer their services to the community as managers and superintendents, and the state will always be glad to employ all those who are willing to help in the great work of production and distribution. 'by this time the nation will be the sole employer of labour, and as no one will be able to procure the necessaries of life without paper money, and as the only way to obtain this will be working, it will mean that every mentally and physically capable person in the community will be helping in the great work of production and distribution. we shall not need as at present, to maintain a police force to protect the property of the idle rich from the starving wretches whom they have robbed. there will be no unemployed and no overlapping of labour, which will be organized and concentrated for the accomplishment of the only rational object--the creation of the things we require... for every one labour-saving machine in use today, we will, if necessary, employ a thousand machines! and consequently there will be produced such a stupendous, enormous, prodigious, overwhelming abundance of everything that soon the community will be faced once more with the serious problem of over-production. 'to deal with this, it will be necessary to reduce the hours of our workers to four or five hours a day... all young people will be allowed to continue at public schools and universities and will not be required to take any part in the work or the nation until they are twenty-one years of age. at the age of forty-five, everyone will be allowed to retire from the state service on full pay... all these will be able to spend the rest of their days according to their own inclinations; some will settle down quietly at home, and amuse themselves in the same ways as people of wealth and leisure do at the present day--with some hobby, or by taking part in the organization of social functions, such as balls, parties, entertainments, the organization of public games and athletic tournaments, races and all kinds of sports. 'some will prefer to continue in the service of the state. actors, artists, sculptors, musicians and others will go on working for their own pleasure and honour... some will devote their leisure to science, art, or literature. others will prefer to travel on the state steamships to different parts of the world to see for themselves all those things of which most of us have now but a dim and vague conception. the wonders of india and egypt, the glories of rome, the artistic treasures of the continent and the sublime scenery of other lands. 'thus--for the first time in the history of humanity--the benefits and pleasures conferred upon mankind by science and civilization will be enjoyed equally by all, upon the one condition, that they shall do their share of the work, that is necessary in order to, make all these things possible. 'these are the principles upon which the co-operative commonwealth of the future will be organized. the state in which no one will be distinguished or honoured above his fellows except for virtue or talent. where no man will find his profit in another's loss, and we shall no longer be masters and servants, but brothers, free men, and friends. where there will be no weary, broken men and women passing their joyless lives in toil and want, and no little children crying because they are hungry or cold. 'a state wherein it will be possible to put into practice the teachings of him whom so many now pretend to follow. a society which shall have justice and co-operation for its foundation, and international brotherhood and love for its law. 'such are the days that shall be! but what are the deeds of today, in the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away? why, then, and for what we are waiting? there are but three words to speak "we will it," and what is the foreman but the dream strong wakened and weak? 'oh, why and for what are we waiting, while our brothers droop and die? and on every wind of the heavens, a wasted life goes by. 'how long shall they reproach us, where crowd on crowd they dwell poor ghosts of the wicked city, gold crushed, hungry hell? 'through squalid life they laboured in sordid grief they died those sons of a mighty mother, those props of england's pride. they are gone, there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse, but many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse? 'it is we must answer and hasten and open wide the door, for the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow foot hope of the poor, yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched and their unlearned discontent, we must give it voice and wisdom, till the waiting tide be spent come then since all things call us, the living and the dead, and o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.' as barrington descended from the pulpit and walked back to his accustomed seat, a loud shout of applause burst from a few men in the crowd, who stood up and waved their caps and cheered again and again. when order was restored, philpot rose and addressed the meeting: 'is there any gentleman wot would like to ask the speaker a question?' no one spoke and the chairman again put the question without obtaining any response, but at length one of the new hands who had been 'taken on' about a week previously to replace another painter who had been sacked for being too slow--stood up and said there was one point that he would like a little more information about. this man had two patches on the seat of his trousers, which were also very much frayed and ragged at the bottoms of the legs: the lining of his coat was all in rags, as were also the bottoms of the sleeves; his boots were old and had been many times mended and patched; the sole of one of them had begun to separate from the upper and he had sewn these parts together with a few stitches of copper wire. he had been out of employment for several weeks and it was evident from the pinched expression of his still haggard face that during that time he had not had sufficient to eat. this man was not a drunkard, neither was he one of those semi-mythical persons who are too lazy to work. he was married and had several children. one of them, a boy of fourteen years old, earned five shillings a week as a light porter at a grocer's. being a householder the man had a vote, but he had never hitherto taken much interest in what he called 'politics'. in his opinion, those matters were not for the likes of him. he believed in leaving such difficult subjects to be dealt with by his betters. in his present unhappy condition he was a walking testimonial to the wisdom and virtue and benevolence of those same 'betters' who have hitherto managed the affairs of the world with results so very satisfactory for themselves. 'i should like to ask the speaker,' he said, 'supposin' all this that 'e talks about is done--what's to become of the king, and the royal family, and all the big pots?' ''ear, 'ear,' cried crass, eagerly--and ned dawson and the man behind the moat both said that that was what they would like to know, too. 'i am much more concerned about what is to become of ourselves if these things are not done,' replied barrington. 'i think we should try to cultivate a little more respect of our own families and to concern ourselves a little less about "royal" families. i fail to see any reason why we should worry ourselves about those people; they're all right--they have all they need, and as far as i am aware, nobody wishes to harm them and they are well able to look after themselves. they will fare the same as the other rich people.' 'i should like to ask,' said harlow, 'wot's to become of all the gold and silver and copper money? wouldn't it be of no use at all?' 'it would be of far more use under socialism than it is at present. the state would of course become possessed of a large quantity of it in the early stages of the development of the socialist system, because--at first--while the state would be paying all its officers and productive workers in paper, the rest of the community--those not in state employ--would be paying their taxes in gold as at present. all travellers on the state railways--other than state employees--would pay their fares in metal money, and gold and silver would pour into the state treasury from many other sources. the state would receive gold and silver and--for the most part--pay out paper. by the time the system of state employment was fully established, gold and silver would only be of value as metal and the state would purchase it from whoever possessed and wished to sell it--at so much per pound as raw material: instead of hiding it away in the vaults of banks, or locking it up in iron safes, we shall make use of it. some of the gold will be manufactured into articles of jewellery, to be sold for paper money and worn by the sweethearts and wives and daughters of the workers; some of it will be beaten out into gold leaf to be used in the decoration of the houses of the citizens and of public buildings. as for the silver, it will be made into various articles of utility for domestic use. the workers will not then, as now, have to eat their food with poisonous lead or brass spoons and forks, we shall have these things of silver and if there is not enough silver we shall probably have a non-poisonous alloy of that metal.' 'as far as i can make out,' said harlow, 'the paper money will be just as valuable as gold and silver is now. well, wot's to prevent artful dodgers like old misery and rushton saving it up and buying and selling things with it, and so livin' without work?' 'of course,' said crass, scornfully. 'it would never do!' 'that's a very simple matter; any man who lives without doing any useful work is living on the labour of others, he is robbing others of part of the result of their labour. the object of socialism is to stop this robbery, to make it impossible. so no one will be able to hoard up or accumulate the paper money because it will be dated, and will become worthless if it is not spent within a certain time after its issue. as for buying and selling for profit--from whom would they buy? and to whom would they sell?' 'well, they might buy some of the things the workers didn't want, for less than the workers paid for them, and then they could sell 'em again.' 'they'd have to sell them for less than the price charged at the national stores, and if you think about it a little you'll see that it would not be very profitable. it would be with the object of preventing any attempts at private trading that the administration would refuse to pay compensation to private owners in a lump sum. all such compensations would be paid, as i said, in the form of a pension of so much per year. 'another very effective way to prevent private trading would be to make it a criminal offence against the well-being of the community. at present many forms of business are illegal unless you take out a licence; under socialism no one would be allowed to trade without a licence, and no licences would be issued.' 'wouldn't a man be allowed to save up his money if he wanted to, demanded slyme with indignation. 'there will be nothing to prevent a man going without some of the things he might have if he is foolish enough to do so, but he would never be able to save up enough to avoid doing his share of useful service. besides, what need would there be for anyone to save? one's old age would be provided for. no one could ever be out of employment. if one was ill the state hospitals and medical service would be free. as for one's children, they would attend the state free schools and colleges and when of age they would enter the state service, their futures provided for. can you tell us why anyone would need or wish to save?' slyme couldn't. 'are there any more questions?' demanded philpot. 'while we are speaking of money,' added barrington, 'i should like to remind you that even under the present system there are many things which cost money to maintain, that we enjoy without having to pay for directly. the public roads and pavements cost money to make and maintain and light. so do the parks, museums and bridges. but they are free to all. under a socialist administration this principle will be extended--in addition to the free services we enjoy now we shall then maintain the trains and railways for the use of the public, free. and as time goes on, this method of doing business will be adopted in many other directions.' 'i've read somewhere,' said harlow, 'that whenever a government in any country has started issuing paper money it has always led to bankruptcy. how do you know that the same thing would not happen under a socialist administration?' ''ear, 'ear,' said crass. 'i was just goin' to say the same thing.' 'if the government of a country began to issue large amounts of paper money under the present system,' barrington replied, 'it would inevitably lead to bankruptcy, for the simple reason that paper money under the present system--bank-notes, bank drafts, postal orders, cheques or any other form--is merely a printed promise to pay the amount--in gold or silver--on demand or at a certain date. under the present system if a government issues more paper money than it possesses gold and silver to redeem, it is of course bankrupt. but the paper money that will be issued under a socialist administration will not be a promise to pay in gold or silver on demand or at any time. it will be a promise to supply commodities to the amount specified on the note, and as there could be no dearth of those things there could be no possibility of bankruptcy.' 'i should like to know who's goin' to appoint the hofficers of this 'ere hindustrial harmy,' said the man on the pail. 'we don't want to be bullied and chivied and chased about by a lot of sergeants and corporals like a lot of soldiers, you know.' ''ear, 'ear,' said crass. 'you must 'ave some masters. someone's got to be in charge of the work.' 'we don't have to put up with any bullying or chivying or chasing now, do we?' said barrington. 'so of course we could not have anything of that sort under socialism. we could not put up with it at all! even if it were only for four or five hours a day. under the present system we have no voice in appointing our masters and overseers and foremen--we have no choice as to what master we shall work under. if our masters do not treat us fairly we have no remedy against them. under socialism it will be different; the workers will be part of the community; the officers or managers and foremen will be the servants of the community, and if any one of these men were to abuse his position he could be promptly removed. as for the details of the organization of the industrial army, the difficulty is, again, not so much to devise a way, but to decide which of many ways would be the best, and the perfect way will probably be developed only after experiment and experience. the one thing we have to hold fast to is the fundamental principle of state employment or national service. production for use and not for profit. the national organization of industry under democratic control. one way of arranging this business would be for the community to elect a parliament in much the same way as is done at present. the only persons eligible for election to be veterans of the industrial army, men and women who had put in their twenty-five years of service. 'this administrative body would have control of the different state departments. there would be a department of agriculture, a department of railways and so on, each with its minister and staff. 'all these members of parliament would be the relatives--in some cases the mothers and fathers of those in the industrial service, and they would be relied upon to see that the conditions of that service were the best possible. 'as for the different branches of the state service, they could be organized on somewhat the same lines as the different branches of the public service are now--like the navy, the post office and as the state railways in some other countries, or as are the different branches of the military army, with the difference that all promotions will be from the ranks, by examinations, and by merit only. as every recruit will have had the same class of education they will all have absolute equality of opportunity and the men who would attain to positions of authority would be the best men, and not as at present, the worst.' 'how do you make that out?' demanded crass. 'under the present system, the men who become masters and employers succeed because they are cunning and selfish, not because they understand or are capable of doing the work out of which they make their money. most of the employers in the building trade for instance would be incapable of doing any skilled work. very few of them would be worth their salt as journeymen. the only work they do is to scheme to reap the benefit of the labour of others. 'the men who now become managers and foremen are selected not because of their ability as craftsmen, but because they are good slave-drivers and useful producers of profit for their employers.' 'how are you goin' to prevent the selfish and cunnin', as you call 'em, from gettin' on top then as they do now?' said harlow. 'the fact that all workers will receive the same pay, no matter what class of work they are engaged in, or what their position, will ensure our getting the very best man to do all the higher work and to organize our business.' crass laughed: 'what! everybody to get the same wages?' 'yes: there will be such an enormous quantity of everything produced, that their wages will enable everyone to purchase abundance of everything they require. even if some were paid more than others they would not be able to spend it. there would be no need to save it, and as there will be no starving poor, there will be no one to give it away to. if it were possible to save and accumulate money it would bring into being an idle class, living on their fellows: it would lead to the downfall of our system, and a return to the same anarchy that exists at present. besides, if higher wages were paid to those engaged in the higher work or occupying positions of authority it would prevent our getting the best men. unfit persons would try for the positions because of the higher pay. that is what happens now. under the present system men intrigue for and obtain or are pitchforked into positions for which they have no natural ability at all; the only reason they desire these positions is because of the salaries attached to them. these fellows get the money and the work is done by underpaid subordinates whom the world never hears of. under socialism, this money incentive will be done away with, and consequently the only men who will try for these positions will be those who, being naturally fitted for the work, would like to do it. for instance a man who is a born organizer will not refuse to undertake such work because he will not be paid more for it. such a man will desire to do it and will esteem it a privilege to be allowed to do it. he will revel in it. to think out all the details of some undertaking, to plan and scheme and organize, is not work for a man like that. it is a pleasure. but for a man who has sought and secured such a position, not because he liked the work, but because he liked the salary--such work as this would be unpleasant labour. under socialism the unfit man would not apply for that post but would strive after some other for which he was fit and which he would therefore desire and enjoy. there are some men who would rather have charge of and organize and be responsible for work than do it with their hands. there are others who would rather do delicate or difficult or artistic work, than plain work. a man who is a born artist would rather paint a frieze or a picture or carve a statue than he would do plain work, or take charge of and direct the labour of others. and there are another sort of men who would rather do ordinary plain work than take charge, or attempt higher branches for which they have neither liking or natural talent. 'but there is one thing--a most important point that you seem to entirely lose sight of, and that is, that all these different kinds and classes are equal in one respect--they are all equally necessary. each is a necessary and indispensable part of the whole; therefore everyone who has done his full share of necessary work is justly entitled to a full share of the results. the men who put the slates on are just as indispensable as the men who lay the foundations. the work of the men who build the walls and make the doors is just as necessary as the work of the men who decorate the cornice. none of them would be of much use without the architect, and the plans of the architect would come to nothing, his building would be a mere castle in the air, if it were not for the other workers. each part of the work is equally necessary, useful and indispensable if the building is to be perfected. some of these men work harder with their brains than with their hands and some work harder with their hands than with their brains, but each one does his full share of the work. this truth will be recognized and acted upon by those who build up and maintain the fabric of our co-operative commonwealth. every man who does his full share of the useful and necessary work according to his abilities shall have his full share of the total result. herein will be its great difference from the present system, under which it is possible for the cunning and selfish ones to take advantage of the simplicity of others and rob them of part of the fruits of their labour. as for those who will be engaged in the higher branches, they will be sufficiently rewarded by being privileged to do the work they are fitted for and enjoy. the only men and women who are capable of good and great work of any kind are those who, being naturally fit for it, love the work for its own sake and not for the money it brings them. under the present system, many men who have no need of money produce great works, not for gain but for pleasure: their wealth enables them to follow their natural inclinations. under the present system many men and women capable of great works are prevented from giving expression to their powers by poverty and lack of opportunity: they live in sorrow and die heartbroken, and the community is the loser. these are the men and women who will be our artists, sculptors, architects, engineers and captains of industry. 'under the present system there are men at the head of affairs whose only object is the accumulation of money. some of them possess great abilities and the system has practically compelled them to employ those abilities for their own selfish ends to the hurt of the community. some of them have built up great fortunes out of the sweat and blood and tears of men and women and little children. for those who delight in such work as this, there will be no place in our co-operative commonwealth.' 'is there any more questions?' demanded philpot. 'yes,' said harlow. 'if there won't be no extry pay and if anybody will have all they need for just doing their part of the work, what encouragement will there be for anyone to worry his brains out trying to invent some new machine, or make some new discovery?' 'well,' said barrington, 'i think that's covered by the last answer, but if it were found necessary--which is highly improbable--to offer some material reward in addition to the respect, esteem or honour that would be enjoyed by the author of an invention that was a boon to the community, it could be arranged by allowing him to retire before the expiration of his twenty-five years service. the boon he had conferred on the community by the invention, would be considered equivalent to so many years work. but a man like that would not desire to cease working; that sort go on working all their lives, for love. there's edison for instance. he is one of the very few inventors who have made money out of their work; he is a rich man, but the only use his wealth seems to be to him is to procure himself facilities for going on with his work; his life is a round of what some people would call painful labour: but it is not painful labour to him; it's just pleasure, he works for the love of it. another way would be to absolve a man of that sort from the necessity of ordinary work, so as to give him a chance to get on with other inventions. it would be to the interests of the community to encourage him in every way and to place materials and facilities at his disposal. 'but you must remember that even under the present system, honour and praise are held to be greater than money. how many soldiers would prefer money to the honour of wearing the intrinsically valueless victoria cross? 'even now men think less of money than they do of the respect, esteem or honour they are able to procure with it. many men spend the greater part of their lives striving to accumulate money, and when they have succeeded, they proceed to spend it to obtain the respect of their fellow-men. some of them spend thousands of pounds for the honour of being able to write "mp" after their names. others buy titles. others pay huge sums to gain admission to exclusive circles of society. others give the money away in charity, or found libraries or universities. the reason they do these things is that they desire to be applauded and honoured by their fellow-men. 'this desire is strongest in the most capable men--the men of genius. therefore, under socialism the principal incentive to great work will be the same as now--honour and praise. but, under the present system, honour and praise can be bought with money, and it does not matter much how the money was obtained. 'under socialism it will be different. the cross of honour and the laurel crown will not be bought and sold for filthy lucre. they will be the supreme rewards of virtue and of talent.' 'anyone else like to be flattened out?' inquired philpot. 'what would you do with them what spends all their money in drink?' asked slyme. 'i might reasonably ask you, "what's done with them or what you propose to do with them now?" there are many men and women whose lives are so full of toil and sorrow and the misery caused by abject poverty, who are so shut out from all that makes life worth living, that the time they spend in the public house is the only ray of sunshine in their cheerless lives. their mental and material poverty is so great that they are deprived of and incapable of understanding the intellectual and social pleasures of civilization... under socialism there will be no such class as this. everyone will be educated, and social life and rational pleasure will be within the reach of all. therefore we do not believe that there will be such a class. any individuals who abandoned themselves to such a course would be avoided by their fellows; but if they became very degraded, we should still remember that they were our brother men and women, and we should regard them as suffering from a disease inherited from their uncivilized forefathers and try to cure them by placing them under some restraint: in an institute for instance.' 'another good way to deal with 'em,' said harlow, 'would be to allow them double pay, so as they could drink themselves to death. we could do without the likes of them.' 'call the next case,' said philpot. 'this 'ere abundance that you're always talking about,' said crass, you can't be sure that it would be possible to produce all that. you're only assoomin' that it could be done.' barrington pointed to the still visible outlines of the 'hoblong' that owen had drawn on the wall to illustrate a previous lecture. 'even under the present silly system of restricted production, with the majority of the population engaged in useless, unproductive, unnecessary work, and large numbers never doing any work at all, there is enough produced to go all round after a fashion. more than enough, for in consequence of what they call "over-production", the markets are periodically glutted with commodities of all kinds, and then for a time the factories are closed and production ceases. and yet we can all manage to exist--after a fashion. this proves that if productive industry were organized on the lines advocated by socialists there could be produced such a prodigious quantity of everything, that everyone could live in plenty and comfort. the problem of how to produce sufficient for all to enjoy abundance is already solved: the problem that then remains is--how to get rid of those whose greed and callous indifference to the sufferings of others, prevents it being done.' 'yes! and you'll never be able to get rid of 'em, mate,' cried crass, triumphantly--and the man with the copper wire stitches in his boot said that it couldn't be done. 'well, we mean to have a good try, anyhow,' said barrington. crass and most of the others tried hard to think of something to say in defence of the existing state of affairs, or against the proposals put forward by the lecturer; but finding nothing, they maintained a sullen and gloomy silence. the man with the copper wire stitches in his boot in particular appeared to be very much upset; perhaps he was afraid that if the things advocated by the speaker ever came to pass he would not have any boots at all. to assume that he had some such thought as this, is the only rational way to account for his hostility, for in his case no change could have been for the worse unless it reduced him to almost absolute nakedness and starvation. to judge by their unwillingness to consider any proposals to alter the present system, one might have supposed that they were afraid of losing something, instead of having nothing to lose--except their poverty. it was not till the chairman had made several urgent appeals for more questions that crass brightened up: a glad smile slowly spread over and illuminated his greasy visage: he had at last thought of a most serious and insurmountable obstacle to the establishment of the co-operative commonwealth. 'what,' he demanded, in a loud voice, 'what are you goin' to do, in this 'ere socialist republic of yours, with them wot won't work'!' as crass flung this bombshell into the socialist camp, the miserable, ragged-trousered crew around him could scarce forbear a cheer; but the more intelligent part of the audience only laughed. 'we don't believe that there will be any such people as that,' said barrington. 'there's plenty of 'em about now, anyway,' sneered crass. 'you can't change 'uman nature, you know,' cried the man behind the moat, and the one who had the copper wire stitches in his boot laughed scornfully. 'yes, i know there are plenty such now,' rejoined barrington. 'it's only what is to be expected, considering that practically all workers live in poverty, and are regarded with contempt. the conditions under which most of the work is done at present are so unpleasant and degrading that everyone refuses to do any unless they are compelled; none of us here, for instance, would continue to work for rushton if it were not for the fact that we have either to do so or starve; and when we do work we only just earn enough to keep body and soul together. under the present system everybody who can possibly manage to do so avoids doing any work, the only difference being that some people do their loafing better than others. the aristocracy are too lazy to work, but they seem to get on all right; they have their tenants to work for them. rushton is too lazy to work, so he has arranged that we and nimrod shall work instead, and he fares much better than any of us who do work. then there is another kind of loafers who go about begging and occasionally starving rather than submit to such abominable conditions as are offered to them. these last are generally not much worse off than we are and they are often better off. at present, people have everything to gain and but little to lose by refusing to work. under socialism it would be just the reverse; the conditions of labour would be so pleasant, the hours of obligatory work so few, and the reward so great, that it is absurd to imagine that any one would be so foolish as to incur the contempt of his fellows and make himself a social outcast by refusing to do the small share of work demanded of him by the community of which he was a member. 'as for what we should do to such individuals if there did happen to be some, i can assure you that we would not treat them as you treat them now. we would not dress them up in silk and satin and broadcloth and fine linen: we would not embellish them, as you do, with jewels of gold and jewels of silver and with precious stones; neither should we allow them to fare sumptuously every day. our method of dealing with them would be quite different from yours. in the co-operative commonwealth there will be no place for loafers; whether they call themselves aristocrats or tramps, those who are too lazy to work shall have no share in the things that are produced by the labour of others. those who do nothing shall have nothing. if any man will not work, neither shall he eat. under the present system a man who is really too lazy to work may stop you in the street and tell you that he cannot get employment. for all you know, he may be telling the truth, and if you have any feeling and are able, you will help him. but in the socialist state no one would have such an excuse, because everyone that was willing would be welcome to come and help in the work of producing wealth and happiness for all, and afterwards he would also be welcome to his full share of the results.' 'any more complaints?' inquired the chairman, breaking the gloomy silence that followed. 'i don't want anyone to think that i am blaming any of these present-day loafers,' barrington added. 'the wealthy ones cannot be expected voluntarily to come and work under existing conditions and if they were to do so they would be doing more harm than good--they would be doing some poor wretches out of employment. they are not to be blamed; the people who are to blame are the working classes themselves, who demand and vote for the continuance of the present system. as for the other class of loafers--those at the bottom, the tramps and people of that sort, if they were to become sober and industrious tomorrow, they also would be doing more harm than good to the other workers; it would increase the competition for work. if all the loafers in mugsborough could suddenly be transformed into decent house painters next week, nimrod might be able to cut down the wages another penny an hour. i don't wish to speak disrespectfully of these tramps at all. some of them are such simply because they would rather starve than submit to the degrading conditions that we submit to, they do not see the force of being bullied and chased, and driven about in order to gain semi-starvation and rags. they are able to get those without working; and i sometimes think that they are more worthy of respect and are altogether a nobler type of beings than a lot of broken-spirited wretches like ourselves, who are always at the mercy of our masters, and always in dread of the sack.' 'any more questions?' said the chairman. 'do you mean to say as the time will ever come when the gentry will mix up on equal terms with the likes of us?' demanded the man behind the moat, scornfully. 'oh, no,' replied the lecturer. when we get socialism there won't be any people like us. everybody will be civilized.' the man behind the moat did not seem very satisfied with this answer, and told the others that he could not see anything to laugh at. 'is there any more questions?' cried philpot. 'now is your chance to get some of your own back, but don't hall speak at once.' 'i should like to know who's goin' to do all the dirty work?' said slyme. 'if everyone is to be allowed to choose 'is own trade, who'd be fool enough to choose to be a scavenger, a sweep, a dustman or a sewer man? nobody wouldn't want to do such jobs as them and everyone would be after the soft jobs.' 'of course,' cried crass, eagerly clutching at this last straw. 'the thing sounds all right till you comes to look into it, but it wouldn't never work!' 'it would be very easy to deal with any difficulty of that sort,' replied barrington, 'if it were found that too many people were desirous of pursuing certain callings, it would be known that the conditions attached to those kinds of work were unfairly easy, as compared with other lines, so the conditions in those trades would be made more severe. a higher degree of skill would be required. if we found that too many persons wished to be doctors, architects, engineers and so forth, we would increase the severity of the examinations. this would scare away all but the most gifted and enthusiastic. we should thus at one stroke reduce the number of applicants and secure the very best men for the work--we should have better doctors, better architects, better engineers than before. 'as regards those disagreeable tasks for which there was a difficulty in obtaining volunteers, we should adopt the opposite means. suppose that six hours was the general thing; and we found that we could not get any sewer men; we should reduce the hours of labour in that department to four, or if necessary to two, in order to compensate for the disagreeable nature of the work. 'another way out of such difficulties would be to have a separate division of the industrial army to do all such work, and to make it obligatory for every man to put in his first year of state service as a member of this corps. there would be no hardship in that. everyone gets the benefit of such work; there would be no injustice in requiring everyone to share. this would have the effect also of stimulating invention; it would be to everyone's interest to think out means of doing away with such kinds of work and there is no doubt that most of it will be done by machinery in some way or other. a few years ago the only way to light up the streets of a town was to go round to each separate gas lamp and light each jet, one at a time: now, we press a few buttons and light up the town with electricity. in the future we shall probably be able to press a button and flush the sewers.' 'what about religion?' said slyme. 'i suppose there won't be no churches nor chapels; we shall all have to be atheists.' 'everybody will be perfectly free to enjoy their own opinions and to practise any religion they like; but no religion or sect will be maintained by the state. if any congregation or body of people wish to have a building for their own exclusive use as a church or chapel or lecture hall it will be supplied to them by the state on the same terms as those upon which dwelling houses will be supplied; the state will construct the special kind of building and the congregation will have to pay the rent, the amount to be based on the cost of construction, in paper money of course. as far as the embellishment or decoration of such places is concerned, there will of course be nothing to prevent the members of the congregation if they wish from doing any such work as that themselves in their own spare time of which they will have plenty.' 'if everybody's got to do their share of work, where's the minister and clergymen to come from?' 'there are at least three ways out of that difficulty. first, ministers of religion could be drawn from the ranks of the veterans--men over forty-five years old who had completed their term of state service. you must remember that these will not be worn out wrecks, as too many of the working classes are at that age now. they will have had good food and clothing and good general conditions all their lives; and consequently they will be in the very prime of life. they will be younger than many of us now are at thirty; they will be ideal men for the positions we are speaking of. all well educated in their youth, and all will have had plenty of leisure for self culture during the years of their state service and they will have the additional recommendation that their congregation will not be required to pay anything for their services. 'another way: if a congregation wished to retain the full-time services of a young man whom they thought specially gifted but who had not completed his term of state service, they could secure him by paying the state for his services; thus the young man would still remain in state employment, he would still continue to receive his pay from the national treasury, and at the age of forty-five would be entitled to his pension like any other worker, and after that the congregation would not have to pay the state anything. 'a third--and as it seems to me, the most respectable way--would be for the individual in question to act as minister or pastor or lecturer or whatever it was, to the congregation without seeking to get out of doing his share of the state service. the hours of obligatory work would be so short and the work so light that he would have abundance of leisure to prepare his orations without sponging on his co-religionists.' ''ear, 'ear!' cried harlow. 'of course,' added barrington, 'it would not only be congregations of christians who could adopt any of these methods. it is possible that a congregation of agnostics, for instance, might want a separate building or to maintain a lecturer.' 'what the 'ell's an agnostic?' demanded bundy. 'an agnostic,' said the man behind the moat, 'is a bloke wot don't believe nothing unless 'e see it with 'is own eyes.' 'all these details,' continued the speaker, 'of the organization of affairs and the work of the co-operative commonwealth, are things which do not concern us at all. they have merely been suggested by different individuals as showing some ways in which these things could be arranged. the exact methods to be adopted will be decided upon by the opinion of the majority when the work is being done. meantime, what we have to do is to insist upon the duty of the state to provide productive work for the unemployed, the state feeding of schoolchildren, the nationalization or socialization of railways; land; the trusts, and all public services that are still in the hands of private companies. if you wish to see these things done, you must cease from voting for liberal and tory sweaters, shareholders of companies, lawyers, aristocrats, and capitalists; and you must fill the house of commons with revolutionary socialists. that is--with men who are in favour of completely changing the present system. and in the day that you do that, you will have solved the poverty "problem". no more tramping the streets begging for a job! no more hungry children at home. no more broken boots and ragged clothes. no more women and children killing themselves with painful labour whilst strong men stand idly by; but joyous work and joyous leisure for all.' 'is there any more questions?' cried philpot. 'is it true,' said easton, 'that socialists intend to do away with the army and navy?' 'yes; it is true. socialists believe in international brotherhood and peace. nearly all wars are caused by profit-seeking capitalists, seeking new fields for commercial exploitation, and by aristocrats who make it the means of glorifying themselves in the eyes of the deluded common people. you must remember that socialism is not only a national, but an international movement and when it is realized, there will be no possibility of war, and we shall no longer need to maintain an army and navy, or to waste a lot of labour building warships or manufacturing arms and ammunition. all those people who are now employed will then be at liberty to assist in the great work of producing the benefits of civilization; creating wealth and knowledge and happiness for themselves and others--socialism means peace on earth and goodwill to all mankind. but in the meantime we know that the people of other nations are not yet all socialists; we do not forget that in foreign countries--just the same as in britain--there are large numbers of profit seeking capitalists, who are so destitute of humanity, that if they thought it could be done successfully and with profit to themselves they would not scruple to come here to murder and to rob. we do not forget that in foreign countries--the same as here--there are plenty of so-called "christian" bishops and priests always ready to give their benediction to any such murderous projects, and to blasphemously pray to the supreme being to help his children to slay each other like wild beasts. and knowing and remembering all this, we realize that until we have done away with capitalism, aristocracy and anti-christian clericalism, it is our duty to be prepared to defend our homes and our native land. and therefore we are in favour of maintaining national defensive forces in the highest possible state of efficiency. but that does not mean that we are in favour of the present system of organizing those forces. we do not believe in conscription, and we do not believe that the nation should continue to maintain a professional standing army to be used at home for the purpose of butchering men and women of the working classes in the interests of a handful of capitalists, as has been done at featherstone and belfast; or to be used abroad to murder and rob the people of other nations. socialists advocate the establishment of a national citizen army, for defensive purposes only. we believe that every able bodied man should be compelled to belong to this force and to undergo a course of military training, but without making him into a professional soldier, or taking him away from civil life, depriving him of the rights of citizenship or making him subject to military "law" which is only another name for tyranny and despotism. this citizen army could be organized on somewhat similar lines to the present territorial force, with certain differences. for instance, we do not believe--as our present rulers do--that wealth and aristocratic influence are the two most essential qualifications for an efficient officer; we believe that all ranks should be attainable by any man, no matter how poor, who is capable of passing the necessary examinations, and that there should be no expense attached to those positions which the government grant, or the pay, is not sufficient to cover. the officers could be appointed in any one of several ways: they might be elected by the men they would have to command, the only qualification required being that they had passed their examinations, or they might be appointed according to merit--the candidate obtaining the highest number of marks at the examinations to have the first call on any vacant post, and so on in order of merit. we believe in the total abolition of courts martial, any offence against discipline should be punishable by the ordinary civil law--no member of the citizen army being deprived of the rights of a citizen.' 'what about the navy?' cried several voices. 'nobody wants to interfere with the navy except to make its organization more democratic--the same as that of the citizen army--and to protect its members from tyranny by entitling them to be tried in a civil court for any alleged offence. 'it has been proved that if the soil of this country were scientifically cultivated, it is capable of producing sufficient to maintain a population of a hundred millions of people. our present population is only about forty millions, but so long as the land remains in the possession of persons who refuse to allow it to be cultivated we shall continue to be dependent on other countries for our food supply. so long as we are in that position, and so long as foreign countries are governed by liberal and tory capitalists, we shall need the navy to protect our overseas commerce from them. if we had a citizen army such as i have mentioned, of nine or ten millions of men and if the land of this country was properly cultivated, we should be invincible at home. no foreign power would ever be mad enough to attempt to land their forces on our shores. but they would now be able to starve us all to death in a month if it were not for the navy. it's a sensible and creditable position, isn't it?' concluded barrington. 'even in times of peace, thousands of people standing idle and tamely starving in their own fertile country, because a few land "lords" forbid them to cultivate it.' 'is there any more questions?' demanded philpot, breaking a prolonged silence. 'would any liberal or tory capitalist like to get up into the pulpit and oppose the speaker?' the chairman went on, finding that no one responded to his appeal for questions. the silence continued. 'as there's no more questions and no one won't get up into the pulpit, it is now my painful duty to call upon someone to move a resolution.' 'well, mr chairman,' said harlow, 'i may say that when i came on this firm i was a liberal, but through listenin' to several lectures by professor owen and attendin' the meetings on the hill at windley and reading the books and pamphlets i bought there and from owen, i came to the conclusion some time ago that it's a mug's game for us to vote for capitalists whether they calls theirselves liberals or tories. they're all alike when you're workin' for 'em; i defy any man to say what's the difference between a liberal and a tory employer. there is none--there can't be; they're both sweaters, and they've got to be, or they wouldn't be able to compete with each other. and since that's what they are, i say it's a mug's game for us to vote 'em into parliament to rule over us and to make laws that we've got to abide by whether we like it or not. there's nothing to choose between 'em, and the proof of it is that it's never made much difference to us which party was in or which was out. it's quite true that in the past both of 'em have passed good laws, but they've only done it when public opinion was so strong in favour of it that they knew there was no getting out of it, and then it was a toss up which side did it. 'that's the way i've been lookin' at things lately, and i'd almost made up my mind never to vote no more, or to trouble myself about politics at all, because although i could see there was no sense in voting for liberal or tory capitalists, at the same time i must admit i couldn't make out how socialism was going to help us. but the explanation of it which professor barrington has given us this afternoon has been a bit of an eye opener for me, and with your permission i should like to move as a resolution, "that it is the opinion of this meeting that socialism is the only remedy for unemployment and poverty."' the conclusion of harlow's address was greeted with loud cheers from the socialists, but most of the liberal and tory supporters of the present system maintained a sulky silence. 'i'll second that resolution,' said easton. 'and i'll lay a bob both ways,' remarked bundy. the resolution was then put, and though the majority were against it, the chairman declared it was carried unanimously. by this time the violence of the storm had in a great measure abated, but as rain was still falling it was decided not to attempt to resume work that day. besides, it would have been too late, even if the weather had cleared up. 'p'raps it's just as well it 'as rained,' remarked one man. 'if it 'adn't some of us might 'ave got the sack tonight. as it is, there'll be hardly enough for all of us to do tomorrer and saturday mornin' even if it is fine.' this was true: nearly all the outside was finished, and what remained to be done was ready for the final coat. inside all there was to do was to colour wash the walls and to give the woodwork of the kitchen and scullery the last coat of paint. it was inevitable--unless the firm had some other work for them to do somewhere else--that there would be a great slaughter on saturday. 'now,' said philpot, assuming what he meant to be the manner of a school teacher addressing children, 'i wants you hall to make a speshall heffort and get 'ere very early in the mornin'--say about four o'clock--and them wot doos the most work tomorrer, will get a prize on saturday.' 'what'll it be, the sack?' inquired harlow. 'yes,' replied philpot, 'and not honly will you get a prize for good conduck tomorrer, but if you all keep on workin' like we've bin doing lately till you're too hold and wore hout to do any more, you'll be allowed to go to a nice workhouse for the rest of your lives! and each one of you will be given a title--"pauper!"' and they laughed! although the majority of them had mothers or fathers or other near relatives who had already succeeded to the title--they laughed! as they were going home, crass paused at the gate, and pointing up to the large gable at the end of the house, he said to philpot: 'you'll want the longest ladder--the , for that, tomorrow.' philpot looked up at the gable. it was very high. chapter the 'sixty-five' the next morning after breakfast, philpot, sawkins, harlow and barrington went to the yard to get the long ladder--the --so called because it had sixty-five rungs. it was really what is known as a builder's scaffold ladder, and it had been strengthened by several iron bolts or rods which passed through just under some of the rungs. one side of the ladder had an iron band or ribbon twisted and nailed round it spirally. it was not at all suitable for painters' work, being altogether too heavy and cumbrous. however, as none of the others were long enough to reach the high gable at the refuge, they managed, with a struggle, to get it down from the hooks and put it on one of the handcarts and soon passed through the streets of mean and dingy houses in the vicinity of the yard, and began the ascent of the long hill. there had been a lot of rain during the night, and the sky was still overcast with dark grey clouds. the cart went heavily over the muddy road; sawkins was at the helm, holding the end of the ladder and steering; the others walked a little further ahead, at the sides of the cart. it was such hard work that by the time they were half-way up the hill they were so exhausted and out of breath that they had to stop for a rest. 'this is a bit of all right, ain't it?' remarked harlow as he took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. while they rested they kept a good look out for rushton or hunter, who were likely to pass by at any moment. at first, no one made any reply to harlow's observation, for they were all out of breath and philpot's lean fingers trembled violently as he wiped the perspiration from his face. 'yes, mate,' he said despondently, after a while. 'it's one way of gettin' a livin' and there's plenty better ways.' in addition to the fact that his rheumatism was exceptionally bad, he felt unusually low-spirited this morning; the gloomy weather and the prospect of a long day of ladder work probably had something to do with it. 'a "living" is right,' said barrington bitterly. he also was exhausted with the struggle up the hill and enraged by the woebegone appearance of poor old philpot, who was panting and quivering from the exertion. they relapsed into silence. the unaccountable depression that possessed philpot deprived him of all his usual jocularity and filled him with melancholy thoughts. he had travelled up and down this hill a great many times before under similar circumstances and he said to himself that if he had half a quid now for every time he had pushed a cart up this road, he wouldn't need to do anyone out of a job all the rest of his life. the shop where he had been apprenticed used to be just down at the bottom; the place had been pulled down years ago, and the ground was now occupied by more pretentious buildings. not quite so far down the road--on the other side--he could see the church where he used to attend sunday school when he was a boy, and where he was married just thirty years ago. presently--when they reached the top of the hill--he would be able to look across the valley and see the spire of the other church, the one in the graveyard, where all those who were dear to him had been one by one laid to rest. he felt that he would not be sorry when the time came to join them there. possibly, in the next world--if there were such a place--they might all be together once more. he was suddenly aroused from these thoughts by an exclamation from harlow. 'look out! here comes rushton.' they immediately resumed their journey. rushton was coming up the hill in his dog-cart with grinder sitting by his side. they passed so closely that philpot--who was on that side of the cart--was splashed with mud from the wheels of the trap. 'them's some of your chaps, ain't they?' remarked grinder. 'yes,' replied rushton. 'we're doing a job up this way.' 'i should 'ave thought it would pay you better to use a 'orse for sich work as that,' said grinder. 'we do use the horses whenever it's necessary for very big loads, you know,' answered rushton, and added with a laugh: 'but the donkeys are quite strong enough for such a job as that.' the 'donkeys' struggled on up the hill for about another hundred yards and then they were forced to halt again. 'we mustn't stop long, you know,' said harlow. 'most likely he's gone to the job, and he'll wait to see how long it takes us to get there.' barrington felt inclined to say that in that case rushton would have to wait, but he remained silent, for he remembered that although he personally did not care a brass button whether he got the sack or not, the others were not so fortunately circumstanced. while they were resting, another two-legged donkey passed by pushing another cart--or rather, holding it back, for he was coming slowly down the hill. another heir of all the ages--another imperialist--a degraded, brutalized wretch, clad in filthy, stinking rags, his toes protruding from the rotten broken boots that were tied with bits of string upon his stockingless feet. the ramshackle cart was loaded with empty bottles and putrid rags, heaped loosely in the cart and packed into a large sack. old coats and trousers, dresses, petticoats, and under-clothing, greasy, mildewed and malodorous. as he crept along with his eyes on the ground, the man gave utterance at intervals to uncouth, inarticulate sounds. 'that's another way of gettin' a livin',' said sawkins with a laugh as the miserable creature slunk past. harlow also laughed, and barrington regarded them curiously. he thought it strange that they did not seem to realize that they might some day become like this man themselves. 'i've often wondered what they does with all them dirty old rags,' said philpot. 'made into paper,' replied harlow, briefly. 'some of them are,' said barrington, 'and some are manufactured into shoddy cloth and made into sunday clothes for working men. 'there's all sorts of different ways of gettin' a livin',' remarked sawkins, after a pause. 'i read in a paper the other day about a bloke wot goes about lookin' for open trap doors and cellar flaps in front of shops. as soon as he spotted one open, he used to go and fall down in it; and then he'd be took to the 'orspital, and when he got better he used to go and threaten to bring a action against the shop-keeper and get damages, and most of 'em used to part up without goin' in front of the judge at all. but one day a slop was a watchin' of 'im, and seen 'im chuck 'isself down one, and when they picked 'im up they found he'd broke his leg. so they took 'im to the 'orspital and when he came out and went round to the shop and started talkin' about bringin' a action for damages, the slop collared 'im and they give 'im six months.' 'yes, i read about that,' said harlow, 'and there was another case of a chap who was run over by a motor, and they tried to make out as 'e put 'isself in the way on purpose; but 'e got some money out of the swell it belonged to; a 'undered pound i think it was.' 'i only wish as one of their motors would run inter me,' said philpot, making a feeble attempt at a joke. 'i lay i'd get some a' me own back out of 'em.' the others laughed, and harlow was about to make some reply but at that moment a cyclist appeared coming down the hill from the direction of the job. it was nimrod, so they resumed their journey once more and presently hunter shot past on his machine without taking any notice of them... when they arrived they found that rushton had not been there at all, but nimrod had. crass said that he had kicked up no end of a row because they had not called at the yard at six o'clock that morning for the ladder, instead of going for it after breakfast--making two journeys instead of one, and he had also been ratty because the big gable had not been started the first thing that morning. they carried the ladder into the garden and laid it on the ground along the side of the house where the gable was. a brick wall about eight feet high separated the grounds of 'the refuge' from those of the premises next door. between this wall and the side wall of the house was a space about six feet wide and this space formed a kind of alley or lane or passage along the side of the house. they laid the ladder on the ground along this passage, the 'foot' was placed about half-way through; just under the centre of the gable, and as it lay there, the other end of the ladder reached right out to the front railings. next, it was necessary that two men should go up into the attic--the window of which was just under the point of the gable--and drop the end of a long rope down to the others who would tie it to the top of the ladder. then two men would stand on the bottom rung, so as to keep the 'foot' down, and the three others would have to raise the ladder up, while the two men up in the attic hauled on the rope. they called bundy and his mate ned dawson to help, and it was arranged that harlow and crass should stand on the foot because they were the heaviest. philpot, bundy, and barrington were to 'raise', and dawson and sawkins were to go up to the attic and haul on the rope. 'where's the rope?' asked crass. the others looked blankly at him. none of them had thought of bringing one from the yard. 'why, ain't there one 'ere?' asked philpot. 'one 'ere? of course there ain't one 'ere!' snarled crass. 'do you mean to say as you ain't brought one, then?' philpot stammered out something about having thought there was one at the house already, and the others said they had not thought about it at all. 'well, what the bloody hell are we to do now?' cried crass, angrily. 'i'll go to the yard and get one,' suggested barrington. 'i can do it in twenty minutes there and back.' 'yes! and a bloody fine row there'd be if hunter was to see you! 'ere it's nearly ten o'clock and we ain't made a start on this gable wot we ought to 'ave started first thing this morning.' 'couldn't we tie two or three of those short ropes together?' suggested philpot. 'those that the other two ladders was spliced with?' as there was sure to be a row if they delayed long enough to send to the yard, it was decided to act on philpot's suggestion. several of the short ropes were accordingly tied together but upon examination it was found that some parts were so weak that even crass had to admit it would be dangerous to attempt to haul the heavy ladder up with them. 'well, the only thing as i can see for it,' he said, 'is that the boy will 'ave to go down to the yard and get the long rope. it won't do for anyone else to go: there's been one row already about the waste of time because we didn't call at the yard for the ladder at six o'clock.' bert was down in the basement of the house limewashing a cellar. crass called him up and gave him the necessary instructions, chief of which was to get back again as soon as ever he could. the boy ran off, and while they were waiting for him to come back the others went on with their several jobs. philpot returned to the small gable he had been painting before breakfast, which he had not quite finished. as he worked a sudden and unaccountable terror took possession of him. he did not want to do that other gable; he felt too ill; and he almost resolved that he would ask crass if he would mind letting him do something else. there were several younger men who would not object to doing it--it would be mere child's play to them, and barrington had already--yesterday--offered to change jobs with him. but then, when he thought of what the probable consequences would be, he hesitated to take that course, and tried to persuade himself that he would be able to get through with the work all right. he did not want crass or hunter to mark him as being too old for ladder work. bert came back in about half an hour flushed and sweating with the weight of the rope and with the speed he had made. he delivered it to crass and then returned to his cellar and went on with the limewashing, while crass passed the word for philpot and the others to come and raise the ladder. he handed the rope to ned dawson, who took it up to the attic, accompanied by sawkins; arrived there they lowered one end out of the window down to the others. 'if you ask me,' said ned dawson, who was critically examining the strands of the rope as he passed it out through the open window, 'if you ask me, i don't see as this is much better than the one we made up by tyin' the short pieces together. look 'ere,'--he indicated a part of the rope that was very frayed and worn--'and 'ere's another place just as bad.' 'well, for christ's sake don't say nothing about it now,' replied sawkins. 'there's been enough talk and waste of time over this job already.' ned made no answer and the end having by this time reached the ground, bundy made it fast to the ladder, about six rungs from the top. the ladder was lying on the ground, parallel to the side of the house. the task of raising it would have been much easier if they had been able to lay it at right angles to the house wall, but this was impossible because of the premises next door and the garden wall between the two houses. on account of its having to be raised in this manner the men at the top would not be able to get a straight pull on the rope; they would have to stand back in the room without being able to see the ladder, and the rope would have to be drawn round the corner of the window, rasping against the edge of the stone sill and the brickwork. the end of the rope having been made fast to the top of the ladder, crass and harlow stood on the foot and the other three raised the top from the ground; as barrington was the tallest, he took the middle position--underneath the ladder--grasping the rungs, philpot being on his left and bundy on his right, each holding one side of the ladder. at a signal from crass, dawson and sawkins began to haul on the rope, and the top of the ladder began to rise slowly into the air. philpot was not of much use at this work, which made it all the harder for the other two who were lifting, besides putting an extra strain on the rope. his lack of strength, and the efforts of barrington and bundy to make up for him caused the ladder to sway from side to side, as it would not have done if they had all been equally capable. meanwhile, upstairs, dawson and sawkins--although the ladder was as yet only a little more than half the way up--noticed, as they hauled and strained on the rope, that it had worn a groove for itself in the corner of the brickwork at the side of the window; and every now and then, although they pulled with all their strength, they were not able to draw in any part of the rope at all; and it seemed to them as if those others down below must have let go their hold altogether, or ceased lifting. that was what actually happened. the three men found the weight so overpowering, that once or twice they were compelled to relax their efforts for a few seconds, and at those times the rope had to carry the whole weight of the ladder; and the part of the rope that had to bear the greatest strain was the part that chanced to be at the angle of the brickwork at the side of the window. and presently it happened that one of the frayed and worn places that dawson had remarked about was just at the angle during one of those momentary pauses. on one end there hung the ponderous ladder, straining the frayed rope against the corner of the brickwork and the sharp edge of the stone sill, at the other end were dawson and sawkins pulling with all their strength, and in that instant the rope snapped like a piece of thread. one end remained in the hands of sawkins and dawson, who reeled backwards into the room, and the other end flew up into the air, writhing like the lash of a gigantic whip. for a moment the heavy ladder swayed from side to side: barrington, standing underneath, with his hands raised above his head grasping one of the rungs, struggled desperately to hold it up. at his right stood bundy, also with arms upraised holding the side; and on the left, between the ladder and the wall, was philpot. for a brief space they strove fiercely to support the overpowering weight, but philpot had no strength, and the ladder, swaying over to the left, crashed down, crushing him upon the ground and against the wall of the house. he fell face downwards, with the ladder across his shoulders; the side that had the iron bands twisted round it fell across the back of his neck, forcing his face against the bricks at the base of the wall. he uttered no cry and was quite still, with blood streaming from the cuts on his face and trickling from his ears. barrington was also hurled to the ground with his head and arms under the ladder; his head and face were cut and bleeding and he was unconscious; none of the others was hurt, for they had all had time to jump clear when the ladder fell. their shouts soon brought all the other men running to the spot, and the ladder was quickly lifted off the two motionless figures. at first it seemed that philpot was dead, but easton rushed off for a neighbouring doctor, who came in a few minutes. he knelt down and carefully examined the crushed and motionless form of philpot, while the other men stood by in terrified silence. barrington, who fortunately was but momentarily stunned was sitting against the wall and had suffered nothing more serious than minor cuts and bruises. the doctor's examination of philpot was a very brief one, and when he rose from his knees, even before he spoke they knew from his manner that their worst fears were realized. philpot was dead. chapter the ghouls barrington did not do any more work that day, but before going home he went to the doctor's house and the latter dressed the cuts on his head and arms. philpot's body was taken away on the ambulance to the mortuary. hunter arrived at the house shortly afterwards and at once began to shout and bully because the painting of the gable was not yet commenced. when he heard of the accident he blamed them for using the rope, and said they should have asked for a new one. before he went away he had a long, private conversation with crass, who told him that philpot had no relatives and that his life was insured for ten pounds in a society of which crass was also a member. he knew that philpot had arranged that in the event of his death the money was to be paid to the old woman with whom he lodged, who was a very close friend. the result of this confidential talk was that crass and hunter came to the conclusion that it was probable that she would be very glad to be relieved of the trouble of attending to the business of the funeral, and that crass, as a close friend of the dead man, and a fellow member of the society, was the most suitable person to take charge of the business for her. he was already slightly acquainted with the old lady, so he would go to see her at once and get her authority to act on her behalf. of course, they would not be able to do much until after the inquest, but they could get the coffin made--as hunter knew the mortuary keeper there would be no difficulty about getting in for a minute to measure the corpse. this matter having been arranged, hunter departed to order a new rope, and shortly afterwards crass--having made sure that everyone would have plenty to do while he was gone--quietly slipped away to go to see philpot's landlady. he went off so secretly that the men did not know that he had been away at all until they saw him come back just before twelve o'clock. the new rope was brought to the house about one o'clock and this time the ladder was raised without any mishap. harlow was put on to paint the gable, and he felt so nervous that he was allowed to have sawkins to stand by and hold the ladder all the time. everyone felt nervous that afternoon, and they all went about their work in an unusually careful manner. when bert had finished limewashing the cellar, crass set him to work outside, painting the gate of the side entrance. while the boy was thus occupied he was accosted by a solemn-looking man who asked him about the accident. the solemn stranger was very sympathetic and inquired what was the name of the man who had been killed, and whether he was married. bert informed him that philpot was a widower, and that he had no children. 'ah, well, that's so much the better, isn't it?' said the stranger shaking his head mournfully. 'it's a dreadful thing, you know, when there's children left unprovided for. you don't happen to know where he lived, do you?' 'yes,' said bert, mentioning the address and beginning to wonder what the solemn man wanted to know for, and why he appeared to be so sorry for philpot since it was quite evident that he had never known him. 'thanks very much,' said the man, pulling out his pocket-book and making a note of it. 'thanks very much indeed. good afternoon,' and he hurried off. 'good afternoon, sir,' said bert and he turned to resume his work. crass came along the garden just as the mysterious stranger was disappearing round the corner. 'what did he want?' said crass, who had seen the man talking to bert. 'i don't know exactly; he was asking about the accident, and whether joe left any children, and where he lived. he must be a very decent sort of chap, i should think. he seems quite sorry about it.' 'oh, he does, does he?' said crass, with a peculiar expression. 'don't you know who he is?' 'no,' replied the boy; 'but i thought p'raps he was a reporter of some paper. ''e ain't no reporter: that's old snatchum the undertaker. 'e's smellin' round after a job; but 'e's out of it this time, smart as 'e thinks 'e is.' barrington came back the next morning to work, and at breakfast-time there was a lot of talk about the accident. they said that it was all very well for hunter to talk like that about the rope, but he had known for a long time that it was nearly worn out. newman said that only about three weeks previously when they were raising a ladder at another job he had shown the rope to him, and misery had replied that there was nothing wrong with it. several others besides newman claimed to have mentioned the matter to hunter, and each of them said he had received the same sort of reply. but when barrington suggested that they should attend the inquest and give evidence to that effect, they all became suddenly silent and in a conversation barrington afterwards had with newman the latter pointed out that if he were to do so, it would do no good to philpot. it would not bring him back but it would be sure to do himself a lot of harm. he would never get another job at rushton's and probably many of the other employers would 'mark him' as well. 'so if you say anything about it,' concluded newman, 'don't bring my name into it.' barrington was constrained to admit that all things considered it was right for newman to mind his own business. he felt that it would not be fair to urge him or anyone else to do or say anything that would injure themselves. misery came to the house about eleven o'clock and informed several of the hands that as work was very slack they would get their back day at pay time. he said that the firm had tendered for one or two jobs, so they could call round about wednesday and perhaps he might then be able to give some of them another start, barrington was not one of those who were 'stood off', although he had expected to be on account of the speech he had made at the beano, and everyone said that he would have got the push sure enough if it had not been for the accident. before he went away, nimrod instructed owen and crass to go to the yard at once: they would there find payne the carpenter, who was making philpot's coffin, which would be ready for crass to varnish by the time they got there. misery told owen that he had left the coffin plate and the instructions with payne and added that he was not to take too much time over the writing, because it was a very cheap job. when they arrived at the yard, payne was just finishing the coffin, which was of elm. all that remained to be done to it was the pitching of the joints inside and payne was in the act of lifting the pot of boiling pitch off the fire to do this. as it was such a cheap job, there was no time to polish it properly, so crass proceeded to give it a couple of coats of spirit varnish, and while he was doing this owen wrote the plate, which was made of very thin zinc lacquered over to make it look like brass: joseph philpot died september st -- aged years. the inquest was held on the following monday morning, and as both rushton and hunter thought it possible that barrington might attempt to impute some blame to them, they had worked the oracle and had contrived to have several friends of their own put on the jury. there was, however, no need for their alarm, because barrington could not say that he had himself noticed, or called hunter's attention to the state of the rope; and he did not wish to mention the names of the others without their permission. the evidence of crass and the other men who were called was to the effect that it was a pure accident. none of them had noticed that the rope was unsound. hunter also swore that he did not know of it--none of the men had ever called his attention to it; if they had done so he would have procured a new one immediately. philpot's landlady and mr rushton were also called as witnesses, and the end was that the jury returned a verdict of accidental death, and added that they did not think any blame attached to anyone. the coroner discharged the jury, and as they and the witnesses passed out of the room, hunter followed rushton outside, with the hope of being honoured by a little conversation with him on the satisfactory issue of the case; but rushton went off without taking any notice of him, so hunter returned to the room where the court had been held to get the coroner's certificate authorizing the interment of the body. this document is usually handed to the friends of the deceased or to the undertaker acting for them. when hunter got back to the room he found that during his absence the coroner had given it to philpot's landlady, who had taken it with her. he accordingly hastened outside again to ask her for it, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. crass and the other men were also gone; they had hurried off to return to work, and after a moment's hesitation hunter decided that it did not matter much about the certificate. crass had arranged the business with the landlady and he could get the paper from her later on. having come to this conclusion, he dismissed the subject from his mind: he had several prices to work out that afternoon--estimates from some jobs the firm was going to tender for. that evening, after having been home to tea, crass and sawkins met by appointment at the carpenter's shop to take the coffin to the mortuary, where misery had arranged to meet them at half past eight o'clock. hunter's plan was to have the funeral take place from the mortuary, which was only about a quarter of an hour's walk from the yard; so tonight they were just going to lift in the body and get the lid screwed down. it was blowing hard and raining heavily when crass and sawkins set out, carrying the coffin--covered with a black cloth--on their shoulders. they also took a small pair of tressels for the coffin to stand on. crass carried one of these slung over his arm and sawkins the other. on their way they had to pass the 'cricketers' and the place looked so inviting that they decided to stop and have a drink--just to keep the damp out, and as they could not very well take the coffin inside with them, they stood it up against the brick wall a little way from the side of the door: as crass remarked with a laugh, there was not much danger of anyone pinching it. the old dear served them and just as they finished drinking the two half-pints there was a loud crash outside and crass and sawkins rushed out and found that the coffin had blown down and was lying bottom upwards across the pavement, while the black cloth that had been wrapped round it was out in the middle of the muddy road. having recovered this, they shook as much of the dirt off as they could, and having wrapped it round the coffin again they resumed their journey to the mortuary, where they found hunter waiting for them, engaged in earnest conversation with the keeper. the electric light was switched on, and as crass and sawkins came in they saw that the marble slab was empty. the corpse was gone. 'snatchum came this afternoon with a hand-truck and a corfin,' explained the keeper. 'i was out at the time, and the missis thought it was all right so she let him have the key.' hunter and crass looked blankly at each other. 'well, this takes the biskit!' said the latter as soon as he could speak. 'i thought you said you had settled everything all right with the old woman?' said hunter. 'so i did,' replied crass. 'i seen 'er on friday, and i told 'er to leave it all to me to attend to, and she said she would. i told 'er that philpot said to me that if ever anything 'appened to 'im i was to take charge of everything for 'er, because i was 'is best friend. and i told 'er we'd do it as cheap as possible.' 'well, it seems to me as you've bungled it somehow,' said nimrod, gloomily. 'i ought to have gone and seen 'er myself, i was afraid you'd make a mess of it,' he added in a wailing tone. 'it's always the same; everything that i don't attend to myself goes wrong.' an uncomfortable silence fell. crass thought that the principal piece of bungling in this affair was hunter's failure to secure possession of the coroner's certificate after the inquest, but he was afraid to say so. outside, the rain was still falling and drove in through the partly open door, causing the atmosphere of the mortuary to be even more than usually cold and damp. the empty coffin had been reared against one of the walls and the marble slab was still stained with blood, for the keeper had not had time to clean it since the body had been removed. 'i can see 'ow it's been worked,' said crass at last. 'there's one of the members of the club who works for snatchum, and 'e's took it on 'isself to give the order for the funeral; but 'e's got no right to do it.' 'right or no right, 'e's done it,' replied misery, 'so you'd better take the box back to the shop.' crass and sawkins accordingly returned to the workshop, where they were presently joined by nimrod. 'i've been thinking this business over as i came along,' he said, 'and i don't see being beat like this by snatchum; so you two can just put the tressels and the box on a hand cart and we'll take it over to philpot's house.' nimrod walked on the pavement while the other two pushed the cart, and it was about half past nine, when they arrived at the street in windley where philpot used to live. they halted in a dark part of the street a few yards away from the house and on the opposite side. 'i think the best thing we can do,' said misery, 'is for me and sawkins to wait 'ere while you go to the 'ouse and see 'ow the land lies. you've done all the business with 'er so far. it's no use takin' the box unless we know the corpse is there; for all we know, snatchum may 'ave taken it 'ome with 'im.' 'yes; i think that'll be the best way,' agreed crass, after a moment's thought. nimrod and sawkins accordingly took shelter in the doorway of an empty house, leaving the handcart at the kerb, while crass went across the street and knocked at philpot's door. they saw it opened by an elderly woman holding a lighted candle in her hand; then crass went inside and the door was shut. in about a quarter of an hour he reappeared and, leaving the door partly open behind him, he came out and crossed over to where the others were waiting. as he drew near they could see that he carried a piece of paper in his hand. 'it's all right,' he said in a hoarse whisper as he came up. i've got the stifficut.' misery took the paper eagerly and scanned it by the light of a match that crass struck. it was the certificate right enough, and with a sigh of relief hunter put it into his note-book and stowed it safely away in the inner pocket of his coat, while crass explained the result of his errand. it appeared that the other member of the society, accompanied by snatchum, had called upon the old woman and had bluffed her into giving them the order for the funeral. it was they who had put her up to getting the certificate from the coroner--they had been careful to keep away from the inquest themselves so as not to arouse hunter's or crass's suspicions. 'when they brought the body 'ome this afternoon,' crass went on, 'snatchum tried to get the stifficut orf 'er, but she'd been thinkin' things over and she was a bit frightened 'cos she knowed she'd made arrangements with me, and she thought she'd better see me first; so she told 'im she'd give it to 'im on thursday; that's the day as 'e was goin' to 'ave the funeral.' 'he'll find he's a day too late,' said misery, with a ghastly grin. 'we'll get the job done on wednesday.' 'she didn't want to give it to me, at first,' crass concluded, 'but i told 'er we'd see 'er right if old snatchum tried to make 'er pay for the other coffin.' 'i don't think he's likely to make much fuss about it,' said hunter. 'he won't want everybody to know he was so anxious for the job.' crass and sawkins pushed the handcart over to the other side of the road and then, lifting the coffin off, they carried it into the house, nimrod going first. the old woman was waiting for them with the candle at the end of the passage. 'i shall be very glad when it's all over,' she said, as she led the way up the narrow stairs, closely followed by hunter, who carried the tressels, crass and sawkins, bringing up the rear with the coffin. 'i shall be very glad when it's all over, for i'm sick and tired of answerin' the door to undertakers. if there's been one 'ere since friday there's been a dozen, all after the job, not to mention all the cards what's been put under the door, besides the one's what i've had give to me by different people. i had a pair of boots bein' mended and the man took the trouble to bring 'em 'ome when they was finished--a thing 'e's never done before--just for an excuse to give me an undertaker's card. 'then the milkman brought one, and so did the baker, and the greengrocer give me another when i went in there on saturday to buy some vegetables for sunday dinner.' arrived at the top landing the old woman opened a door and entered a small and wretchedly furnished room. across the lower sash of the window hung a tattered piece of lace curtain. the low ceiling was cracked and discoloured. there was a rickety little wooden washstand, and along one side of the room a narrow bed covered with a ragged grey quilt, on which lay a bundle containing the clothes that the dead man was wearing at the time of the accident. there was a little table in front of the window, with a small looking-glass upon it, and a cane-seated chair was placed by the bedside and the floor was covered with a faded piece of drab-coloured carpet of no perceptible pattern, worn into holes in several places. in the middle of this dreary room, upon a pair of tressels, was the coffin containing philpot's body. seen by the dim and flickering light of the candle, the aspect of this coffin, covered over with a white sheet, was terrible in its silent, pathetic solitude. hunter placed the pair of tressels he had been carrying against the wall, and the other two put the empty coffin on the floor by the side of the bed. the old woman stood the candlestick on the mantelpiece, and withdrew, remarking that they would not need her assistance. the three men then removed their overcoats and laid them on the end of the bed, and from the pocket of his crass took out two large screwdrivers, one of which he handed to hunter. sawkins held the candle while they unscrewed and took off the lid of the coffin they had brought with them: it was not quite empty, for they had brought a bag of tools inside it. 'i think we shall be able to work better if we takes the other one orf the trussels and puts it on the floor,' remarked crass. 'yes, i think so, too,' replied hunter. crass took off the sheet and threw it on the bed, revealing the other coffin, which was very similar in appearance to the one they had brought with them, being of elms, with the usual imitation brass furniture. hunter took hold of the head and crass the foot and they lifted it off the tressels on to the floor. ''e's not very 'eavy; that's one good thing,' observed hunter. ''e always was a very thin chap,' replied crass. the screws that held down the lid had been covered over with large-headed brass nails which had to be wrenched off before they could get at the screws, of which there were eight altogether. it was evident from the appearance of the beads of these screws that they were old ones that had been used for some purpose before: they were rusty and of different sizes, some being rather larger or smaller, than they should have been. they were screwed in so firmly that by the time they had drawn half of them out the two men were streaming with perspiration. after a while hunter took the candle from sawkins and the latter had a try at the screws. 'anyone would think the dam' things had been there for a 'undred years,' remarked hunter, savagely, as he wiped the sweat from his face and neck with his handkerchief. kneeling on the lid of the coffin and panting and grunting with the exertion, the other two continued to struggle with their task. suddenly crass uttered an obscene curse; he had broken off one side of the head of the screw he was trying to turn and almost at the same instant a similar misfortune happened to sawkins. after this, hunter again took a screwdriver himself, and when they got all the screws out with the exception of the two broken ones, crass took a hammer and chisel out of the bag and proceeded to cut off what was left of the tops of the two that remained. but even after this was done the two screws still held the lid on the coffin, and so they had to hammer the end of the blade of the chisel underneath and lever the lid up so that they could get hold of it with their fingers. it split up one side as they tore it off, exposing the dead man to view. although the marks of the cuts and bruises were still visible on philpot's face, they were softened down by the pallor of death, and a placid, peaceful expression pervaded his features. his hands were crossed upon his breast, and as he lay there in the snow-white grave clothes, almost covered in by the white lace frill that bordered the sides of the coffin, he looked like one in a profound and tranquil sleep. they laid the broken lid on the bed, and placed the two coffins side by side on the floor as close together as possible. sawkins stood at one side holding the candle in his left hand and ready to render with his right any assistance that might unexpectedly prove to be necessary. crass, standing at the foot, took hold of the body by the ankles, while hunter at the other end seized it by the shoulders with his huge, clawlike hands, which resembled the talons of some obscene bird of prey, and they dragged it out and placed it in the other coffin. whilst hunter--hovering ghoulishly over the corpse--arranged the grave clothes and the frilling, crass laid the broken cover on the top of the other coffin and pushed it under the bed out of the way. then he selected the necessary screws and nails from the bag, and hunter having by this time finished, they proceeded to screw down the lid. then they lifted the coffin on to the tressels, covering it over with the sheet, and the appearance it then presented was so exactly similar to what they had seen when they first entered the room, that it caused the same thought to occur to all of them: suppose snatchum took it into his head to come there and take the body out again? if he were to do so and take it up to the cemetery they might be compelled to give up the certificate to him and then all their trouble would be lost. after a brief consultation, they resolved that it would be safer to take the corpse on the handcart to the yard and keep it in the carpenter's shop until the funeral, which could take place from there. crass and sawkins accordingly lifted the coffin off the tressels, and--while hunter held the light--proceeded to carry it downstairs, a task of considerable difficulty owing to the narrowness of the staircase and the landing. however, they got it down at last and, having put it on the handcart, covered it over with the black wrapper. it was still raining and the lamp in the cart was nearly out, so sawkins trimmed the wick and relit it before they started. hunter wished them 'good-night' at the corner of the street, because it was not necessary for him to accompany them to the yard--they would be able to manage all that remained to be done by themselves. he said he would make the arrangements for the funeral as soon as he possibly could the next morning, and he would come to the job and let them know, as soon as he knew himself, at what time they would have to be in attendance to act as bearers. he had gone a little distance on his way when he stopped and turned back to them. 'it's not necessary for either of you to make a song about this business, you know,' he said. the two men said that they quite understood that: he could depend on their keeping their mouths shut. when hunter had gone, crass drew out his watch. it was a quarter to eleven. a little way down the road the lights of a public house were gleaming through the mist. 'we shall be just in time to get a drink before closing time if we buck up,' he said. and with this object they hurried on as fast as they could. when they reached the tavern they left the cart standing by the kerb, and went inside, where crass ordered two pints of four-ale, which he permitted sawkins to pay for. 'how are we going on about this job?' inquired the latter after they had each taken a long drink, for they were thirsty after their exertions. 'i reckon we ought to 'ave more than a bob for it, don't you? it's not like a ordinary "lift in".' 'of course it ain't,' replied crass. 'we ought to 'ave about, say'--reflecting--'say arf a dollar each at the very least.' 'little enough too,' said sawkins. 'i was going to say arf a crown, myself.' crass agreed that even half a crown would not be too much. ''ow are we going' on about chargin' it on our time sheets?' asked sawkins, after a pause. 'if we just put a "lift in", they might only pay us a bob as usual.' as a rule when they had taken a coffin home, they wrote on their time sheets, 'one lift in', for which they were usually paid one shilling, unless it happened to be a very high-class funeral, when they sometimes got one and sixpence. they were never paid by the hour for these jobs. crass smoked reflectively. 'i think the best way will be to put it like this,' he said at length. '"philpot's funeral. one lift out and one lift in. also takin' corpse to carpenter's shop." 'ow would that do?' sawkins said that would be a very good way to put it, and they finished their beer just as the landlord intimated that it was closing time. the cart was standing where they left it, the black cloth saturated with the rain, which dripped mournfully from its sable folds. when they reached the plot of waste ground over which they had to pass in order to reach the gates of the yard, they had to proceed very cautiously, for it was very dark, and the lantern did not give much light. a number of carts and lorries were standing there, and the path wound through pools of water and heaps of refuse. after much difficulty and jolting, they reached the gate, which crass unlocked with the key he had obtained from the office earlier in the evening. they soon opened the door of the carpenter's shop and, after lighting the gas, they arranged the tressels and then brought in the coffin and placed it upon them. then they locked the door and placed the key in its usual hiding-place, but the key of the outer gate they took with them and dropped into the letter-box at the office, which they had to pass on their way home. as they turned away from the door, they were suddenly confronted by a policeman who flashed his lantern in their faces and demanded to know why they had tried the lock... the next morning was a very busy one for hunter, who had to see several new jobs commenced. they were all small affairs. most of them would only take two or three days from start to finish. attending to this work occupied most of his morning, but all the same he managed to do the necessary business connected with the funeral, which he arranged to take place at two o'clock on wednesday afternoon from the mortuary, where the coffin had been removed during the day, hunter deciding that it would not look well to have the funeral start from the workshop. although hunter had kept it as quiet as possible, there was a small crowd, including several old workmates of philpot's who happened to be out of work, waiting outside the mortuary to see the funeral start, and amongst them were bill bates and the semi-drunk, who were both sober. barrington and owen were also there, having left work for the day in order to go to the funeral. they were there too in a sense as the representatives of the other workmen, for barrington carried a large wreath which had been subscribed for voluntarily by rushton's men. they could not all afford to lose the time to attend the funeral, although most of them would have liked to pay that tribute of regard to their old mate, so they had done this as the next best thing. attached to the wreath was a strip of white satin ribbon, upon which owen had painted a suitable inscription. promptly at two o'clock the hearse and the mourning coach drove up with hunter and the four bearers--crass, slyme, payne and sawkins, all dressed in black with frock coats and silk hats. although they were nominally attired in the same way, there was a remarkable dissimilarity in their appearance. crass's coat was of smooth, intensely black cloth, having been recently dyed, and his hat was rather low in the crown, being of that shape that curved outwards towards the top. hunter's coat was a kind of serge with a rather rusty cast of colour and his hat was very tall and straight, slightly narrower at the crown than at the brim. as for the others, each of them had a hat of a different fashion and date, and their 'black' clothes ranged from rusty brown to dark blue. these differences were due to the fact that most of the garments had been purchased at different times from different second-hand clothes shops, and never being used except on such occasions as the present, they lasted for an indefinite time. when the coffin was brought out and placed in the hearse, hunter laid upon it the wreath that barrington gave him, together with the another he had brought himself, which had a similar ribbon with the words: 'from rushton & co. with deep sympathy.' seeing that barrington and owen were the only occupants of the carriage, bill bates and the semi-drunk came up to the door and asked if there was any objection to their coming and as neither owen nor barrington objected, they did not think it necessary to ask anyone else's permission, so they got in. meanwhile, hunter had taken his position a few yards in front of the hearse and the bearers each his proper position, two on each side. as the procession turned into the main road, they saw snatchum standing at the corner looking very gloomy. hunter kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and affected not to see him, but crass could not resist the temptation to indulge in a jeering smile, which so enraged snatchum that he shouted out: 'it don't matter! i shan't lose much! i can use it for someone else!' the distance to the cemetery was about three miles, so as soon as they got out of the busy streets of the town, hunter called a halt, and got up on the hearse beside the driver, crass sat on the other side, and two of the other bearers stood in the space behind the driver's seat, the fourth getting up beside the driver of the coach; and then they proceeded at a rapid pace. as they drew near to the cemetery they slowed down, and finally stopped when about fifty yards from the gate. then hunter and the bearers resumed their former position, and they passed through the open gate and up to the door of the church, where they were received by the clerk--a man in a rusty black cassock, who stood by while they carried the coffin in and placed it on a kind of elevated table which revolved on a pivot. they brought it in footfirst, and as soon as they had placed it upon the table, the clerk swung it round so as to bring the foot of the coffin towards the door ready to be carried out again. there was a special pew set apart for the undertakers, and in this hunter and the bearers took their seats to await the arrival of the clergyman. barrington and the three others sat on the opposite side. there was no altar or pulpit in this church, but a kind of reading desk stood on a slightly raised platform at the other end of the aisle. after a wait of about ten minutes, the clergyman entered and, at once proceeding to the desk, began to recite in a rapid and wholly unintelligible manner the usual office. if it had not been for the fact that each of his hearers had a copy of the words--for there was a little book in each pew--none of them would have been able to gather the sense of what the man was gabbling. under any other circumstances, the spectacle of a human being mouthing in this absurd way would have compelled laughter, and so would the suggestion that this individual really believed that he was addressing the supreme being. his attitude and manner were contemptuously indifferent. while he recited, intoned, or gabbled, the words of the office, he was reading the certificate and some other paper the clerk had placed upon the desk, and when he had finished reading these, his gaze wandered abstractedly round the chapel, resting for a long time with an expression of curiosity upon bill bates and the semi-drunk, who were doing their best to follow in their books the words he was repeating. he next turned his attention to his fingers, holding his hand away from him nearly at arm's length and critically examining the nails. from time to time as this miserable mockery proceeded the clerk in the rusty black cassock mechanically droned out a sonorous 'ah-men', and after the conclusion of the lesson the clergyman went out of the church, taking a short cut through the grave-stones and monuments, while the bearers again shouldered the coffin and followed the clerk to the grave. when they arrived within a few yards of their destination, they were rejoined by the clergyman, who was waiting for them at the corner of one of the paths. he put himself at the head of the procession with an open book in his hand, and as they walked slowly along, he resumed his reading or repetition of the words of the service. he had on an old black cassock and a much soiled and slightly torn surplice. the unseemly appearance of this dirty garment was heightened by the circumstance that he had not taken the trouble to adjust it properly. it hung all lop-sided, showing about six inches more of the black cassock underneath one side than the other. however, perhaps it is not right to criticize this person's appearance so severely, because the poor fellow was paid only seven-and-six for each burial, and as this was only the fourth funeral he had officiated at that day, probably he could not afford to wear clean linen--at any rate, not for the funerals of the lower classes. he continued his unintelligible jargon while they were lowering the coffin into the grave, and those who happened to know the words of the office by heart were, with some difficulty, able to understand what he was saying: 'forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty god of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust--' the earth fell from the clerk's hand and rattled on the lid of the coffin with a mournful sound, and when the clergyman had finished repeating the remainder of the service, he turned and walked away in the direction of the church. hunter and the rest of the funeral party made their way back towards the gate of the cemetery where the hearse and the carriage were waiting. on their way they saw another funeral procession coming towards them. it was a very plain-looking closed hearse with only one horse. there was no undertaker in front and no bearers walked by the sides. it was a pauper's funeral. three men, evidently dressed in their sunday clothes, followed behind the hearse. as they reached the church door, four old men who were dressed in ordinary everyday clothes, came forward and opening the hearse took out the coffin and carried it into the church, followed by the other three, who were evidently relatives of the deceased. the four old men were paupers--inmates of the workhouse, who were paid sixpence each for acting as bearers. they were just taking out the coffin from the hearse as hunter's party was passing, and most of the latter paused for a moment and watched them carry it into the church. the roughly made coffin was of white deal, not painted or covered in any way, and devoid of any fittings or ornament with the exception of a square piece of zinc on the lid. none of rushton's party was near enough to recognize any of the mourners or to read what was written on the zinc, but if they had been they would have seen, roughly painted in black letters j.l. aged and some of them would have recognized the three mourners who were jack linden's sons. as for the bearers, they were all retired working men who had come into their 'titles'. one of them was old latham, the venetian blind maker. chapter the wise men of the east at the end of the following week there was a terrible slaughter at rushton's. barrington and all the casual hands were sacked, including newman, easton and harlow, and there was so little work that it looked as if everyone else would have to stand off also. the summer was practically over, so those who were stood off had but a poor chance of getting a start anywhere else, because most other firms were discharging hands as well. there was only one other shop in the town that was doing anything at all to speak of, and that was the firm of dauber and botchit. this firm had come very much to the front during the summer, and had captured several big jobs that rushton & co. had expected to get, besides taking away several of the latter's old customers. this firm took work at almost half the price that rushton's could do it for, and they had a foreman whose little finger was thicker than nimrod's thigh. some of the men who had worked for both firms during the summer, said that after working for dauber and botchit, working for rushton seemed like having a holiday. 'there's one bloke there,' said newman, in conversation with harlow and easton. 'there's one bloke there wot puts up twenty-five rolls o' paper in a day an' trims and pastes for 'imself; and as for the painters, nearly everyone of 'em gets over as much work as us three put together, and if you're working there you've got to do the same or get the sack.' however much truth or falsehood or exaggeration there may have been in the stories of the sweating and driving that prevailed at dauber and botchit's, it was an indisputable fact that the other builders found it very difficult to compete with them, and between the lot of them what work there was to do was all finished or messed up in about a quarter of the time that it would have taken to do it properly. by the end of september there were great numbers of men out of employment, and the practical persons who controlled the town were already preparing to enact the usual farce of 'dealing' with the distress that was certain to ensue. the rev. mr bosher talked of reopening the labour yard; the secretary of the obs appealed for more money and cast-off clothing and boots--the funds of the society had been depleted by the payment of his quarter's salary. there were rumours that the soup kitchen would be reopened at an early date for the sale of 'nourishment', and charitable persons began to talk of rummage sales and soup tickets. now and then, whenever a 'job' 'came in', a few of rushton's men were able to put in a few hours' work, but barrington never went back. his manner of life was the subject of much speculation on the part of his former workmates, who were not a little puzzled by the fact that he was much better dressed than they had ever known him to be before, and that he was never without money. he generally had a tanner or a bob to lend, and was always ready to stand a drink, to say nothing of what it must have cost him for the quantities of socialist pamphlets and leaflets that he gave away broadcast. he lodged over at windley, but he used to take his meals at a little coffee tavern down town, where he used often to invite one or two of his old mates to take dinner with him. it sometimes happened that one of them would invite him home of an evening, to drink a cup of tea, or to see some curiosity that the other thought would interest him, and on these occasions--if there were any children in the house to which they were going--barrington usually made a point of going into a shop on their way, and buying a bag of cakes or fruit for them. all sorts of theories were put forward to account for his apparent affluence. some said he was a toff in disguise; others that he had rich relations who were ashamed of him because he was a socialist, and who allowed him so much a week so long as he kept away from them and did not use his real name. some of the liberals said that he was in the pay of the tories, who were seeking by underhand methods to split up the progressive liberal party. just about that time several burglaries took place in the town, the thieves getting clear away with the plunder, and this circumstance led to a dark rumour that barrington was the culprit, and that it was these ill-gotten gains that he was spending so freely. about the middle of october an event happened that drew the town into a state of wild excitement, and such comparatively unimportant subjects as unemployment and starvation were almost forgotten. sir graball d'encloseland had been promoted to yet a higher post in the service of the country that he owned such a large part of; he was not only to have a higher and more honourable position, but also--as was nothing but right--a higher salary. his pay was to be increased to seven thousand five hundred a year or one hundred and fifty pounds per week, and in consequence of this promotion it was necessary for him to resign his seat and seek re-election. the ragged-trousered tory workmen as they loitered about the streets, their stomachs empty, said to each other that it was a great honour for mugsborough that their member should be promoted in this way. they boasted about it and assumed as much swagger in their gait as their broken boots permitted. they stuck election cards bearing sir graball's photograph in their windows and tied bits of blue and yellow ribbon--sir graball's colours--on their underfed children. the liberals were furious. they said that an election had been sprung on them--they had been taken a mean advantage of--they had no candidate ready. they had no complaint to make about the salary, all they complained of was the short notice. it wasn't fair because while they--the leading liberals--had been treating the electors with the contemptuous indifference that is customary, sir graball d'encloseland had been most active amongst his constituents for months past, cunningly preparing for the contest. he had really been electioneering for the past six months! last winter he had kicked off at quite a number of football matches besides doing all sorts of things for the local teams. he had joined the buffalos and the druids, been elected president of the skull and crossbones boys' society, and, although he was not himself an abstainer, he was so friendly to temperance that he had on several occasions, taken the chair at teetotal meetings, to say nothing of the teas to the poor school children and things of that sort. in short, he had been quite an active politician, in the tory sense of the word, for months past and the poor liberals had not smelt a rat until the election was sprung upon them. a hurried meeting of the liberal three hundred was held, and a deputation sent to london to find a candidate but as there was only a week before polling day they were unsuccessful in their mission. another meeting was held, presided over by mr adam sweater--rushton and didlum also being present. profound dejection was depicted on the countenances of those assembled slave-drivers as they listened to the delegates' report. the sombre silence that followed was broken at length by mr rushton, who suddenly started up and said that he began to think they had made a mistake in going outside the constituency at all to look for a man. it was strange but true that a prophet never received honour in his own land. they had been wasting the precious time running about all over the country, begging and praying for a candidate, and overlooking the fact that they had in their midst a gentleman--a fellow townsman, who, he believed, would have a better chance of success than any stranger. surely they would all agree--if they could only prevail upon him to stand--that adam sweater would be an ideal liberal candidate! while mr rushton was speaking the drooping spirits of the three hundred were reviving, and at the name of sweater they all began to clap their hands and stamp their feet. loud shouts of enthusiastic approval burst forth, and cries of 'good old sweater' resounded through the room. when sweater rose to reply, the tumult died away as suddenly as it had commenced. he thanked them for the honour they were conferring upon him. there was no time to waste in words or idle compliments; rather than allow the enemy to have a walk-over, he would accede to their request and contest the seat. a roar of applause burst from the throats of the delighted three hundred. outside the hall in which the meeting was being held a large crowd of poverty-stricken liberal working men, many of them wearing broken boots and other men's cast-off clothing, was waiting to hear the report of the slave-drivers' deputation, and as soon as sweater had consented to be nominated, didlum rushed and opened the window overlooking the street and shouted the good news down to the crowd, which joined in the cheering. in response to their demands for a speech, sweater brought his obese carcass to the window and addressed a few words to them, reminding them of the shortness of the time at their disposal, and intreating them to work hard in order that the grand old flag might be carried to victory. at such times these people forgot all about unemployment and starvation, and became enthusiastic about 'grand old flags'. their devotion to this flag was so great that so long as they were able to carry it to victory, they did not mind being poverty stricken and hungry and ragged; all that mattered was to score off their hated 'enemies' their fellow countrymen the tories, and carry the grand old flag to victory. the fact that they had carried the flag to victory so often in the past without obtaining any of the spoils, did not seem to damp their ardour in the least. being philanthropists, they were content--after winning the victory--that their masters should always do the looting. at the conclusion of sweater's remarks the philanthropists gave three frantic cheers and then someone in the crowd shouted 'what's the colour?' after a hasty consultation with rushton, who being a 'master' decorator, was thought to be an authority on colours--green--grass green--was decided upon, and the information was shouted down to the crowd, who cheered again. then a rush was made to sweater's emporium and several yards of cheap green ribbon were bought, and divided up into little pieces, which they tied into their buttonholes, and thus appropriately decorated, formed themselves into military order, four deep, and marched through all the principal streets, up and down the grand parade, round and round the fountain, and finally over the hill to windley, singing to the tune of 'tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching': 'vote, vote, vote for adam sweater! hang old closeland on a tree! adam sweater is our man, and we'll have him if we can, then we'll always have the biggest loaf for tea.' the spectacle presented by these men--some of them with grey heads and beards--as they marked time or tramped along singing this childish twaddle, would have been amusing if it had not been disgusting. by way of variety they sang several other things, including: 'we'll hang ole closeland on a sour apple tree,' and 'rally, rally, men of windley for sweater's sure to win.' as they passed the big church in quality street, the clock began to strike. it was one of those that strike four chimes at each quarter of the hour. it was now ten o'clock so there were sixteen musical chimes: ding, dong! ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! they all chanted a-dam sweat-er' in time with the striking clock. in the same way the tories would chant: 'grab--all close--land! grab--all close--land! grab--all close--land! grab--all close--land!' the town was soon deluged with mendacious literature and smothered with huge posters: 'vote for adam sweater! the working-man's friend!' 'vote for sweater and temperance reform.' 'vote for sweater--free trade and cheap food.' or 'vote for d'encloseland: tariff reform and plenty of work!' this beautiful idea--'plenty of work'--appealed strongly to the tory workmen. they seemed to regard themselves and their children as a sort of machines or beasts of burden, created for the purpose of working for the benefit of other people. they did not think it right that they should live, and enjoy the benefits of civilization. all they desired for themselves and their children was 'plenty of work'. they marched about the streets singing their marseillaise, 'work, boys, work and be contented', to the tune of 'tramp, tramp, tramp the boys are marching', and at intervals as they tramped along, they gave three cheers for sir graball, tariff reform, and--plenty of work. both sides imported gangs of hired orators who held forth every night at the corners of the principal streets, and on the open spaces from portable platforms, and from motor cars and lorries. the tories said that the liberal party in the house of commons was composed principally of scoundrels and fools, the liberals said that the tory party were fools and scoundrels. a host of richly dressed canvassers descended upon windley in carriages and motor cars, and begged for votes from the poverty-stricken working men who lived there. one evening a liberal demonstration was held at the cross roads on windley hill. notwithstanding the cold weather, there was a great crowd of shabbily dressed people, many of whom had not had a really good meal for months. it was a clear night. the moon was at the full, and the scene was further illuminated by the fitful glare of several torches, stuck on the end of twelve-foot poles. the platform was a large lorry, and there were several speakers, including adam sweater himself and a real live liberal peer--lord ammenegg. this individual had made a considerable fortune in the grocery and provision line, and had been elevated to the peerage by the last liberal government on account of his services to the party, and in consideration of other considerations. both sweater and ammenegg were to speak at two other meetings that night and were not expected at windley until about eight-thirty, so to keep the ball rolling till they arrived, several other gentlemen, including rushton--who presided--and didlum, and one of the five pounds a week orators, addressed the meeting. mingled with the crowd were about twenty rough-looking men--strangers to the town--who wore huge green rosettes and loudly applauded the speakers. they also distributed sweater literature and cards with lists of the different meetings that were to be held during the election. these men were bullies hired by sweater's agent. they came from the neighbourhood of seven dials in london and were paid ten shillings a day. one of their duties was to incite the crowd to bash anyone who disturbed the meetings or tried to put awkward questions to the speakers. the hired orator was a tall, slight man with dark hair, beard and moustache, he might have been called well-looking if it had not been for a ugly scar upon his forehead, which gave him a rather sinister appearance. he was an effective speaker; the audience punctuated his speech with cheers, and when he wound up with an earnest appeal to them--as working men--to vote for adam sweater, their enthusiasm knew no bounds. 'i've seen him somewhere before,' remarked barrington, who was standing in the crowd with harlow, owen and easton. 'so have i,' said owen, with a puzzled expression. 'but for the life of me, i can't remember where.' harlow and easton also thought they had seen the man before, but their speculations were put an end to by the roar of cheering that heralded the arrival of the motor car, containing adam sweater and his friend, lord ammenegg. unfortunately, those who had arranged the meeting had forgotten to provide a pair of steps, so sweater found it a matter of considerable difficulty to mount the platform. however, while his friends were hoisting and pushing him up, the meeting beguiled the time by singing: 'vote, vote, vote for adam sweater.' after a terrible struggle they succeeded in getting him on to the cart, and while he was recovering his wind, rushton made a few remarks to the crowd. sweater then advanced to the front, but in consequence of the cheering and singing, he was unable to make himself heard for several minutes. when at length he was able to proceed, ho made a very clever speech--it had been specially written for him and had cost ten guineas. a large part of it consisted of warnings against the dangers of socialism. sweater had carefully rehearsed this speech and he delivered it very effectively. some of those socialists, he said, were well-meaning but mistaken people, who did not realize the harm that would result if their extraordinary ideas were ever put into practice. he lowered his voice to a blood-curdling stage whisper as he asked: 'what is this socialism that we hear so much about, but which so few understand? what is it, and what does it mean?' then, raising his voice till it rang through the air and fell upon the ears of the assembled multitude like the clanging of a funeral bell, he continued: 'it is madness! chaos! anarchy! it means ruin! black ruin for the rich, and consequently, of course, blacker ruin still for the poor!' as sweater paused, a thrill of horror ran through the meeting. men wearing broken boots and with patches upon the seats and knees, and ragged fringes round the bottoms of the legs of their trousers, grew pale, and glanced apprehensively at each other. if ever socialism did come to pass, they evidently thought it very probable that they would have to walk about in a sort of prehistoric highland costume, without any trousers or boots at all. toil-worn women, most of them dressed in other women's shabby cast-off clothing--weary, tired-looking mothers who fed their children for the most part on adulterated tea, tinned skimmed milk and bread and margarine, grew furious as they thought of the wicked socialists who were trying to bring ruin upon them. it never occurred to any of these poor people that they were in a condition of ruin, black ruin, already. but if sweater had suddenly found himself reduced to the same social condition as the majority of those he addressed, there is not much doubt that he would have thought that he was in a condition of black ruin. the awful silence that had fallen on the panic-stricken crowd, was presently broken by a ragged-trousered philanthropist, who shouted out: 'we knows wot they are, sir. most of 'em is chaps wot's got tired of workin' for their livin', so they wants us to keep 'em.' encouraged by numerous expressions of approval from the other philanthropists, the man continued: 'but we ain't such fools as they thinks, and so they'll find out next monday. most of 'em wants 'angin', and i wouldn't mind lendin' a 'and with the rope myself.' applause and laughter greeted these noble sentiments, and sweater resumed his address, when another man--evidently a socialist--for he was accompanied by three or four others who like himself wore red ties--interrupted and said that he would like to ask him a question. no notice was taken of this request either by mr sweater or the chairman, but a few angry cries of 'order!' came from the crowd. sweater continued, but the man again interrupted and the cries of the crowd became more threatening. rushton started up and said that he could not allow the speaker to be interrupted, but if the gentleman would wait till the end of the meeting, he would have an opportunity of asking his question then. the man said he would wait as desired; sweater resumed his oration, and presently the interrupter and his friends found themselves surrounded by the gang of hired bullies who wore the big rosettes and who glared menacingly at them. sweater concluded his speech with an appeal to the crowd to deal a 'slashing bow at the enemy' next monday, and then amid a storm of applause, lord ammenegg stepped to the front. he said that he did not intend to inflict a long speech upon them that evening, and as it was nomination day tomorrow he would not be able to have the honour of addressing them again during the election; but even if he had wished to make a long speech, it would be very difficult after the brilliant and eloquent address they had just listened to from mr sweater, for it seemed to him (ammenegg) that adam sweater had left nothing for anyone else to say. but he would like to tell them of a thought that had occurred to him that evening. they read in the bible that the wise men came from the east. windley, as they all knew, was the east end of the town. they were the men of the east, and he was sure that next monday they would prove that they were the wise men of the east, by voting for adam sweater and putting him at the top of the poll with a 'thumping majority'. the wise men of the east greeted ammenegg's remarks with prolonged, imbecile cheers, and amid the tumult his lordship and sweater got into the motor car and cleared off without giving the man with the red tie or anyone else who desired to ask questions any opportunity of doing so. rushton and the other leaders got into another motor car, and followed the first to take part in another meeting down-town, which was to be addressed by the great sir featherstone blood. the crowd now resolved itself into military order, headed by the men with torches and a large white banner on which was written in huge black letters, 'our man is adam sweater'. they marched down the hill singing, and when they reached the fountain on the grand parade they saw another crowd holding a meeting there. these were tories and they became so infuriated at the sound of the liberal songs and by the sight of the banner, that they abandoned their meeting and charged the processionists. a free fight ensued. both sides fought like savages, but as the liberals were outnumbered by about three to one, they were driven off the field with great slaughter; most of the torch poles were taken from them, and the banner was torn to ribbons. then the tories went back to the fountain carrying the captured torches, and singing to the tune of 'has anyone seen a german band?' 'has anyone seen a lib'ral flag, lib'ral flag, lib'ral flag?' while the tories resumed their meeting at the fountain, the liberals rallied in one of the back streets. messengers were sent in various directions for reinforcements, and about half an hour afterwards they emerged from their retreat and swooped down upon the tory meeting. they overturned the platform, recaptured their torches, tore the enemy's banner to tatters and drove them from their position. then the liberals in their turn paraded the streets singing 'has anyone seen a tory flag?' and proceeded to the hall where sir featherstone was speaking, arriving as the audience left. the crowd that came pouring out of the hall was worked up to a frenzy of enthusiasm, for the speech they had just listened to had been a sort of manifesto to the country. in response to the cheering of the processionists--who, of course, had not heard the speech, but were cheering from force of habit--sir featherstone blood stood up in the carriage and addressed the crowd, briefly outlining the great measures of social reform that his party proposed to enact to improve the condition of the working classes; and as they listened, the wise men grew delirious with enthusiasm. he referred to land taxes and death duties which would provide money to build battleships to protect the property of the rich, and provide work for the poor. another tax was to provide a nice, smooth road for the rich to ride upon in motor cars--and to provide work for the poor. another tax would be used for development, which would also make work for the poor. and so on. a great point was made of the fact that the rich were actually to be made to pay something towards the cost of their road themselves! but nothing was said about how they would get the money to do it. no reference was made to how the workers would be sweated and driven and starved to earn dividends and rent and interest and profits to put into the pockets of the rich before the latter would be able to pay for anything at all. these are the things, gentlemen, that we propose to do for you, and, at the rate of progress which we propose to adopt, i say without fear or contradiction, that within the next five hundred years we shall so reform social conditions in this country, that the working classes will be able to enjoy some of the benefits of civilization. 'the only question before you is: are you willing to wait for five hundred years?' 'yes, sir,' shouted the wise men with enthusiasm at the glorious prospect. 'yes, sir: we'll wait a thousand years if you like, sir!' 'i've been waiting all my life,' said one poor old veteran, who had assisted to 'carry the "old flag" to victory' times out of number in the past and who for his share of the spoils of those victories was now in a condition of abject, miserable poverty, with the portals of the workhouse yawning open to receive him; 'i've waited all my life, hoping and trusting for better conditions so a few more years won't make much difference to me.' 'don't you trouble to 'urry yourself, sir,' shouted another solomon in the crowd. 'we don't mind waiting. take your own time, sir. you know better than the likes of us 'ow long it ought to take.' in conclusion, the great man warned them against being led away by the socialists, those foolish, unreasonable, impractical people who wanted to see an immediate improvement in their condition; and he reminded them that rome was not built in a day. the wise men applauded lustily. it did not appear to occur to any of them that the rate at which the ancient roman conducted their building operations had nothing whatever to do with the case. sir featherstone blood sat down amid a wild storm of cheering, and then the procession reformed, and, reinforced by the audience from the hall, they proceeded to march about the dreary streets, singing, to the tune of the 'men of harlech': 'vote for sweater, vote for sweater! vote for sweater, vote for sweater! 'he's the man, who has a plan, to liberate and reinstate the workers! 'men of mugs'bro', show your mettle, let them see that you're in fettle! once for all this question settle sweater shall prevail!' the carriage containing sir featherstone, adam sweater, and rushton and didlum was in the middle of the procession. the banner and the torches were at the head, and the grandeur of the scene was heightened by four men who walked--two on each side of the carriage, burning green fire in frying pans. as they passed by the slave market, a poor, shabbily dressed wretch whose boots were so worn and rotten that they were almost falling off his feet, climbed up a lamp-post, and taking off his cap waved it in the air and shrieked out: 'three cheers for sir featherstone blood, our future prime minister!' the philanthropists cheered themselves hoarse and finally took the horses out of the traces and harnessed themselves to the carriage instead. ''ow much wages will sir featherstone get if 'e is made prime minister?' asked harlow of another philanthropist who was also pushing up behind the carriage. 'five thousand a year,' replied the other, who by some strange chance happened to know. 'that comes to a 'underd pounds a week.' 'little enough, too, for a man like 'im,' said harlow. 'you're right, mate,' said the other, with deep sympathy in his voice. 'last time 'e 'eld office 'e was only in for five years, so 'e only made twenty-five thousand pounds out of it. of course 'e got a pension as well--two thousand a year for life, i think it is; but after all, what's that--for a man like 'im?' 'nothing,' replied harlow, in a tone of commiseration, and newman, who was also there, helping to drag the carriage, said that it ought to be at least double that amount. however, they found some consolation in knowing that sir featherstone would not have to wait till he was seventy before he obtained his pension; he would get it directly he came out of office. the following evening barrington, owen and a few others of the same way of thinking, who had subscribed enough money between them to purchase a lot of socialist leaflets, employed themselves distributing them to the crowds at the liberal and tory meetings, and whilst they were doing this they frequently became involved in arguments with the supporters of the capitalist system. in their attempts to persuade others to refrain from voting for either of the candidates, they were opposed even by some who professed to believe in socialism, who said that as there was no better socialist candidate the thing to do was to vote for the better of the two. this was the view of harlow and easton, whom they met. harlow had a green ribbon in his buttonhole, but easton wore d'encloseland's colours. one man said that if he had his way, all those who had votes should be compelled to record them--whether they liked it or not--or be disenfranchised! barrington asked him if he believed in tarrif reform. the man said no. 'why not?' demanded barrington. the other replied that he opposed tariff reform because he believed it would ruin the country. barrington inquired if he were a supporter of socialism. the man said he was not, and when further questioned he said that he believed if it were ever adopted it would bring black ruin upon the country--he believed this because mr sweater had said so. when barrington asked him--supposing there were only two candidates, one a socialist and the other a tariff reformer--how would he like to be compelled to vote for one of them, he was at a loss for an answer. during the next few days the contest continued. the hired orators continued to pour forth their streams of eloquence; and tons of literature flooded the town. the walls were covered with huge posters: 'another liberal lie.' 'another tory fraud.' unconsciously each of these two parties put in some splendid work for socialism, in so much that each of them thoroughly exposed the hypocrisy of the other. if the people had only had the sense, they might have seen that the quarrel between the liberal and tory leaders was merely a quarrel between thieves over the spoil; but unfortunately most of the people had not the sense to perceive this. they were blinded by bigoted devotion to their parties, and--inflamed with maniacal enthusiasm--thought of nothing but 'carrying their flags to victory'. at considerable danger to themselves, barrington, owen and the other socialists continued to distribute their leaflets and to heckle the liberal and tory speakers. they asked the tories to explain the prevalence of unemployment and poverty in protected countries, like germany and america, and at sweater's meetings they requested to be informed what was the liberal remedy for unemployment. from both parties the socialists obtained the same kinds of answer--threats of violence and requests 'not to disturb the meeting'. these socialists held quite a lot of informal meetings on their own. every now and then when they were giving their leaflets away, some unwary supporter of the capitalist system would start an argument, and soon a crowd would gather round and listen. sometimes the socialists succeeded in arguing their opponents to an absolute standstill, for the liberals and tones found it impossible to deny that machinery is the cause of the overcrowded state of the labour market; that the overcrowded labour market is the cause of unemployment; that the fact of there being always an army of unemployed waiting to take other men's jobs away from them destroys the independence of those who are in employment and keeps them in subjection to their masters. they found it impossible to deny that this machinery is being used, not for the benefit of all, but to make fortunes for a few. in short, they were unable to disprove that the monopoly of the land and machinery by a comparatively few persons, is the cause of the poverty of the majority. but when these arguments that they were unable to answer were put before them and when it was pointed out that the only possible remedy was the public ownership and management of the means of production, they remained angrily silent, having no alternative plan to suggest. at other times the meeting resolved itself into a number of quarrelsome disputes between the liberals and tories that formed the crowd, which split itself up into a lot of little groups and whatever the original subject might have been they soon drifted to a hundred other things, for most of the supporters of the present system seemed incapable of pursuing any one subject to its logical conclusion. a discussion would be started about something or other; presently an unimportant side issue would crop up, then the original subject would be left unfinished, and they would argue and shout about the side issue. in a little while another side issue would arise, and then the first side issue would be abandoned also unfinished, and an angry wrangle about the second issue would ensue, the original subject being altogether forgotten. they did not seem to really desire to discover the truth or to find out the best way to bring about an improvement in their condition, their only object seemed to be to score off their opponents. usually after one of these arguments, owen would wander off by himself, with his head throbbing and a feeling of unutterable depression and misery at his heart; weighed down by a growing conviction of the hopelessness of everything, of the folly of expecting that his fellow workmen would ever be willing to try to understand for themselves the causes that produced their sufferings. it was not that those causes were so obscure that it required exceptional intelligence to perceive them; the causes of all the misery were so apparent that a little child could easily be made to understand both the disease and the remedy; but it seemed to him that the majority of his fellow workmen had become so convinced of their own intellectual inferiority that they did not dare to rely on their own intelligence to guide them, preferring to resign the management of their affairs unreservedly into the hands of those who battened upon and robbed them. they did not know the causes of the poverty that perpetually held them and their children in its cruel grip, and--they did not want to know! and if one explained those causes to them in such language and in such a manner that they were almost compelled to understand, and afterwards pointed out to them the obvious remedy, they were neither glad nor responsive, but remained silent and were angry because they found themselves unable to answer and disprove. they remained silent; afraid to trust their own intelligence, and the reason of this attitude was that they had to choose between the evidence and their own intelligence, and the stories told them by their masters and exploiters. and when it came to making this choice they deemed it safer to follow their old guides, than to rely on their own judgement, because from their very infancy they had had drilled into them the doctrine of their own mental and social inferiority, and their conviction of the truth of this doctrine was voiced in the degraded expression that fell so frequently from their lips, when speaking of themselves and each other--'the likes of us!' they did not know the causes of their poverty, they did not want to know, they did not want to hear. all they desired was to be left alone so that they might continue to worship and follow those who took advantage of their simplicity, and robbed them of the fruits of their toil; their old leaders, the fools or scoundrels who fed them with words, who had led them into the desolation where they now seemed to be content to grind out treasure for their masters, and to starve when those masters did not find it profitable to employ them. it was as if a flock of foolish sheep placed themselves under the protection of a pack of ravening wolves. several times the small band of socialists narrowly escaped being mobbed, but they succeeded in disposing of most of their leaflets without any serious trouble. towards the latter part of one evening barrington and owen became separated from the others, and shortly afterwards these two lost each other in the crush. about nine o'clock, barrington was in a large liberal crowd, listening to the same hired orator who had spoken a few evenings before on the hill--the man with the scar on his forehead. the crowd was applauding him loudly and barrington again fell to wondering where he had seen this man before. as on the previous occasion, this speaker made no reference to socialism, confining himself to other matters. barrington examined him closely, trying to recall under what circumstances they had met previously, and presently he remembered that this was one of the socialists who had come with the band of cyclists into the town that sunday morning, away back at the beginning of the summer, the man who had come afterwards with the van, and who had been struck down by a stone while attempting to speak from the platform of the van, the man who had been nearly killed by the upholders of the capitalist system. it was the same man! the socialist had been clean-shaven--this man wore beard and moustache--but barrington was certain he was the same. when the man had concluded his speech he got down and stood in the shade behind the platform, while someone else addressed the meeting, and barrington went round to where he was standing, intending to speak to him. all around them, pandemonium reigned supreme. they were in the vicinity of the slave market, near the fountain, on the grand parade, where several roads met; there was a meeting going on at every corner, and a number of others in different parts of the roadway and on the pavement of the parade. some of these meetings were being carried on by two or three men, who spoke in turn from small, portable platforms they carried with them, and placed wherever they thought there was a chance of getting an audience. every now and then some of these poor wretches--they were all paid speakers--were surrounded and savagely mauled and beaten by a hostile crowd. if they were tariff reformers the liberals mobbed them, and vice versa. lines of rowdies swaggered to and fro, arm in arm, singing, 'vote, vote, vote, for good ole closeland' or 'good ole sweater', according as they were green or blue and yellow. gangs of hooligans paraded up and down, armed with sticks, singing, howling, cursing and looking for someone to hit. others stood in groups on the pavement with their hands thrust in their pockets, or leaned against walls or the shutters of the shops with expressions of ecstatic imbecility on their faces, chanting the mournful dirge to the tune of the church chimes, 'good--ole--sweat--er good--ole--sweat--er good--ole--sweat--er good--ole--sweat--er.' other groups--to the same tune--sang 'good--ole--close--land'; and every now and again they used to leave off singing and begin to beat each other. fights used to take place, often between workmen, about the respective merits of adam sweater and sir graball d'encloseland. the walls were covered with huge liberal and tory posters, which showed in every line the contempt of those who published them for the intelligence of the working men to whom they were addressed. there was one tory poster that represented the interior of a public house; in front of the bar, with a quart pot in his hand, a clay pipe in his mouth, and a load of tools on his back, stood a degraded-looking brute who represented the tory ideal of what an englishman should be; the letterpress on the poster said it was a man! this is the ideal of manhood that they hold up to the majority of their fellow countrymen, but privately--amongst themselves--the tory aristocrats regard such 'men' with far less respect than they do the lower animals. horses or dogs, for instance. the liberal posters were not quite so offensive. they were more cunning, more specious, more hypocritical and consequently more calculated to mislead and deceive the more intelligent of the voters. when barrington got round to the back of the platform, he found the man with the scarred face standing alone and gloomily silent in the shadow. barrington gave him one of the socialist leaflets, which he took, and after glancing at it, put it in his coat pocket without making any remark. 'i hope you'll excuse me for asking, but were you not formerly a socialist?' said barrington. even in the semi-darkness barrington saw the other man flush deeply and then become very pale, and the unsightly scar upon his forehead showed with ghastly distinctiveness. 'i am still a socialist: no man who has once been a socialist can ever cease to be one.' 'you seem to have accomplished that impossibility, to judge by the work you are at present engaged in. you must have changed your opinions since you were here last.' 'no one who has been a socialist can ever cease to be one. it is impossible for a man who has once acquired knowledge ever to relinquish it. a socialist is one who understands the causes of the misery and degradation we see all around us; who knows the only remedy, and knows that that remedy--the state of society that will be called socialism--must eventually be adopted; is the only alternative to the extermination of the majority of the working people; but it does not follow that everyone who has sense enough to acquire that amount of knowledge, must, in addition, be willing to sacrifice himself in order to help to bring that state of society into being. when i first acquired that knowledge,' he continued, bitterly, 'i was eager to tell the good news to others. i sacrificed my time, my money, and my health in order that i might teach others what i had learned myself. i did it willingly and happily, because i thought they would be glad to hear, and that they were worth the sacrifices i made for their sakes. but i know better now.' 'even if you no longer believe in working for socialism, there's no need to work against it. if you are not disposed to sacrifice yourself in order to do good to others, you might at least refrain from doing evil. if you don't want to help to bring about a better state of affairs, there's no reason why you should help to perpetuate the present system.' the other man laughed bitterly. 'oh yes, there is, and a very good reason too.' 'i don't think you could show me a reason,' said barrington. the man with the scar laughed again, the same unpleasant, mirthless laugh, and thrusting his hand into his trouser pocket drew it out again full of silver coins, amongst which one or two gold pieces glittered. 'that is my reason. when i devoted my life and what abilities i possess to the service of my fellow workmen; when i sought to teach them how to break their chains; when i tried to show them how they might save their children from poverty and shameful servitude, i did not want them to give me money. i did it for love. and they paid me with hatred and injury. but since i have been helping their masters to rob them, they have treated me with respect.' barrington made no reply and the other man, having returned the money to his pocket, indicated the crowd with a sweep of his hand. 'look at them!' he continued with a contemptuous laugh. 'look at them! the people you are trying to make idealists of! look at them! some of them howling and roaring like wild beasts, or laughing like idiots, others standing with dull and stupid faces devoid of any trace of intelligence or expression, listening to the speakers whose words convey no meaning to their stultified minds, and others with their eyes gleaming with savage hatred of their fellow men, watching eagerly for an opportunity to provoke a quarrel that they may gratify their brutal natures by striking someone--their eyes are hungry for the sight of blood! can't you see that these people, whom you are trying to make understand your plan for the regeneration of the world, your doctrine of universal brotherhood and love are for the most part--intellectually--on level with hottentots? the only things they feel any real interest in are beer, football, betting and--of course--one other subject. their highest ambition is to be allowed to work. and they desire nothing better for their children! 'they have never had an independent thought in their lives. these are the people whom you hope to inspire with lofty ideals! you might just as well try to make a gold brooch out of a lump of dung! try to reason with them, to uplift them, to teach them the way to higher things. devote your whole life and intelligence to the work of trying to get better conditions for them, and you will find that they themselves are the enemy you will have to fight against. they'll hate you, and, if they get the chance, they'll tear you to pieces. but if you're a sensible man you'll use whatever talents and intelligence you possess for your own benefit. don't think about socialism or any other "ism". concentrate your mind on getting money--it doesn't matter how you get it, but--get it. if you can't get it honestly, get it dishonestly, but get it! it is the only thing that counts. do as i do--rob them! exploit them! and then they'll have some respect for you.' 'there's something in what you say,' replied barrington, after a long pause, 'but it's not all. circumstances make us what we are; and anyhow, the children are worth fighting for.' 'you may think so now,' said the other, 'but you'll come to see it my way some day. as for the children--if their parents are satisfied to let them grow up to be half-starved drudges for other people, i don't see why you or i need trouble about it. if you like to listen to reason,' he continued after a pause, 'i can put you on to something that will be worth more to you than all your socialism.' 'what do you mean?' 'look here: you're a socialist; well, i'm a socialist too: that is, i have sense enough to believe that socialism is practical and inevitable and right; it will come when the majority of the people are sufficiently enlightened to demand it, but that enlightenment will never be brought about by reasoning or arguing with them, for these people are simply not intellectually capable of abstract reasoning--they can't grasp theories. you know what the late lord salisbury said about them when somebody proposed to give them some free libraries: he said: "they don't want libraries: give them a circus." you see these liberals and tories understand the sort of people they have to deal with; they know that although their bodies are the bodies of grown men, their minds are the minds of little children. that is why it has been possible to deceive and bluff and rob them for so long. but your party persists in regarding them as rational beings, and that's where you make a mistake--you're simply wasting your time. 'the only way in which it is possible to teach these people is by means of object lessons, and those are being placed before them in increasing numbers every day. the trustification of industry--the object lesson which demonstrates the possibility of collective ownership--will in time compel even these to understand, and by the time they have learnt that, they will also have learned by bitter experience and not from theoretical teaching, that they must either own the trusts or perish, and then, and not, till then, they will achieve socialism. but meanwhile we have this election. do you think it will make any real difference--for good or evil--which of these two men is elected?' 'no.' 'well, you can't keep them both out--you have no candidate of your own--why should you object to earning a few pounds by helping one of them to get in? there are plenty of voters who are doubtful what to do; as you and i know there is every excuse for them being unable to make up their minds which of these two candidates is the worse, a word from your party would decide them. since you have no candidate of your own you will be doing no harm to socialism and you will be doing yourself a bit of good. if you like to come along with me now, i'll introduce you to sweater's agent--no one need know anything about it.' he slipped his arm through barrington's, but the latter released himself. 'please yourself,' said the other with an affectation of indifference. 'you know your own business best. you may choose to be a jesus christ if you like, but for my part i'm finished. for the future i intend to look after myself. as for these people--they vote for what they want; they get--what they vote for; and by god, they deserve nothing better! they are being beaten with whips of their own choosing and if i had my way they should be chastised with scorpions! for them, the present system means joyless drudgery, semi-starvation, rags and premature death. they vote for it all and uphold it. well, let them have what they vote for--let them drudge--let them starve!' the man with the scarred face ceased speaking, and for some moments barrington did not reply. 'i suppose there is some excuse for your feeling as you do,' he said slowly at last, 'but it seems to me that you do not make enough allowance for the circumstances. from their infancy most of them have been taught by priests and parents to regard themselves and their own class with contempt--a sort of lower animals--and to regard those who possess wealth with veneration, as superior beings. the idea that they are really human creatures, naturally absolutely the same as their so-called betters, naturally equal in every way, naturally different from them only in those ways in which their so-called superiors differ from each other, and inferior to them only because they have been deprived of education, culture and opportunity--you know as well as i do that they have all been taught to regard that idea as preposterous. 'the self-styled "christian" priests who say--with their tongues in their cheeks--that god is our father and that all men are brethren, have succeeded in convincing the majority of the "brethren" that it is their duty to be content in their degradation, and to order themselves lowly and reverently towards their masters. your resentment should be directed against the deceivers, not against the dupes.' the other man laughed bitterly. 'well, go and try to undeceive them,' he said, as he returned to the platform in response to a call from his associates. 'go and try to teach them that the supreme being made the earth and all its fullness for the use and benefit of all his children. go and try to explain to them that they are poor in body and mind and social condition, not because of any natural inferiority, but because they have been robbed of their inheritance. go and try to show them how to secure that inheritance for themselves and their children--and see how grateful they'll be to you.' for the next hour barrington walked about the crowded streets in a dispirited fashion. his conversation with the renegade seemed to have taken all the heart out of him. he still had a number of the leaflets, but the task of distributing them had suddenly grown distasteful and after a while he discontinued it. all his enthusiasm was gone. like one awakened from a dream he saw the people who surrounded him in a different light. for the first time he properly appreciated the offensiveness of most of those to whom he offered the handbills; some, without even troubling to ascertain what they were about, rudely refused to accept them; some took them and after glancing at the printing, crushed them in their hands and ostentatiously threw them away. others, who recognized him as a socialist, angrily or contemptuously declined them, often with curses or injurious words. his attention was presently attracted to a crowd of about thirty or forty people, congregated near a gas lamp at the roadside. the sound of many angry voices rose from the centre of this group, and as he stood on the outskirts of the crowd, barrington, being tall, was able to look into the centre, where he saw owen. the light of the street lamp fell full upon the latter's pale face, as he stood silent in the midst of a ring of infuriated men, who were all howling at him at once, and whose malignant faces bore expressions of savage hatred, as they shouted out the foolish accusations and slanders they had read in the liberal and tory papers. socialists wished to do away with religion and morality! to establish free love and atheism! all the money that the working classes had saved up in the post office and the friendly societies, was to be robbed from them and divided up amongst a lot of drunken loafers who were too lazy to work. the king and all the royal family were to be done away with! and so on. owen made no attempt to reply, and the manner of the crowd became every moment more threatening. it was evident that several of them found it difficult to refrain from attacking him. it was a splendid opportunity of doing a little fighting without running any risks. this fellow was all by himself, and did not appear to be much of a man even at that. those in the middle were encouraged by shouts from others in the crowd, who urged them to 'go for him' and at last--almost at the instant of barrington's arrival--one of the heroes, unable to contain himself any longer, lifted a heavy stick and struck owen savagely across the face. the sight of the blood maddened the others, and in an instant everyone who could get within striking distance joined furiously in the onslaught, reaching eagerly over each other's shoulders, showering blows upon him with sticks and fists, and before barrington could reach his side, they had owen down on the ground, and had begun to use their boots upon him. barrington felt like a wild beast himself, as he fiercely fought his way through the crowd, spurning them to right and left with fists and elbows. he reached the centre in time to seize the uplifted arm of the man who had led the attack and wrenching the stick from his hand, he felled him to the ground with a single blow. the remainder shrank back, and meantime the crowd was augmented by others who came running up. some of these newcomers were liberals and some tories, and as these did not know what the row was about they attacked each other. the liberals went for those who wore tory colours and vice versa, and in a few seconds there was a general free fight, though most of the original crowd ran away, and in the confusion that ended, barrington and owen got out of the crowd without further molestation. monday was the last day of the election--polling day--and in consequence of the number of motor cars that were flying about, the streets were hardly safe for ordinary traffic. the wealthy persons who owned these carriages... the result of the poll was to be shown on an illuminated sign at the town hall, at eleven o'clock that night, and long before that hour a vast crowd gathered in the adjacent streets. about ten o'clock it began to rain, but the crowd stood its ground and increased in numbers as the time went by. at a quarter to eleven the rain increased to a terrible downpour, but the people remained waiting to know which hero had conquered. eleven o'clock came and an intense silence fell upon the crowd, whose eyes were fixed eagerly upon the window where the sign was to be exhibited. to judge by the extraordinary interest displayed by these people, one might have thought that they expected to reap some great benefit or to sustain some great loss from the result, but of course that was not the case, for most of them knew perfectly well that the result of this election would make no more real difference to them than all the other elections that had gone before. they wondered what the figures would be. there were ten thousand voters on the register. at a quarter past eleven the sign was illuminated, but the figures were not yet shown. next, the names of the two candidates were slid into sight, the figures were still missing, but d'encloseland's name was on top, and a hoarse roar of triumph came from the throats of his admirers. then the two slides with the names were withdrawn, and the sign was again left blank. after a time the people began to murmur at all this delay and messing about, and presently some of them began to groan and hoot. after a few minutes the names were again slid into view, this time with sweater's name on top, and the figures appeared immediately afterwards: sweater . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , d'encloseland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , it was several seconds before the liberals could believe their eyes; it was too good to be true. it is impossible to say what was the reason of the wild outburst of delighted enthusiasm that followed, but whatever the reason, whatever the benefit was that they expected to reap--there was the fact. they were all cheering and dancing and shaking hands with each other, and some of them were so overcome with inexplicable joy that they were scarcely able to speak. it was altogether extraordinary and unaccountable. a few minutes after the declaration, sweater appeared at the window and made a sort of a speech, but only fragments of it were audible to the cheering crowd who at intervals caught such phrases as 'slashing blow', 'sweep the country', 'grand old liberal flag', and so on. next d'encloseland appeared and he was seen to shake hands with mr sweater, whom he referred to as 'my friend'. when the two 'friends' disappeared from the window, the part of the liberal crowd that was not engaged in hand-to-hand fights with their enemies--the tories--made a rush to the front entrance of the town hall, where sweater's carriage was waiting, and as soon as he had placed his plump rotundity inside, they took the horses out and amid frantic cheers harnessed themselves to it instead and dragged it through the mud and the pouring rain all the way to 'the cave'--most of them were accustomed to acting as beasts of burden--where he again addressed a few words to them from the porch. afterwards as they walked home saturated with rain and covered from head to foot with mud, they said it was a great victory for the cause of progress! truly the wolves have an easy prey. chapter the undesired that evening about seven o'clock, whilst easton was down-town seeing the last of the election, ruth's child was born. after the doctor was gone, mary linden stayed with her during the hours that elapsed before easton came home, and downstairs elsie and charley--who were allowed to stay up late to help their mother because mrs easton was ill--crept about very quietly, and conversed in hushed tones as they washed up the tea things and swept the floor and tidied the kitchen. easton did not return until after midnight, and all through the intervening hours, ruth, weak and tired, but unable to sleep, was lying in bed with the child by her side. her wide-open eyes appeared unnaturally large and brilliant, in contrast with the almost death-like paleness of her face, and there was a look of fear in them, as she waited and listened for the sound of easton's footsteps. outside, the silence of the night was disturbed by many unusual noises: a far-off roar, as of the breaking of waves on a seashore, arose from the direction of the town, where the last scenes of the election were being enacted. every few minutes motor cars rushed past the house at a furious rate, and the air was full of the sounds of distant shouts and singing. ruth listened and started nervously at every passing footstep. those who can imagine the kind of expression there would be upon the face of a hunted thief, who, finding himself encompassed and brought to bay by his pursuers, looks wildly around in a vain search for some way of escape, may be able to form some conception of the terror-stricken way in which she listened to every sound that penetrated into the stillness of the dimly lighted room. and ever and again, when her wandering glance reverted to the frail atom of humanity nestling by her side, her brows contracted and her eyes filled with bitter tears, as she weakly reached out her trembling hand to adjust its coverings, faintly murmuring, with quivering lips and a bursting heart, some words of endearment and pity. and then--alarmed by the footsteps of some chance passerby, or by the closing of the door of a neighbouring house, and fearing that it was the sound she had been waiting for and dreading through all those weary hours, she would turn in terror to mary linden, sitting in the chair at the bedside, sewing by the light of the shaded lamp, and take hold of her arm as if seeking protection from some impending danger. it was after twelve o'clock when easton came home. ruth recognized his footsteps before he reached the house, and her heart seemed to stop beating when she heard the clang of the gate, as it closed after he had passed through. it had been mary's intention to withdraw before he came into the room, but the sick woman clung to her in such evident fear, and entreated her so earnestly not to go away, that she remained. it was with a feeling of keen disappointment that easton noticed how ruth shrank away from him, for he had expected and hoped, that after this, they would be good friends once more; but he tried to think that it was because she was ill, and when she would not let him touch the child lest he should awaken it, he agreed without question. the next day, and for the greater part of the time during the next fortnight, ruth was in a raging fever. there were intervals when although weak and exhausted, she was in her right mind, but most of the time she was quite unconscious of her surroundings and often delirious. mrs owen came every day to help to look after her, because mary just then had a lot of needlework to do, and consequently could only give part of her time to ruth, who, in her delirium, lived and told over and over again all the sorrow and suffering of the last few months. and so the two friends, watching by her bedside, learned her dreadful secret. sometimes--in her delirium--she seemed possessed of an intense and terrible loathing for the poor little creature she had brought into the world, and was with difficulty prevented from doing it violence. once she seized it cruelly and threw it fiercely from her to the foot of the bed, as if it had been some poisonous or loathsome thing. and so it often became necessary to take the child away out of the room, so that she could not see or hear it, but when her senses came back to her, her first thought was for the child, and there must have been in her mind some faint recollection of what she had said and done in her madness, for when she saw that the baby was not in its accustomed place her distress and alarm were painful to see, as she entreated them with tears to give it back to her. and then she would kiss and fondle it with all manner of endearing words, and cry bitterly. easton did not see or hear most of this; he only knew that she was very ill; for he went out every day on the almost hopeless quest for work. rushton's had next to nothing to do, and most of the other shops were in a similar plight. dauber and botchit had one or two jobs going on, and easton tried several times to get a start for them, but was always told they were full up. the sweating methods of this firm continued to form a favourite topic of conversation with the unemployed workmen, who railed at and cursed them horribly. it had leaked out that they were paying only sixpence an hour to most of the skilled workmen in their employment, and even then the conditions under which they worked were, if possible, worse than those obtaining at most other firms. the men were treated like so many convicts, and every job was a hell where driving and bullying reigned supreme, and obscene curses and blasphemy polluted the air from morning till night. the resentment of those who were out of work was directed, not only against the heads of the firm, but also against the miserable, half-starved drudges in their employment. these poor wretches were denounced as 'scabs' and 'wastrels' by the unemployed workmen but all the same, whenever dauber and botchit wanted some extra hands they never had any difficulty in obtaining them, and it often happened that those who had been loudest and bitterest in their denunciations were amongst the first to rush off eagerly to apply there for a job whenever there was a chance of getting one. frequently the light was seen burning late at night in rushton's office, where nimrod and his master were figuring out prices and writing out estimates, cutting down the amounts to the lowest possible point in the hope of underbidding their rivals. now and then they were successful but whether they secured the work or not, nimrod always appeared equally miserable. if they got the 'job' it often showed such a small margin of profit that rushton used to grumble at him and suggest mismanagement. if their estimates were too high and they lost the work, he used to demand of nimrod why it was possible for dauber and botchit to do work so much more cheaply. as the unemployed workmen stood in groups at the corners or walked aimlessly about the streets, they often saw hunter pass by on his bicycle, looking worried and harassed. he was such a picture of misery, that it began to be rumoured amongst the men, that he had never been the same since the time he had that fall off the bike; and some of them declared, that they wouldn't mind betting that ole misery would finish up by going off his bloody rocker. at intervals--whenever a job came in--owen, crass, slyme, sawkins and one or two others, continued to be employed at rushton's, but they seldom managed to make more than two or three days a week, even when there was anything to do. chapter sundered during the next few weeks ruth continued very ill. although the delirium had left her and did not return, her manner was still very strange, and it was remarkable that she slept but little and at long intervals. mrs owen came to look after her every day, not going back to her own home till the evening. frankie used to call for her as he came out of school and then they used to go home together, taking little freddie easton with them also, for his own mother was not able to look after him and mary linden had so much other work to do. on wednesday evening, when the child was about five weeks old, as mrs owen was wishing her good night, ruth took hold of her hand and after saying how grateful she was for all that she had done, she asked whether--supposing anything happened to herself--nora would promise to take charge of freddie for easton. owen's wife gave the required promise, at the same time affecting to regard the supposition as altogether unlikely, and assuring her that she would soon be better, but she secretly wondered why ruth had not mentioned the other child as well. nora went away about five o'clock, leaving ruth's bedroom door open so that mrs linden could hear her call if she needed anything. about a quarter of an hour after nora and the two children had gone, mary linden went upstairs to see ruth, who appeared to have fallen fast asleep; so she returned to her needlework downstairs. the weather had been very cloudy all day, there had been rain at intervals and it was a dark evening, so dark that she had to light the lamp to see her work. charley sat on the hearthrug in front of the fire repairing one of the wheels of a wooden cart that he had made with the assistance of another boy, and elsie busied herself preparing the tea. easton was not yet home; rushton & co. had a few jobs to do and he had been at work since the previous thursday. the place where he was working was some considerable distance away, so it was nearly half past six when he came home. they heard him at the gate and at her mother's direction elsie went quickly to the front door, which was ajar, to ask him to walk as quietly as possible so as not to wake ruth. mary had prepared the table for his tea in the kitchen, where there was a bright fire with the kettle singing on the hob. he lit the lamp and after removing his hat and overcoat, put the kettle on the fire and while he was waiting for it to boil he went softly upstairs. there was no lamp burning in the bedroom and the place would have been in utter darkness but for the red glow of the fire, which did not dispel the prevailing obscurity sufficiently to enable him to discern the different objects in the room distinctly. the intense silence that reigned struck him with a sudden terror. he crossed swiftly over to the bed and a moment's examination sufficed to tell him that it was empty. he called her name, but there was no answer, and a hurried search only made it certain that she was nowhere in the house. mrs linden now remembered what owen's wife had told her of the strange request that ruth had made, and as she recounted it to easton, his fears became intensified a thousandfold. he was unable to form any opinion of the reason of her going or of where she had gone, as he rushed out to seek for her. almost unconsciously he directed his steps to owen's house, and afterwards the two men went to every place where they thought it possible she might have gone, but without finding any trace of her. her father lived a short distance outside the town, and this was one of the first places they went to, although easton did not think it likely she would go there, for she had not been on friendly terms with her stepmother, and as he had anticipated, it was a fruitless journey. they sought for her in every conceivable place, returning often to easton's house to see if she had come home, but they found no trace of her, nor met anyone who had seen her, which was, perhaps, because the dreary, rain-washed streets were deserted by all except those whose business compelled them to be out. about eleven o'clock nora was standing at the front door waiting for owen and easton, when she thought she could discern a woman's figure in the shadow of the piers of the gate opposite. it was an unoccupied house with a garden in front, and the outlines of the bushes it contained were so vague in the darkness that it was impossible to be certain; but the longer she looked the more convinced she became that there was someone there. at last she summoned sufficient courage to cross over the road, and as she nervously drew near the gate it became evident that she had not been mistaken. there was a woman standing there--a woman with a child in her arms, leaning against one of the pillars and holding the iron bars of the gate with her left hand. it was ruth. nora recognized her even in the semi-darkness. her attitude was one of extreme exhaustion, and as nora touched her, she perceived that she was wet through and trembling; but although she was almost fainting with fatigue she would not consent to go indoors until repeatedly assured that easton was not there, and that nora would not let him see her if he came. and when at length she yielded and went into the house she would not sit down or take off her hat or jacket until--crouching on the floor beside nora's chair with her face hidden in the latter's lap--she had sobbed out her pitiful confession, the same things that she had unwittingly told to the same hearer so often before during the illness, the only fact that was new was the account of her wanderings that night. she cried so bitterly and looked so forlorn and heartbroken and ashamed as she faltered out her woeful story; so consumed with self-condemnation, making no excuse for herself except to repeat over and over again that she had never meant to do wrong, that nora could not refrain from weeping also as she listened. it appeared that, unable to bear the reproach that easton's presence seemed to imply, or to endure the burden of her secret any longer, and always haunted by the thought of the lake in the park, ruth had formed the dreadful resolution of taking her own life and the child's. when she arrived at the park gates they were closed and locked for the night but she remembered that there was another means of entering--the place at the far end of the valley where the park was not fenced in, so she had gone there--nearly three miles--only to find that railings had recently been erected and therefore it was no longer possible to get into the park by that way. and then, when she found it impossible to put her resolve into practice, she had realized for the first time the folly and wickedness of the act she had meant to commit. but although she had abandoned her first intention, she said she could never go home again; she would take a room somewhere and get some work to do, or perhaps she might be able to get a situation where they would allow her to have the child with her, or failing that she would work and pay someone to look after it; but she could never go home any more. if she only had somewhere to stay for a few days until she could get something to do, she was sure she would be able to earn her living, but she could not go back home; she felt that she would rather walk about the streets all night than go there again. it was arranged that ruth should have the small apartment which had been frankie's playroom, the necessary furniture being obtained from a second-hand shop close by. easton did not learn the real reason of her flight until three days afterwards. at first he attributed it to a recurrence of the mental disorder that she had suffered from after the birth of the child, and he had been glad to leave her at owen's place in nora's care, but on the evening of the third day when he returned home from work, he found a letter in ruth's handwriting which told him all there was to tell. when he recovered from the stupefaction into which he was thrown by the perusal of this letter, his first thought was to seek out slyme, but he found upon inquiring that the latter had left the town the previous morning. slyme's landlady said he had told her that he had been offered several months' work in london, which he had accepted. the truth was that slyme had heard of ruth's flight--nearly everyone knew about it as a result of the inquiries that had been made for her--and, guessing the cause, he had prudently cleared out. easton made no attempt to see ruth, but he went to owen's and took freddie away, saying he would pay mrs linden to look after the child whilst he was at work. his manner was that of a deeply injured man--the possibility that he was in any way to blame for what had happened did not seem to occur to his mind at all. as for ruth she made no resistance to his taking the child away from her, although she cried about it in secret. she got some work a few days afterwards--helping the servants at one of the large boarding-houses on the grand parade. nora looked after the baby for her while she was at work, an arrangement that pleased frankie vastly; he said it was almost as good as having a baby of their very own. for the first few weeks after ruth went away easton tried to persuade himself that he did not very much regret what had happened. mrs linden looked after freddie, and easton tried to believe that he would really be better off now that he had only himself and the child to provide for. at first, whenever he happened to meet owen, they used to speak of ruth, or to be more correct, easton used to speak of her; but one day when the two men were working together owen had expressed himself rather offensively. he seemed to think that easton was more to blame than she was; and afterwards they avoided the subject, although easton found it difficult to avoid the thoughts the other man's words suggested. now and then he heard of ruth and learnt that she was still working at the same place; and once he met her suddenly and unexpectedly in the street. they passed each other hurriedly and he did not see the scarlet flush that for an instant dyed her face, nor the deathly pallor that succeeded it. he never went to owen's place or sent any communication to ruth, nor did she ever send him any; but although easton did not know it she frequently saw freddie, for when elsie linden took the child out she often called to see mrs owen. as time went on and the resentment he had felt towards her lost its first bitterness, easton began to think there was perhaps some little justification for what owen had said, and gradually there grew within him an immense desire for reconciliation--to start afresh and to forget all that had happened; but the more he thought of this the more hopeless and impossible of realization it seemed. although perhaps he was not conscious of it, this desire arose solely from selfish motives. the money he earned seemed to melt away almost as soon as he received it; to his surprise he found that he was not nearly so well off in regard to personal comfort as he had been formerly, and the house seemed to grow more dreary and desolate as the wintry days dragged slowly by. sometimes--when he had the money--he sought forgetfulness in the society of crass and the other frequenters of the cricketers, but somehow or other he could not take the same pleasure in the conversation of these people as formerly, when he had found it--as he now sometimes wondered to remember--so entertaining as to almost make him forget ruth's existence. one evening about three weeks before christmas, as he and owen were walking homewards together from work, easton reverted for the first time to their former conversation. he spoke with a superior air: his manner and tone indicating that he thought he was behaving with great generosity. he would be willing to forgive her and have her back, he said, if she would come: but he would never be able to tolerate the child. of course it might be sent to an orphanage or some similar institution, but he was afraid ruth would never consent to that, and he knew that her stepmother would not take it. 'if you can persuade her to return to you, we'll take the child,' said owen. 'do you think your wife would be willing?' 'she has already suggested doing so.' 'to ruth?' 'no: to me. we thought it a possible way for you, and my wife would like to have the child.' 'but would you be able to afford it?' said easton. 'we should manage all right.' 'of course,' said easton, 'if slyme comes back he might agree to pay something for its keep.' owen flushed. 'i wouldn't take his money.' after a long pause easton continued: 'would you mind asking mrs owen to suggest it to ruth?' 'if you like i'll get her to suggest it--as a message from you.' 'what i meant,' said easton hesitatingly, 'was that your wife might just suggest it--casual like--and advise her that it would be the best way, and then you could let me know what ruth said.' 'no,' replied owen, unable any longer to control his resentment of the other's manner, 'as things stand now, if it were not for the other child, i should advise her to have nothing further to do with you. you seem to think that you are acting a very generous part in being "willing" to have her back, but she's better off now than she was with you. i see no reason--except for the other child--why she should go back to you. as far as i understand it, you had a good wife and you ill-treated her.' 'i never ill-treated her! i never raised my hand to her--at least only once, and then i didn't hurt her. does she say i ill-treated her.' 'oh no: from what my wife tells me she only blames herself, but i'm drawing my own conclusions. you may not have struck her, but you did worse--you treated her with indifference and exposed her to temptation. what has happened is the natural result of your neglect and want of care for her. the responsibility for what has happened is mainly yours, but apparently you wish to pose now as being very generous and to "forgive her"--you're "willing" to take her back; but it seems to me that it would be more fitting that you should ask her to forgive you.' easton made no answer and after a long silence the other continued: 'i would not advise her to go back to you on such terms as you seem to think right, because if you became reconciled on such terms i don't think either of you could be happy. your only chance of happiness is to realize that you have both done wrong; that each of you has something to forgive; to forgive and never speak of it again.' easton made no reply and a few minutes afterwards, their ways diverging, they wished each other 'good night'. they were working for rushton--painting the outside of a new conservatory at mr sweater's house, 'the cave'. this job was finished the next day and at four o'clock the boy brought the handcart, which they loaded with their ladders and other materials. they took these back to the yard and then, as it was friday night, they went up to the front shop and handed in their time sheets. afterwards, as they were about to separate, easton again referred to the subject of their conversation of the previous evening. he had been very reserved and silent all day, scarcely uttering a word except when the work they had been engaged in made it necessary to do so, and there was now a sort of catch in his voice as he spoke. 'i've been thinking over what you said last night; it's quite true. i've been a great deal to blame. i wrote to ruth last night and admitted it to her. i'll take it as a favour if you and your wife will say what you can to help me get her back.' owen stretched out his hand and as the other took it, said: 'you may rely on us both to do our best.' chapter the widow's son the next morning when they went to the yard at half past eight o'clock hunter told them that there was nothing to do, but that they had better come on monday in case some work came in. they accordingly went on the monday, and tuesday and wednesday, but as nothing 'came in' of course they did not do any work. on thursday morning the weather was dark and bitterly cold. the sky presented an unbroken expanse of dull grey and a keen north wind swept through the cheerless streets. owen--who had caught cold whilst painting the outside of the conservatory at sweater's house the previous week--did not get to the yard until ten o'clock. he felt so ill that he would not have gone at all if they had not needed the money he would be able to earn if there was anything to do. strange though it may appear to the advocates of thrift, although he had been so fortunate as to be in employment when so many others were idle, they had not saved any money. on the contrary, during all the summer they had not been able to afford to have proper food or clothing. every week most of the money went to pay arrears of rent or some other debts, so that even whilst he was at work they had often to go without some of the necessaries of life. they had broken boots, shabby, insufficient clothing, and barely enough to eat. the weather had become so bitterly cold that, fearing he would be laid up if he went without it any longer, he took his overcoat out of pawn, and that week they had to almost starve. not that it was much better other weeks, for lately he had only been making six and a half hours a day--from eight-thirty in the morning till four o'clock in the evening, and on saturday only four and a half hours--from half past eight till one. this made his wages--at sevenpence an hour--twenty-one shillings and sevenpence a week--that is, when there was work to do every day, which was not always. sometimes they had to stand idle three days out of six. the wages of those who got sixpence halfpenny came out at one pound and twopence--when they worked every day--and as for those who--like sawkins--received only fivepence, their week's wages amounted to fifteen and sixpence. when they were only employed for two or three days or perhaps only a few hours, their 'saturday night' sometimes amounted to half a sovereign, seven and sixpence, five shillings or even less. then most of them said that it was better than nothing at all. many of them were married men, so, in order to make existence possible, their wives went out charing or worked in laundries. they had children whom they had to bring up for the most part on 'skim' milk, bread, margarine, and adulterated tea. many of these children--little mites of eight or nine years--went to work for two or three hours in the morning before going to school; the same in the evening after school, and all day on saturday, carrying butchers' trays loaded with meat, baskets of groceries and vegetables, cans of paraffin oil, selling or delivering newspapers, and carrying milk. as soon as they were old enough they got half time certificates and directly they were fourteen they left school altogether and went to work all the day. when they were old enough some of them tried to join the army or navy, but were found physically unfit. it is not much to be wondered at that when they became a little older they were so degenerate intellectually that they imagined that the surest way to obtain better conditions would be to elect gangs of liberal and tory land-grabbers, sweaters, swindlers and lawyers to rule over them. when owen arrived at the yard he found bert white cleaning out the dirty pots in the paint-shop. the noise he made with the scraping knife prevented him from hearing owen's approach and the latter stood watching him for some minutes without speaking. the stone floor of the paint shop was damp and shiny and the whole place was chilly as a tomb. the boy was trembling with cold and he looked pitifully undersized and frail as he bent over his work with an old apron girt about him. because it was so cold he was wearing his jacket with the ends of the sleeves turned back to keep them clean, or to prevent them getting any dirtier, for they were already in the same condition as the rest of his attire, which was thickly encrusted with dried paint of many colours, and his hands and fingernails were grimed with it. as he watched the poor boy bending over his task, owen thought of frankie, and with a feeling akin to terror wondered whether he would ever be in a similar plight. when he saw owen, the boy left off working and wished him good morning, remarking that it was very cold. 'why don't you light a fire? there's lots of wood lying about the yard.' 'no,' said bert shaking his head. 'that would never do! misery wouldn't 'arf ramp if 'e caught me at it. i used to 'ave a fire 'ere last winter till rushton found out, and 'e kicked up an orful row and told me to move meself and get some work done and then i wouldn't feel the cold.' 'oh, he said that, did he?' said owen, his pale face becoming suddenly suffused with blood. 'we'll see about that.' he went out into the yard and crossing over to where--under a shed--there was a great heap of waste wood, stuff that had been taken out of places where rushton & co. had made alterations, he gathered an armful of it and was returning to the paintshop when sawkins accosted him. 'you mustn't go burnin' any of that, you know! that's all got to be saved and took up to the bloke's house. misery spoke about it only this mornin'.' owen did not answer him. he carried the wood into the shop and after throwing it into the fireplace he poured some old paint over it, and, applying a match, produced a roaring fire. then he brought in several more armfuls of wood and piled them in a corner of the shop. bert took no part in these proceedings, and at first rather disapproved of them because he was afraid there would be trouble when misery came, but when the fire was an accomplished fact he warmed his hands and shifted his work to the other side of the bench so as to get the benefit of the heat. owen waited for about half an hour to see if hunter would return, but as that disciple did not appear, he decided not to wait any longer. before leaving he gave bert some instructions: 'keep up the fire with all the old paint that you can scrape off those things and any other old paint or rubbish that's here, and whenever it grows dull put more wood on. there's a lot of old stuff here that's of no use except to be thrown away or burnt. burn it all. if hunter says anything, tell him that i lit the fire, and that i told you to keep it burning. if you want more wood, go out and take it.' 'all right,' replied bert. on his way out owen spoke to sawkins. his manner was so menacing, his face so pale, and there was such a strange glare in his eyes, that the latter thought of the talk there had been about owen being mad, and felt half afraid of him. 'i am going to the office to see rushton; if hunter comes here, you say i told you to tell him that if i find the boy in that shop again without a fire, i'll report it to the society for the prevention of cruelty to children. and as for you, if the boy comes out here to get more wood, don't you attempt to interfere with him.' 'i don't want to interfere with the bloody kid,' grunted sawkins. 'it seems to me as if he's gorn orf 'is bloody crumpet,' he added as he watched owen walking rapidly down the street. 'i can't understand why people can't mind their own bloody business: anyone would think the boy belonged to 'im.' that was just how the matter presented itself to owen. the idea that it was his own child who was to be treated in this way possessed and infuriated him as he strode savagely along. in the vicinity of the slave market on the grand parade he passed--without seeing them--several groups of unemployed artisans whom he knew. some of them were offended and remarked that he was getting stuck up, but others, observing how strange he looked, repeated the old prophecy that one of these days owen would go out of his mind. as he drew near to his destination large flakes of snow began to fall. he walked so rapidly and was in such a fury that by the time he reached the shop he was scarcely able to speak. 'is--hunter--or rushton here?' he demanded of the shopman. 'hunter isn't, but the guv'nor is. what was it you wanted?' 'he'll soon--know--that,' panted owen as he strode up to the office door, and without troubling to knock, flung it violently open and entered. the atmosphere of this place was very different from that of the damp cellar where bert was working. a grate fitted with asbestos blocks and lit with gas communicated a genial warmth to the air. rushton was standing leaning over miss wade's chair with his left arm round her neck. owen recollected afterwards that her dress was disarranged. she retired hastily to the far end of the room as rushton jumped away from her, and stared in amazement and confusion at the intruder--he was too astonished and embarrassed to speak. owen stood panting and quivering in the middle of the office and pointed a trembling finger at his employer: 'i've come--here--to tell--you--that--if i find young--bert white--working--down in that shop--without a fire--i'll have you prosecuted. the place is not good enough for a stable--if you owned a valuable dog--you wouldn't keep it there--i give you fair warning--i know--enough--about you--to put you--where you deserve to be--if you don't treat him better i'll have you punished i'll show you up.' rushton continued to stare at him in mingled confusion, fear and perplexity; he did not yet comprehend exactly what it was all about; he was guiltily conscious of so many things which he might reasonably fear to be shown up or prosecuted for if they were known, and the fact of being caught under such circumstances with miss wade helped to reduce him to a condition approaching terror. 'if the boy has been there without a fire, i 'aven't known anything about it,' he stammered at last. 'mr 'unter has charge of all those matters.' 'you--yourself--forbade him--to make a fire last winter--and anyhow--you know about it now. you obtained money from his mother under the pretence--that you were going--to teach him a trade--but for the last twelve months--you have been using him--as if he were--a beast of burden. i advise you to see to it--or i shall--find--means--to make you--wish you had done so.' with this owen turned and went out, leaving the door open, and rushton in a state of mind compounded of fear, amazement and anger. as he walked homewards through the snow-storm, owen began to realize that the consequence of what he had done would be that rushton would not give him any more work, and as he reflected on all that this would mean to those at home, for a moment he doubted whether he had done right. but when he told nora what had happened she said there were plenty of other firms in the town who would employ him--when they had the work. he had done without rushton before and could do so again; for her part--whatever the consequences might be--she was glad that he had acted as he did. 'we'll get through somehow, i suppose,' said owen, wearily. 'there's not much chance of getting a job anywhere else just now, but i shall try to get some work on my own account. i shall do some samples of show-cards the same as i did last winter and try to get orders from some of the shops--they usually want something extra at this time, but i'm afraid it is rather too late: most of them already have all they want.' 'i shouldn't go out again today if i were you,' said nora, noticing how ill he looked. 'you should stay at home and read, or write up those minutes.' the minutes referred to were those of the last meeting of the local branch of the painters' society, of which owen was the secretary, and as the snow continued to fall, he occupied himself after dinner in the manner his wife suggested, until four o'clock, when frankie returned from school bringing with him a large snowball, and crying out as a piece of good news that the snow was still falling heavily, and that he believed it was freezing! they went to bed very early that night, for it was necessary to economize the coal, and not only that, but--because the rooms were so near the roof--it was not possible to keep the place warm no matter how much coal was used. the fire seemed, if anything, to make the place colder, for it caused the outer air to pour in through the joints of the ill-fitting doors and windows. owen lay awake for the greater part of the night. the terror of the future made rest or sleep impossible. he got up very early the next morning--long before it was light--and after lighting the fire, set about preparing the samples he had mentioned to nora, but found that it would not be possible to do much in this direction without buying more cardboard, for most of what he had was not in good condition. they had bread and butter and tea for breakfast. frankie had his in bed and it was decided to keep him away from school until after dinner because the weather was so very cold and his only pair of boots were so saturated with moisture from having been out in the snow the previous day. 'i shall make a few inquiries to see if there's any other work to be had before i buy the cardboard,' said owen, 'although i'm afraid it's not much use.' just as he was preparing to go out, the front door bell rang, and as he was going down to answer it he saw bert white coming upstairs. the boy was carrying a flat, brown-paper parcel under his arm. 'a corfin plate,' he explained as he arrived at the door. 'wanted at once--misery ses you can do it at 'ome, an' i've got to wait for it.' owen and his wife looked at each other with intense relief. so he was not to be dismissed after all. it was almost too good to be true. 'there's a piece of paper inside the parcel with the name of the party what's dead,' continued bert, 'and here's a little bottle of brunswick black for you to do the inscription with.' 'did he send any other message?' 'yes: he told me to tell you there's a job to be started monday morning--a couple of rooms to be done out somewhere. got to be finished by thursday; and there's another job 'e wants you to do this afternoon--after dinner--so you've got to come to the yard at one o'clock. 'e told me to tell you 'e meant to leave a message for you yesterday morning, but 'e forgot.' 'what did he say to you about the fire--anything?' 'yes: they both of 'em came about an hour after you went away--misery and the bloke too--but they didn't kick up a row. i wasn't arf frightened, i can tell you, when i saw 'em both coming, but they was quite nice. the bloke ses to me, "ah, that's right, my boy," 'e ses. "keep up a good fire. i'm going to send you some coke," 'e ses. and then they 'ad a look round and 'e told sawkins to put some new panes of glass where the winder was broken, and--you know that great big packing-case what was under the truck shed?' 'yes.' 'well, 'e told sawkins to saw it up and cover over the stone floor of the paint-shop with it. it ain't 'arf all right there now. i've cleared out all the muck from under the benches and we've got two sacks of coke sent from the gas-works, and the bloke told me when that's all used up i've got to get a order orf miss wade for another lot.' at one o'clock owen was at the yard, where he saw misery, who instructed him to go to the front shop and paint some numbers on the racks where the wallpapers were stored. whilst he was doing this work rushton came in and greeted him in a very friendly way. 'i'm very glad you let me know about the boy working in that paint-shop,' he observed after a few preliminary remarks. 'i can assure you as i don't want the lad to be uncomfortable, but you know i can't attend to everything myself. i'm much obliged to you for telling me about it; i think you did quite right; i should have done the same myself.' owen did not know what to reply, but rushton walked off without waiting... chapter 'it's a far, far better thing that i do, than i have ever done' although owen, easton and crass and a few others were so lucky as to have had a little work to do during the last few months, the majority of their fellow workmen had been altogether out of employment most of the time, and meanwhile the practical business-men, and the pretended disciples of christ--the liars and hypocrites who professed to believe that all men are brothers and god their father--had continued to enact the usual farce that they called 'dealing' with the misery that surrounded them on every side. they continued to organize 'rummage' and 'jumble' sales and bazaars, and to distribute their rotten cast-off clothes and boots and their broken victuals and soup to such of the brethren as were sufficiently degraded to beg for them. the beautiful distress committee was also in full operation; over a thousand brethren had registered themselves on its books. of this number--after careful investigation--the committee had found that no fewer than six hundred and seventy-two were deserving of being allowed to work for their living. the committee would probably have given these six hundred and seventy-two the necessary permission, but it was somewhat handicapped by the fact that the funds at its disposal were only sufficient to enable that number of brethren to be employed for about three days. however, by adopting a policy of temporizing, delay, and general artful dodging, the committee managed to create the impression that they were dealing with the problem. if it had not been for a cunning device invented by brother rushton, a much larger number of the brethren would have succeeded in registering themselves as unemployed on the books of the committee. in previous years it had been the practice to issue an application form called a 'record paper' to any brother who asked for one, and the brother returned it after filling it in himself. at a secret meeting of the committee rushton proposed--amid laughter and applause, it was such a good joke--a new and better way, calculated to keep down the number of applicants. the result of this innovation was that no more forms were issued, but the applicants for work were admitted into the office one at a time, and were there examined by a junior clerk, somewhat after the manner of a french juge d'instruction interrogating a criminal, the clerk filling in the form according to the replies of the culprit. 'what's your name?' 'where do you live?' 'how long have you been living there?' 'where did you live before you went there?' 'how long were you living at that place?' 'why did you move?' 'did you owe any rent when you left?' 'what was your previous address?' 'how old are you? when was your last birthday?' 'what is your trade, calling, employment, or occupation?' 'are you married or single or a widower or what?' 'how many children have you? how many boys? how many girls? do they go to work? what do they earn?' 'what kind of a house do you live in? how many rooms are there?' 'how much rent do you owe?' 'who was your last employer? what was the foreman's name? how long did you work there? what kind of work did you do? why did you leave?' 'what have you been doing for the last five years? what kind of work, how many hours a day? what wages did you get?' 'give the full names and addresses of all the different employers you have worked for during the last five years, and the reasons why you left them?' 'give the names of all the foremen you have worked under during the last five years?' 'does your wife earn anything? how much?' 'do you get any money from any club or society, or from any charity, or from any other source?' 'have you ever received poor relief?' 'have you ever worked for a distress committee before?' 'have you ever done any other kinds of work than those you have mentioned? do you think you would be fit for any other kind? 'have you any references?' and so on and so forth. when the criminal had answered all the questions, and when his answers had all been duly written down, he was informed that a member of the committee, or an authorized officer, or some other person, would in due course visit his home and make inquiries about him, after which the authorized officer or other person would make a report to the committee, who would consider it at their next meeting. as the interrogation of each criminal occupied about half an hour, to say nothing of the time he was kept waiting, it will be seen that as a means of keeping down the number of registered unemployed the idea worked splendidly. when rushton introduced this new rule it was carried unanimously, dr weakling being the only dissentient, but of course he--as brother grinder remarked--was always opposed to any sensible proposal. there was one consolation, however, grinder added, they was not likely to be pestered with 'im much longer; the first of november was coming and if he--grinder--knowed anything of working men they was sure to give weakling the dirty kick out directly they got the chance. a few days afterwards the result of the municipal election justified brother grinder's prognostications, for the working men voters of dr weakling's ward did give him the dirty kick out: but rushton, didlum, grinder and several other members of the band were triumphantly returned with increased majorities. mr dauber, of dauber and botchit, had already been elected a guardian of the poor. during all this time hunter, who looked more worried and miserable as the dreary weeks went by, was occupied every day in supervising what work was being done and in running about seeking for more. nearly every night he remained at the office until a late hour, poring over specifications and making out estimates. the police had become so accustomed to seeing the light in the office that as a rule they took no notice of it, but one thursday night--exactly one week after the scene between owen and rushton about the boy--the constable on the beat observed the light there much later than usual. at first he paid no particular attention to the fact, but when night merged into morning and the light still remained, his curiosity was aroused. he knocked at the door, but no one came in answer, and no sound disturbed the deathlike stillness that reigned within. the door was locked, but he was not able to tell whether it had been closed from the inside or outside, because it had a spring latch. the office window was low down, but it was not possible to see in because the back of the glass had been painted. the constable thought that the most probable explanation of the mystery was that whoever had been there earlier in the evening had forgotten to turn out the light when they went away; it was not likely that thieves or anyone who had no business to be there would advertise their presence by lighting the gas. he made a note of the incident in his pocket-book and was about to resume his beat when he was joined by his inspector. the latter agreed that the conclusion arrived at by the constable was probably the right one and they were about to pass on when the inspector noticed a small speck of light shining through the lower part of the painted window, where a small piece of the paint had either been scratched or had shelled off the glass. he knelt down and found that it was possible to get a view of the interior of the office, and as he peered through he gave a low exclamation. when he made way for his subordinate to look in his turn, the constable was with some difficulty able to distinguish the figure of a man lying prone upon the floor. it was an easy task for the burly policeman to force open the office door: a single push of his shoulder wrenched it from its fastenings and as it flew back the socket of the lock fell with a splash into a great pool of blood that had accumulated against the threshold, flowing from the place where hunter was lying on his back, his arms extended and his head nearly severed from his body. on the floor, close to his right hand, was an open razor. an overturned chair lay on the floor by the side of the table where he usually worked, the table itself being littered with papers and drenched with blood. within the next few days crass resumed the role he had played when hunter was ill during the summer, taking charge of the work and generally doing his best to fill the dead man's place, although--as he confided to certain of his cronies in the bar of the cricketers--he had no intention of allowing rushton to do the same as hunter had done. one of his first jobs--on the morning after the discovery of the body--was to go with mr rushton to look over a house where some work was to be done for which an estimate had to be given. it was this estimate that hunter had been trying to make out the previous evening in the office, for they found that the papers on his table were covered with figures and writing relating to this work. these papers justified the subsequent verdict of the coroner's jury that hunter committed suicide in a fit of temporary insanity, for they were covered with a lot of meaningless scribbling, the words wrongly spelt and having no intelligible connection with each other. there was one sum that he had evidently tried repeatedly to do correctly, but which came wrong in a different way every time. the fact that he had the razor in his possession seemed to point to his having premeditated the act, but this was accounted for at the inquest by the evidence of the last person who saw him alive, a hairdresser, who stated that hunter had left the razor with him to be sharpened a few days previously and that he had called for it on the evening of the tragedy. he had ground this razor for mr hunter several times before. crass took charge of all the arrangements for the funeral. he bought a new second-hand pair of black trousers at a cast-off clothing shop in honour of the occasion, and discarded his own low-crowned silk hat--which was getting rather shabby--in favour of hunter's tall one, which he found in the office and annexed without hesitation or scruple. it was rather large for him, but he put some folded strips of paper inside the leather lining. crass was a proud man as he walked in hunter's place at the head of the procession, trying to look solemn, but with a half-smile on his fat, pasty face, destitute of colour except one spot on his chin near his underlip, where there was a small patch of inflammation about the size of a threepenny piece. this spot had been there for a very long time. at first--as well as he could remember--it was only a small pimple, but it had grown larger, with something the appearance of scurvy. crass attributed its continuation to the cold having 'got into it last winter'. it was rather strange, too, because he generally took care of himself when it was cold: he always wore the warm wrap that had formerly belonged to the old lady who died of cancer. however, crass did not worry much about this little sore place; he just put a little zinc ointment on it occasionally and had no doubt that it would get well in time. chapter barrington finds a situation the revulsion of feeling that barrington experienced during the progress of the election was intensified by the final result. the blind, stupid, enthusiastic admiration displayed by the philanthropists for those who exploited and robbed them; their extraordinary apathy with regard to their own interests; the patient, broken-spirited way in which they endured their sufferings, tamely submitting to live in poverty in the midst of the wealth they had helped to create; their callous indifference to the fate of their children, and the savage hatred they exhibited towards anyone who dared to suggest the possibility of better things, forced upon him the thought that the hopes he cherished were impossible of realization. the words of the renegade socialist recurred constantly to his mind: 'you can be a jesus christ if you like, but for my part i'm finished. for the future i intend to look after myself. as for these people, they vote for what they want, they get what they vote for, and, by god! they deserve nothing better! they are being beaten with whips of their own choosing, and if i had my way they should be chastised with scorpions. for them, the present system means joyless drudgery, semi-starvation, rags and premature death; and they vote for it and uphold it. let them have what they vote for! let them drudge and let them starve!' these words kept ringing in his ears as he walked through the crowded streets early one fine evening a few days before christmas. the shops were all brilliantly lighted for the display of their christmas stores, and the pavements and even the carriageways were thronged with sightseers. barrington was specially interested in the groups of shabbily dressed men and women and children who gathered in the roadway in front of the poulterers' and butchers' shops, gazing at the meat and the serried rows of turkeys and geese decorated with coloured ribbons and rosettes. he knew that to come here and look at these things was the only share many of these poor people would have of them, and he marvelled greatly at their wonderful patience and abject resignation. but what struck him most of all was the appearance of many of the women, evidently working men's wives. their faded, ill-fitting garments and the tired, sad expressions on their pale and careworn faces. some of them were alone; others were accompanied by little children who trotted along trustfully clinging to their mothers' hands. the sight of these poor little ones, their utter helplessness and dependence, their patched unsightly clothing and broken boots, and the wistful looks on their pitiful faces as they gazed into the windows of the toy-shops, sent a pang of actual physical pain to his heart and filled his eyes with tears. he knew that these children--naked of joy and all that makes life dear--were being tortured by the sight of the things that were placed so cruelly before their eyes, but which they were not permitted to touch or to share; and, like joseph of old, his heart yearned over his younger brethren. he felt like a criminal because he was warmly clad and well fed in the midst of all this want and unhappiness, and he flushed with shame because he had momentarily faltered in his devotion to the noblest cause that any man could be privileged to fight for--the uplifting of the disconsolate and the oppressed. he presently came to a large toy shop outside which several children were standing admiring the contents of the window. he recognized some of these children and paused to watch them and to listen to their talk. they did not notice him standing behind them as they ranged to and fro before the window, and as he looked at them, he was reminded of the way in which captive animals walk up and down behind the bars of their cages. these children wandered repeatedly, backwards and forwards from one end of the window to the other, with their little hands pressed against the impenetrable plate glass, choosing and pointing out to each other the particular toys that took their fancies. 'that's mine!' cried charley linden, enthusiastically indicating a large strongly built waggon. 'if i had that i'd give freddie rides in it and bring home lots of firewood, and we could play at fire engines as well.' 'i'd rather have this railway,' said frankie owen. 'there's a real tunnel and real coal in the tenders; then there's the station and the signals and a place to turn the engine round, and a red lantern to light when there's danger on the line.' 'mine's this doll--not the biggest one, the one in pink with clothes that you can take off,' said elsie; 'and this tea set; and this needlecase for mother.' little freddie had let go his hold of elsie, to whom he usually clung tightly and was clapping his hands and chuckling with delight and desire. 'gee-gee?' he cried eagerly. 'gee-gee. pwetty gee-gee! fweddy want gee-gee!' 'but it's no use lookin' at them any longer,' continued elsie, with a sigh, as she took hold of freddie's hand to lead him away. 'it's no use lookin' at 'em any longer; the likes of us can't expect to have such good things as them.' this remark served to recall frankie and charley to the stern realities of life, and turning reluctantly away from the window they prepared to follow elsie, but freddie had not yet learnt the lesson--he had not lived long enough to understand that the good things of the world were not for the likes of him; so when elsie attempted to draw him away he pursed up his underlip and began to cry, repeating that he wanted a gee-gee. the other children clustered round trying to coax and comfort him by telling him that no one was allowed to have anything out of the windows yet--until christmas--and that santa claus would be sure to bring him a gee-gee then; but these arguments failed to make any impression on freddie, who tearfully insisted upon being supplied at once. whilst they were thus occupied they caught sight of barrington, whom they hailed with evident pleasure born of the recollection of certain gifts of pennies and cakes they had at different times received from him. 'hello, mr barrington,' said the two boys in a breath. 'hello,' replied barrington, as he patted the baby's cheek. 'what's the matter here? what's freddie crying for?' 'he wants that there 'orse, mister, the one with the real 'air on,' said charley, smiling indulgently like a grown-up person who realized the absurdity of the demand. 'fweddie want gee-gee,' repeated the child, taking hold of barrington's hand and returning to the window. 'nice gee-gee.' 'tell him that santa claus'll bring it to him on christmas,' whispered elsie. 'p'raps he'll believe you and that'll satisfy him, and he's sure to forget all about it in a little while.' 'are you still out of work, mr barrington?' inquired frankie. 'no,' replied barrington slowly. 'i've got something to do at last.' 'well, that's a good job, ain't it?' remarked charley. 'yes,' said barrington. 'and whom do you think i'm working for?' 'who?' 'santa claus.' 'santa claus!' echoed the children, opening their eyes to the fullest extent. 'yes,' continued barrington, solemnly. 'you know, he is a very old man now, so old that he can't do all his work himself. last year he was so tired that he wasn't able to get round to all the children he wanted to give things to, and consequently a great many of them never got anything at all. so this year he's given me a job to help him. he's given me some money and a list of children's names, and against their names are written the toys they are to have. my work is to buy the things and give them to the boys and girls whose names are on the list.' the children listened to this narrative with bated breath. incredible as the story seemed, barrington's manner was so earnest as to almost compel belief. 'really and truly, or are you only having a game?' said frankie at length, speaking almost in a whisper. elsie and charley maintained an awestruck silence, while freddie beat upon the glass with the palms of his hands. 'really and truly,' replied barrington unblushingly as he took out his pocket-book and turned over the leaves. 'i've got the list here; perhaps your names are down for something.' the three children turned pale and their hearts beat violently as they listened wide-eyed for what was to follow. 'let me see,' continued barrington, scanning the pages of the book, 'why, yes, here they are! elsie linden, one doll with clothes that can be taken off, one tea-set, one needlecase. freddie easton, one horse with real hair. charley linden, one four-wheeled waggon full of groceries. frankie owen, one railway with tunnel, station, train with real coal for engine, signals, red lamp and place to turn the engines round.' barrington closed the book: 'so you may as well have your things now,' he continued, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone. 'we'll buy them here; it will save me a lot of work. i shall not have the trouble of taking them round to where you live. it's lucky i happened to meet you, isn't it?' the children were breathless with emotion, but they just managed to gasp out that it was--very lucky. as they followed him into the shop, freddie was the only one of the four whose condition was anything like normal. all the others were in a half-dazed state. frankie was afraid that he was not really awake at all. it couldn't be true; it must be a dream. in addition to the hair, the horse was furnished with four wheels. they did not have it made into a parcel, but tied some string to it and handed it over to its new owner. the elder children were scarcely conscious of what took place inside the shop; they knew that barrington was talking to the shopman, but they did not hear what was said--the sound seemed far away and unreal. the shopman made the doll, the tea-set and the needlecase into one parcel and gave it to elsie. the railway, in a stout cardboard box, was also wrapped up in brown paper, and frankie's heart nearly burst when the man put the package into his arms. when they came out of the toy shop they said 'good night' to frankie, who went off carrying his parcel very carefully and feeling as if he were walking on air. the others went into a provision merchant's near by, where the groceries were purchased and packed into the waggon. then barrington, upon referring to the list to make quite certain that he had not forgotten anything, found that santa claus had put down a pair of boots each for elsie and charley, and when they went to buy these, it was seen that their stockings were all ragged and full of holes, so they went to a draper's and bought some stocking also. barrington said that although they were not on the list, he was sure santa claus would not object--he had probably meant them to have them, but had forgotten to put them down. chapter the end the following evening barrington called at owen's place. he said he was going home for the holidays and had come to say goodbye for a time. owen had not been doing very well during these last few months, although he was one of the few lucky ones who had had some small share of work. most of the money he earned went for rent, to pay which they often had to go short of food. lately his chest had become so bad that the slightest exertion brought on fits of coughing and breathlessness, which made it almost impossible to work even when he had the opportunity; often it was only by an almost superhuman effort of will that he was able to continue working at all. he contrived to keep up appearances to a certain extent before rushton, who, although he knew that owen was not so strong as the other men, was inclined to overlook it so long as he was able to do his share of work, for owen was a very useful hand when things were busy. but lately some of the men with whom he worked began to manifest dissatisfaction at having him for a mate. when two men are working together, the master expects to see two men's work done, and if one of the two is not able to do his share it makes it all the harder for the other. he never had the money to go to a doctor to get advice, but earlier in the winter he had obtained from rushton a ticket for the local hospital. every saturday throughout the year when the men were paid they were expected to put a penny or twopence in the hospital box. contributions were obtained in this way from every firm and workshop in the town. the masters periodically handed these boxes over to the hospital authorities and received in return some tickets which they gave to anyone who needed and asked for them. the employer had to fill in the ticket or application form with the name and address of the applicant, and to certify that in his opinion the individual was a deserving case, 'suitable to receive this charity'. in common with the majority of workmen, owen had a sort of horror of going for advice to this hospital, but he was so ill that he stifled his pride and went. it happened that it turned out to be more expensive than going to a private doctor, for he had to be at the hospital at a certain hour on a particular morning. to do this he had to stay away from work. the medicine they prescribed and which he had to buy did him no good, for the truth was that it was not medicine that he--like thousands of others--needed, but proper conditions of life and proper food; things that had been for years past as much out of his reach as if he had been dying alone in the middle of a desert. occasionally nora contrived--by going without some other necessary--to buy him a bottle of one of the many much-advertised medicines; but although some of these things were good she was not able to buy enough for him to derive any benefit from them. although he was often seized with a kind of terror of the future--of being unable to work--he fought against these feelings and tried to believe that when the weather became warmer he would be all right once more. when barrington came in owen was sitting in a deck-chair by the fire in the sitting-room. he had been to work that day with harlow, washing off the ceilings and stripping the old paper from the walls of two rooms in rushton's home, and he looked very haggard and exhausted. 'i have never told you before,' said barrington, after they had been talking for a while, 'but i suppose you have guessed that i did not work for rushton because i needed to do so in order to live. i just wanted to see things for myself; to see life as it is lived by the majority. my father is a wealthy man. he doesn't approve of my opinions, but at same time he does not interfere with me for holding them, and i have a fairly liberal allowance which i spent in my own way. i'm going to pass christmas with my own people, but in the spring i intend to fit out a socialist van, and then i shall come back here. we'll have some of the best speakers in the movement; we'll hold meetings every night; we'll drench the town with literature, and we'll start a branch of the party.' owen's eye kindled and his pale face flushed. 'i shall be able to do something to advertise the meetings,' he said. for instance, i could paint some posters and placards.' 'and i can help to give away handbills,' chimed in frankie, looking up from the floor, where he was seated working the railway. 'i know a lot of boys who'll come along with me to put 'em under the doors as well.' they were in the sitting-room and the door was shut. mrs owen was in the next room with ruth. while the two men were talking the front-door bell was heard to ring and frankie ran out to see who it was, closing the door after him. barrington and owen continued their conversation, and from time to time they could hear a low murmur of voices from the adjoining room. after a little while they heard some one go out by the front door, and almost immediately afterward frankie--wild with excitement, burst into the room, crying out: 'dad and mr barrington! three cheers!' and he began capering gleefully about the room, evidently transported with joy. 'what are the cheers to be for?' inquired barrington, rather mystified by this extraordinary conduct. 'mr easton came with freddie to see mrs easton, and she's gone home again with them,' replied freddie, 'and--she's given the baby to us for a christmas box!' barrington was already familiar with the fact of easton's separation from his wife, and owen now told him the story of their reconciliation. barrington took his leave shortly afterwards. his train left at eight; it was already nearly half past seven, and he said he had a letter to write. nora brought the baby in to show him before he went, and then she helped frankie to put on his overcoat, for barrington had requested that the boy might be permitted to go a little way with him. there was a stationer's shop at the end of the street. he went in here and bought a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, and, having borrowed the pen and ink, wrote a letter which he enclosed in the envelope with the two other pieces that he took out of his pocketbook. having addressed the letter he came out of the shop; frankie was waiting for him outside. he gave the letter to the boy. 'i want you to take this straight home and give it to your dad. i don't want you to stop to play or even to speak to anyone till you get home.' 'all right,' replied frankie. 'i won't stop running all the way.' barrington hesitated and looked at his watch. 'i think i have time to go back with you as far as your front door,' he said, 'then i shall be quite sure you haven't lost it.' they accordingly retraced their steps and in a few minutes reached the entrance to the house. barrington opened the door and stood for a moment in the hall watching frankie ascend the stairs. 'will your train cross over the bridge?' inquired the boy, pausing and looking over the banisters. 'yes. why?' 'because we can see the bridge from our front-room window, and if you were to wave your handkerchief as your train goes over the bridge, we could wave back.' 'all right. i'll do so. goodbye.' 'goodbye.' barrington waited till he heard frankie open and close the door of owen's flat, and then he hurried away. when he gained the main road he heard the sound of singing and saw a crowd at the corner of one of the side-streets. as he drew near he perceived that it was a religious meeting. there was a lighted lamp on a standard in the centre of the crowd and on the glass of this lamp was painted: 'be not deceived: god is not mocked.' mr rushton was preaching in the centre of the ring. he said that they had come hout there that evening to tell the glad tidings of great joy to hall those dear people that he saw standing around. the members of the shining light chapel--to which he himself belonged--was the organizers of that meeting but it was not a sectarian meeting, for he was 'appy to say that several members of other denominations was there co-operating with them in the good work. as he continued his address, rushton repeatedly referred to the individuals who composed the crowd as his 'brothers and sisters' and, strange to say, nobody laughed. barrington looked round upon the 'brothers': mr sweater, resplendent in a new silk hat of the latest fashion, and a fur-trimmed overcoat. the rev. mr bosher, vicar of the church of the whited sepulchre, mr grinder--one of the churchwardens at the same place of alleged worship--both dressed in broadcloth and fine linen and glossy silk hats, while their general appearance testified to the fact that they had fared sumptuously for many days. mr didlum, mrs starvem, mr dauber, mr botchit, mr smeeriton, and mr leavit. and in the midst was the rev. john starr, doing the work for which he was paid. as he stood there in the forefront of this company, there was nothing in his refined and comely exterior to indicate that his real function was to pander to and flatter them; to invest with an air of respectability and rectitude the abominably selfish lives of the gang of swindlers, slave-drivers and petty tyrants who formed the majority of the congregation of the shining light chapel. he was doing the work for which he was paid. by the mere fact of his presence there, condoning and justifying the crimes of these typical representatives of that despicable class whose greed and inhumanity have made the earth into a hell. there was also a number of 'respectable', well-dressed people who looked as if they could do with a good meal, and a couple of shabbily dressed, poverty-stricken-looking individuals who seemed rather out of place in the glittering throng. the remainder of the brothers consisted of half-starved, pale-faced working men and women, most of them dressed in other people's cast-off clothing, and with broken, patched-up, leaky boots on their feet. rushton having concluded his address, didlum stepped forward to give out the words of the hymn the former had quoted at the conclusion of his remarks: 'oh, come and jine this 'oly band, and hon to glory go.' strange and incredible as it may appear to the reader, although none of them ever did any of the things jesus said, the people who were conducting this meeting had the effrontery to claim to be followers of christ--christians! jesus said: 'lay not up for yourselves treasure upon earth', 'love not the world nor the things of the world', 'woe unto you that are rich--it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.' yet all these self-styled 'followers' of christ made the accumulation of money the principal business of their lives. jesus said: 'be ye not called masters; for they bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulders, but they themselves will not touch them with one of their fingers. for one is your master, even christ, and ye are all brethren.' but nearly all these alleged followers of the humble workman of nazareth claimed to be other people's masters or mistresses. and as for being all brethren, whilst most of these were arrayed in broadcloth and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day, they knew that all around them thousands of those they hypocritically called their 'brethren', men, women and little children, were slowly perishing of hunger and cold; and we have already seen how much brotherhood existed between sweater and rushton and the miserable, half-starved wretches in their employment. whenever they were asked why they did not practise the things jesus preached, they replied that it is impossible to do so! they did not seem to realize that when they said this they were saying, in effect, that jesus taught an impracticable religion; and they appeared to forget that jesus said, 'wherefore call ye me lord, lord, when ye do not the things i say?...' 'whosoever heareth these sayings of mine and doeth them not, shall be likened to a foolish man who built his house upon the sand.' but although none of these self-styled 'followers' of christ, ever did the things that jesus said, they talked a great deal about them, and sang hymns, and for a pretence made long prayers, and came out here to exhort those who were still in darkness to forsake their evil ways. and they procured this lantern and wrote a text upon it: 'be not deceived, god is not mocked.' they stigmatized as 'infidels' all those who differed from them, forgetting that the only real infidels are those who are systematically false and unfaithful to the master they pretend to love and serve. grinder, having a slight cold, had not spoken this evening, but several other infidels, including sweater, didlum, bosher, and starr, had addressed the meeting, making a special appeal to the working people, of whom the majority of the crowd was composed, to give up all the vain pleasures of the world in which they at present indulged, and, as rushton had eloquently put it at the close of his remarks: 'come and jine this 'oly band and hon to glory go!' as didlum finished reading out the words, the lady at the harmonium struck up the tune of the hymns, and the disciples all joined in the singing: 'oh, come and join this 'oly band and hon to glory go.' during the singing certain of the disciples went about amongst the crowd distributing tracts. presently one of them offered one to barrington and as the latter looked at the man he saw that it was slyme, who also recognized him at the same instant and greeted him by name. barrington made no reply except to decline the tract: 'i don't want that--from you,' he said contemptuously. slyme turned red. 'oh, i know what you're thinking of,' he said after a pause and speaking in an injured tone; 'but you shouldn't judge anyone too hard. it wasn't only my fault, and you don't know 'ow much i've suffered for it. if it 'adn't been for the lord, i believe i should 'ave drownded myself.' barrington made no answer and slyme slunk off, and when the hymn was finished brother sweater stood forth and gave all those present a hearty invitation to attend the services to be held during the ensuing week at the chapel of the shining light. he invited them there specially, of course, because it was the place with which he was himself connected, but he entreated and begged of them even if they would not come there to go somewhere; there were plenty of other places of worship in the town; in fact, there was one at the corner of nearly every street. those who did not fancy the services at the shining light could go to the church of the whited sepulchre, but he really did hope that all those dear people whom he saw standing round would go somewhere. a short prayer from bosher closed the meeting, and now the reason for the presence of the two poverty-stricken-looking shabbily dressed disciples was made manifest, for while the better dressed and therefore more respectable brothers were shaking hands with and grinning at each other or hovering round the two clergymen and mr sweater, these two poor wretches carried away the harmonium and the lantern, together with the hymn books and what remained of the tracts. as barrington hurried off to catch the train one of the 'followers' gave him a card which he read by the light of a street lamp-- come and join the brotherhood at the shining light chapel psa every sunday at o'clock. let brotherly love continue. 'oh come and join this holy band and on to glory go.' barrington thought he would, rather go to hell--if there were such a place--with some decent people, than share 'glory' with a crew like this. nora sat sewing by the fireside in the front room, with the baby asleep in her lap. owen was reclining in the deck-chair opposite. they had both been rather silent and thoughtful since barrington's departure. it was mainly by their efforts that the reconciliation between easton and ruth had been effected and they had been so desirous of accomplishing that result that they had not given much thought to their own position. 'i feel that i could not bear to part with her for anything now,' said nora at last breaking the long silence, 'and frankie is so fond of her too. but all the same i can't feel happy about it when i think how ill you are.' 'oh, i shall be all right when the weather gets a little warmer,' said owen, affecting a cheerfulness he did not feel. 'we have always pulled through somehow or other; the poor little thing is not going to make much difference, and she'll be as well off with us as she would have been if ruth had not gone back.' as he spoke he leaned over and touched the hand of the sleeping child and the little fingers closed round one of his with a clutch that sent a thrill all through him. as he looked at this little helpless, dependent creature, he realized with a kind of thankfulness that he would never have the heart to carry out the dreadful project he had sometimes entertained in hours of despondency. 'we've always got through somehow or other,' he repeated, 'and we'll do so still.' presently they heard frankie's footsteps ascending the stairs and a moment afterwards the boy entered the room. 'we have to look out of the window and wave to mr barrington when his train goes over the bridge,' he cried breathlessly. 'and he's sent this letter. open the window, quick, dad, or it may be too late.' 'there's plenty of time yet,' replied owen, smiling at the boy's impetuosity. 'nearly twenty minutes. we don't want the window open all that time. it's only a quarter to eight by our clock now, and that's five minutes fast.' however, so as to make quite certain that the train should not run past unnoticed, frankie pulled up the blind and, rubbing the steam off the glass, took up his station at the window to watch for its coming, while owen opened the letter: 'dear owen, 'enclosed you will find two bank-notes, one for ten pounds and the other for five. the first i beg you will accept from me for yourself in the same spirit that i offer it, and as i would accept it from you if our positions were reversed. if i were in need, i know that you would willingly share with me whatever you had and i could not hurt you by refusing. the other note i want you to change tomorrow morning. give three pounds of it to mrs linden and the remainder to bert white's mother. 'wishing you all a happy xmas and hoping to find you well and eager for the fray when i come back in the spring, 'yours for the cause, 'george barrington.' owen read it over two or three times before he could properly understand it and then, without a word of comment--for he could not have spoken at that moment to save his life--he passed it to nora, who felt, as she read it in her turn, as if a great burden had been lifted from her heart. all the undefined terror of the future faded away as she thought of all this small piece of paper made possible. meanwhile, frankie, at the window, was straining his eyes in the direction of the station. 'don't you think we'd better have the window open now, dad?' he said at last as the clock struck eight. 'the steam keeps coming on the glass as fast as i wipe it off and i can't see out properly. i'm sure it's nearly time now; p'raps our clock isn't as fast as you think it is.' 'all right, we'll have it open now, so as to be on the safe side,' said owen as he stood up and raised the sash, and nora, having wrapped the child up in a shawl, joined them at the window. 'it can't be much longer now, you know,' said frankie. 'the line's clear. they turned the red light off the signal just before you opened the window.' in a very few minutes they heard the whistle of the locomotive as it drew out of the station, then, an instant before the engine itself came into sight round the bend, the brightly polished rails were illuminated, shining like burnished gold in the glare of its headlight; a few seconds afterwards the train emerged into view, gathering speed as it came along the short stretch of straight way, and a moment later it thundered across the bridge. it was too far away to recognize his face, but they saw someone looking out of a carriage window waving a handkerchief, and they knew it was barrington as they waved theirs in return. soon there remained nothing visible of the train except the lights at the rear of the guard's van, and presently even those vanished into the surrounding darkness. the lofty window at which they were standing overlooked several of the adjacent streets and a great part of the town. on the other side of the road were several empty houses, bristling with different house agents' advertisement boards and bills. about twenty yards away, the shop formerly tenanted by mr smallman, the grocer, who had become bankrupt two or three months previously, was also plastered with similar decorations. a little further on, at the opposite corner, were the premises of the monopole provision stores, where brilliant lights were just being extinguished, for they, like most of the other shops, were closing their premises for the night, and the streets took on a more cheerless air as one after another their lights disappeared. it had been a fine day, and during the earlier part of the evening the moon, nearly at the full, had been shining in a clear and starry sky; but a strong north-east wind had sprung up within the last hour; the weather had become bitterly cold and the stars were rapidly being concealed from view by the dense banks of clouds that were slowly accumulating overhead. as they remained at the window looking out over this scene for a few minutes after the train had passed out of sight, it seemed to owen that the gathering darkness was as a curtain that concealed from view the infamy existing beyond. in every country, myriads of armed men waiting for their masters to give them the signal to fall upon and rend each other like wild beasts. all around was a state of dreadful anarchy; abundant riches, luxury, vice, hypocrisy, poverty, starvation, and crime. men literally fighting with each other for the privilege of working for their bread, and little children crying with hunger and cold and slowly perishing of want. the gloomy shadows enshrouding the streets, concealing for the time their grey and mournful air of poverty and hidden suffering, and the black masses of cloud gathering so menacingly in the tempestuous sky, seemed typical of the nemesis which was overtaking the capitalist system. that atrocious system which, having attained to the fullest measure of detestable injustice and cruelty, was now fast crumbling into ruin, inevitably doomed to be overwhelmed because it was all so wicked and abominable, inevitably doomed to sink under the blight and curse of senseless and unprofitable selfishness out of existence for ever, its memory universally execrated and abhorred. but from these ruins was surely growing the glorious fabric of the co-operative commonwealth. mankind, awaking from the long night of bondage and mourning and arising from the dust wherein they had lain prone so long, were at last looking upward to the light that was riving asunder and dissolving the dark clouds which had so long concealed from them the face of heaven. the light that will shine upon the world wide fatherland and illumine the gilded domes and glittering pinnacles of the beautiful cities of the future, where men shall dwell together in true brotherhood and goodwill and joy. the golden light that will be diffused throughout all the happy world from the rays of the risen sun of socialism. appendix mugsborough mugsborough was a town of about eighty thousand inhabitants, about two hundred miles from london. it was built in a verdant valley. looking west, north or east from the vicinity of the fountain on the grand parade in the centre of the town, one saw a succession of pine-clad hills. to the south, as far as the eye could see, stretched a vast, cultivated plain that extended to the south coast, one hundred miles away. the climate was supposed to be cool in summer and mild in winter. the town proper nestled in the valley: to the west, the most beautiful and sheltered part was the suburb of irene: here were the homes of the wealthy residents and prosperous tradespeople, and numerous boarding-houses for the accommodation of well-to-do visitors. east, the town extended up the slope to the top of the hill and down the other side to the suburb of windley, where the majority of the working classes lived. years ago, when the facilities for foreign travel were fewer and more costly, mugsborough was a favourite resort of the upper classes, but of late years most of these patriots have adopted the practice of going on the continent to spend the money they obtain from the working people of england. however, mugsborough still retained some semblance of prosperity. summer or winter the place was usually fairly full of what were called good-class visitors, either holidaymakers or invalids. the grand parade was generally crowded with well-dressed people and carriages. the shops appeared to be well-patronized and at the time of our story an air of prosperity pervaded the town. but this fair outward appearance was deceitful. the town was really a vast whited sepulchre; for notwithstanding the natural advantages of the place the majority of the inhabitants existed in a state of perpetual poverty which in many cases bordered on destitution. one of the reasons for this was that a great part of the incomes of the tradespeople and boarding-house-keepers and about a third of the wages of the working classes were paid away as rent and rates. for years the corporation had been borrowing money for necessary public works and improvements, and as the indebtedness of the town increased the rates rose in proportion, because the only works and services undertaken by the council were such as did not yield revenue. every public service capable of returning direct profit was in the hands of private companies, and the shares of the private companies were in the hands of the members of the corporation, and the members of the corporation were in the hands of the four most able and intellectual of their number, councillors sweater, rushton, didlum and grinder, each of whom was a director of one or more of the numerous companies which battened on the town. the tramway company, the water works company, the public baths company, the winter gardens company, the grand hotel company and numerous others. there was, however, one company in which sweater, rushton, didlum and grinder had no shares, and that was the gas company, the oldest and most flourishing of them all. this institution had grown with the place; most of the original promoters were dead, and the greater number of the present shareholders were non-residents; although they lived on the town, they did not live in it. the profits made by this company were so great that, being prevented by law from paying a larger dividend than ten percent, they frequently found it a difficult matter to decide what to do with the money. they paid the directors and principal officials--themselves shareholders, of course--enormous salaries. they built and furnished costly and luxurious offices and gave the rest to the shareholders in the form of bonuses. there was one way in which the company might have used some of the profits: it might have granted shorter hours and higher wages to the workmen whose health was destroyed and whose lives were shortened by the terrible labour of the retort-houses and the limesheds; but of course none of the directors or shareholders ever thought of doing that. it was not the business of the company to concern itself about them. years ago, when it might have been done for a comparatively small amount, some hare-brained socialists suggested that the town should buy the gas works, but the project was wrecked by the inhabitants, upon whom the mere mention of the word socialist had the same effect that the sight of a red rag is popularly supposed to have on a bull. of course, even now it was still possible to buy out the company, but it was supposed that it would cost so much that it was generally considered to be impracticable. although they declined to buy the gas works, the people of mugsborough had to buy the gas. the amount paid by the municipality to the company for the public lighting of the town loomed large in the accounts of the council. they managed to get some of their own back by imposing a duty of two shillings a ton upon coals imported into the borough, but although it cost the gas works a lot of money for coal dues the company in its turn got its own back by increasing the price of gas they sold to the inhabitants of the town... generously made available by early canadiana online (http://www.canadiana.org) note: images of the original pages are available through early canadiana online. see http://canadiana.org/eco/itemrecord/ ?id= b f a ba c roland graeme: knight a novel of our time by agnes maule machar author of "stories of new france," "marjorie's canadian winter," etc. "_to ride abroad, redressing human wrongs_" montreal wm. drysdale & company entered according to act of parliament, in the year of our lord, one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-two, by w. drysdale & co., in the office of the minister of agriculture at ottawa. to lyman abbott, d.d., one of the first voices in america to enforce the relation of christianity to the labor problem, these pages are respectfully inscribed. "the highest truth the wise man sees he will fearlessly utter; knowing that, let what may come of it, he is thus playing his right part in the world; knowing that, if he can effect the change he aims at--well: if not--well also; though not so well." herbert spencer. contents. i. roland's three visits ii. a twilight reverie iii. an unexpected interruption iv. a consultation v. a family party vi. looking backward vii. a midnight meeting viii. nora's dream ix. in the hospital x. a fireside talk xi. thorns and roses xii. table-talk xiii. pippa passes xiv. a reporter at church xv. helping hands xvi. a luncheon-party xvii. a christmas entertainment xviii. afternoon visitors xix. "modern miracles" xx. breakers ahead xxi. work and wages xxii. nora's strategy xxiii. unexpected denouements xxiv. a revelation xxv. bewilderment xxvi. an empty place xxvii. a thunder-bolt xxviii. conscience stricken xxix. reconciliation xxx. an easter morning xxxi. an unexpected proposal xxxii. a narrow escape xxxiii. in arcady xxxiv. looking forward roland graeme, knight. chapter i. roland's three visits. the reverend cecil chillingworth sat in his quiet study, absorbed in the preparation of his next sunday evening's discourse. it was to be one of those powerful pulpit "efforts"--so comprehensive in its grasp, so catholic in its spirit, so suggestive in its teachings--for which mr. chillingworth, to quote the minton _minerva_, "was deservedly famous." in fact, this "fame" of his sat already like "black care" on his shoulders; or, as the minton _minerva_ might have said, had it only known the secret, like a jockey determined on all occasions to whip and spur him up to his own record. the strongest forces are often those of which the subject of them is least conscious, and, though mr. chillingworth would not have admitted it to himself, he stood in mortal dread of "falling off" in his reputation as a preacher. should that happen, he would feel--or so he would have put it to himself--that his "usefulness was gone," a reason that would have justified to him every possible effort to avert the calamity. he was now hard at work, with the critical presence of the reporter of the _minerva_ painfully before his mind, as he racked his brain for new and original thoughts, fresh illustrations, apt and terse expressions, with an eager anxiety that often threatened to put too great a strain on even his fine and well-balanced _physique_. there were indeed already, in his inward experience, some unwelcome tokens of overstrain in a growing nervous irritability, and a miserable day, now and then, in which all the brightness of life, and faith, and hope seemed to disappear before the deadly touch of nervous prostration. it was not wonderful, then, if on the days which he set apart more especially for preparation for the pulpit, mr. chillingworth was peculiarly impatient of interruption. it was not consistent with his principles absolutely to deny himself, on these days, to all who sought him; but he always yielded under protest, with the impatient sense of injury which is often caused by the inconvenient pressure of our ideals on our preferences. the subject of the particular sermon on which he was at this time engaged was, the absolute self-surrender and self-sacrifice demanded by the religion of christ. he was in the full flow of clear and elevated thought, and was just elaborating what he thought a specially apt illustration, with the enthusiasm of an artist. a knock at his study door suddenly awoke him from his preoccupation; his brow involuntarily contracted, as, without looking up, he uttered a reluctant "come in!" a trim maid-servant entered and handed him a card. on it was inscribed, in clear and decided, though small characters, the name, _roland graeme_. "roland graeme!" he mentally re-echoed. "i don't know the name--and yet it seems familiar." then a ready misgiving crossed his mind, and, turning to the waiting maid, he asked, "does he seem to be a book-canvasser?" "no, sir, i don't just think he is," she replied, somewhat doubtfully; then in a tone of more satisfied decision she added, "any way, he hain't got any books with him _now_, as far as i can see." "well, say i'll be down presently," said the clergyman, with a sigh of forced resignation, dipping his pen into the ink to finish the interrupted sentence, in which he spent some minutes, with a half-conscious determination to have at least the satisfaction of keeping the unwelcome visitor waiting. the plan did not work well, so far as he was concerned. he wrote a few words, read them over, thought them tame and feeble, drew his pen through them, and then, as the dull winter day was fast fading, he thought he might as well go down at once; first putting some fresh coal on his grate, so that, when he returned, he might find the bright glowing fire which his soul loved, for its suggestiveness as well as its comfort, in a twilight meditation. it is curious on what trivial things great issues do often depend. that little delay of five minutes, as it turned out, was the means of changing the whole course of mr. chillingworth's life, as well as that of some other persons with whom this story is concerned. down-stairs, in the handsomely furnished parlor, whose somewhat prim arrangement betokened the absence of any feminine occupancy, the clergyman found his visitor, a young man of more than middle height and noticeable figure, with a broad fair brow and wavy chestnut hair, candid blue-gray eyes, somewhat dreamy in expression, yet full of earnestness and hope, and lighted with a smile of peculiar sweetness as he rose at mr. chillingworth's entrance. that gentleman's manner, however, retained an expression of protest, and he remained standing, without any invitation to his visitor to resume his seat. if he did not say--"to what am i indebted for the honor of this visit?"--it was so clearly written on every line of his face, that the young man was constrained to begin in a tone of apology: "i trust, sir, you will pardon the seeming intrusion of a stranger on your valuable time. may i ask you to grant me the favor of a brief conference on an important subject?" inquired the visitor, with a gentle courtesy of manner that impressed mr. chillingworth in spite of himself. "as a christian minister, you----" "as a christian minister, sir, my time is much engaged. i must ask you to state the object of your visit as briefly as possible. just at present, i am specially occupied with important work." "i shall be as brief as possible," the young man replied. "i think you will recognize my object also as important. may i ask you to be kind enough to look at this prospectus?" mr. chillingworth's high, arched forehead assumed a more and more clouded aspect. he made an impatient gesture as he said: "i am afraid you really must excuse me! i cannot undertake to examine a long prospectus. time is precious, and my own work is too exacting in its claims." "that is what brings me here," the young man replied, still with a cheerful, undaunted look. "it is, i think, in line with your work, the importance of which i fully recognize. this is the prospectus of a paper which i propose to issue in the interest of our common humanity. it is designed to promote the brotherhood of man, to secure a better feeling between class and class, employer and employed,--a fairer scale of wages and hours for the operative, fuller coöperation between employer and _employés_ and mutual consideration for each other's interests; in short, to propagate that spirit of christian socialism which the minister of christ----" but here the clergyman's ill-controlled impatience broke its bounds. preoccupied as he was, he had caught little more than the last words. "i can have nothing to do with any socialistic schemes," he exclaimed. "there is far too much mischievous nonsense afloat!--simply producing discontent with existing conditions, and with the differences which, in providence, have always existed. i must really decline any further conversation on this subject," and, with unmistakable suggestiveness, mr. chillingworth placed his hand on the half-open door. a faintly perceptible shade of vexation seemed just to flit across the bright serenity of the young man's frank, open face. he saw very well that persistence would do no good, and yielded to the force of circumstances with the best grace he could muster. "good afternoon, then, sir," he said, in a tone that, if not quite so cheery, was as amiable as ever. "i am sorry i cannot enlist your sympathy in our undertaking, as i should like to have all christian ministers with us. i shall send you a specimen copy of the paper, and hope you will kindly read it." "good afternoon," the minister reiterated curtly, showing his visitor to the door with very scant courtesy. just as the door was about to close behind him, an unexpected interruption occurred, in the shape of an apparition of a character very unusual at mr. chillingworth's door. it was a little girl, who looked about eight or nine years old, but might have been older, quaintly wrapped in a shawl that had once been handsome, while a little fur-trimmed hood that was quite too small for her framed a mass of dark tangled curls, out of which large, lustrous gray eyes, strikingly beautiful in form and color, looked up from under their long dark eyelashes, with a soft, grave, appealing gaze. her shabby, old-fashioned garb gave her, at first sight, the appearance of an ordinary vagrant child; but there was nothing sordid about the little creature. her childish beauty, indeed, caught roland graeme, whose heart was always open to such spells, with an irresistible fascination. the little girl looked eagerly up at the two men; then, seeming to divine which was the object of her quest, she said timidly, yet with a refinement of tone and accent somewhat out of keeping with her poverty-stricken aspect: "please, minister, my mother is very ill, and she wants----" "i never give anything to begging children," interrupted mr. chillingworth, more sternly than he was himself aware of; for his irritation with his previous visitor preoccupied him so much that he heard and saw the child vaguely, without taking in the sense of her words, or according her any more consideration, than, to his mind, was ordinarily deserved by the nuisances he indiscriminately classed as "juvenile mendicants." "if your mother wants anything, she can come herself," he added, from behind the resolutely closing door. he was not an unfeeling man, but he never knew what to do with children, and had grown hardened by the sight of misery that he could not prevent;--the words he used being a well-worn formula, the crystallized result of many vexatious impositions. he had only, to "save his precious time," delivered himself over to a set of rules, and in so far, cramped and limited the flow of human sympathy. roland, left on the door-steps with the little morsel of womanhood, looked down at her, while she looked up at him with the keenly scrutinizing glance, which, in some children as in animals, seems to have been developed by force of circumstances. in the mutual glance, brief and inquiring as it was, a certain sympathy seemed to establish itself between the young man and the child. he noted, with an eye always minutely observant of human faces, the grieved, discouraged look which the child's flexible mouth had assumed at the unexpected rebuff. but she only said, in an explanatory tone, as if answering an unspoken inquiry, "mother's too sick to come; she's _awful_ sick!" "what's your name, my child, and where do you live?" asked roland graeme, who could no more divest himself of the quick sympathy that was always catching hold of other people's lives, than he could of the winning candor of his blue-gray eyes. "miss travers!"--was the unexpected reply to his first question, given with a certain quaint dignity that touched roland's sense of humor. "we live way up there," pointing in the direction of a long street that ran from the neighboring corner toward the outskirts of the city. "and what ails your mother, and why did she send you here?" he continued. "she said i was to come to this house," pointing to the number above the door, "and to say that she wanted to see _him_ very particularly," said the child, evidently repeating her message, word for word, "and she's very sick and can't eat bread, and there's nothing else in the house!" she added, in a tone in which perplexity and resignation were strangely mingled. the young man sighed heavily. here was another atom, added to that pile of human misery which had begun to weigh upon his spirit like a nightmare. but he replied in the same cheery tone he had used to the minister: "well, i'm going that way, and if you'll wait a minute or two for me at a house i have to stop at, i'll go with you to see your mother, and perhaps i can help her a little." and, taking the little one's hand, the two passed on in the fast gathering dusk. the child, who had acquiesced with a look of real satisfaction, trotted on beside him, occasionally looking up, to study the face of her new friend and to return his smile, while doing her best to keep up with the unconsciously rapid pace which had grown habitual with him. he drew up suddenly before a modest abode, the door-plate of which bore the inscription, "rev. john alden." the door was opened by a bright fair-haired boy, to whom roland's heart went out at once--for he loved boys, as much as some people detest them, and that is saying a good deal. this boy was evidently accustomed to all sorts of visitors, and did not even look surprised at roland's odd little companion. yes, his father was at home. would they walk in? he seemed to know just what to do with the little girl, whom he carefully lifted to a chair in the hall, while he courteously ushered the young man into a parlor whose comfortable confusion and open piano, littered with music and books, indicated as much life and occupancy as the precise and frigid order of mr. chillingworth's reception-room betokened the reverse. a merry tumult of children's voices and laughter came through open doors, seriously diverting roland's attention from the business part of his mission. a quick decided step soon sounded in the hall, and, with a kindly word to the child as he passed, mr. alden entered. he was a man of rather less than medium height, and rather more than middle-age, strongly built, alert, with a large head, broad forehead and bright gray eyes, in which kindliness and humor often seemed to contend for the mastery. his cordial greeting led roland to feel him a friend at once, while his keen observant glance took in every point of his visitor's appearance, and read his character with a correctness that would have amazed him, could he have known it. "sit down, sir, sit down! no intrusion in the world. i am always glad to see young men, and to do anything i can to serve them." it may be remarked in passing that mr. alden's congregation usually contained more young men than any other in minton. perhaps this remark partly explained it. roland had soon unfolded his errand, less systematically and more discursively than he had done to mr. chillingworth. mr. alden listened attentively, read the prospectus with his head bent toward his visitor, and one arm resting on the back of his chair; then folded it up, and handed it back to him, with a twinkle of both sympathy and fun in his kindly eyes. "well, my dear fellow, i heartily sympathize with your object. i don't know that i can give you much help other than sympathy; but whatever i can do to promote your aims, i shall do with pleasure. anything that can promote the true brotherhood of man must always enlist the sympathy of a minister of christ." "i wish all ministers felt as you do, sir," replied roland, thinking of his last visit. "well, you see, i fear some of us have to be converted yet--to that doctrine, anyhow. as for me, i've had special advantages. my mother was a scotch lassie, and used to rock my cradle to burns' grand song,"--and the minister hummed the chorus:-- "for a' that and a' that, it's comin' yet, for a' that that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brithers be, for a' that!" "my parents were both scotch," said roland, with quick pleasure. "but i suppose you guessed that from my name." "yes, a good old border name it is! i dip into sir walter and the border ballads now and then, and i think we've made some progress toward burns' idea since those days! well, i believe that time is coming, but it won't be in your day or mine; and only one thing will bring it about--the growth of the _brother-love_. i preach, that in my way, and i bid you god-speed if you preach it in yours. send along your paper! we've got enough and to spare already, but i couldn't shut my door against one started on that platform. and if i conscientiously can, i will recommend it to others, and give you any other help you may need. only, my dear fellow, don't be disappointed if you don't accomplish all you hope for. many of us are apt to think at twenty-five, that if 'the world is out of joint,' we, in particular, were 'born to set it right.' i know i did, and though i have not done a hundredth part of what i hoped to do, i probably shouldn't have done that percentage, if i had not started with great expectations. only don't be discouraged, if they are not all realized! now--is this little girl with you?" he added, glancing out into the hall where another girl, somewhat older than the boy who had opened the door, was filling the child's hands with cake and fruit. roland, suddenly recollecting the child, told all he knew about her, while mr. alden listened with evident sympathy and interest. "ah! another of the sad cases of hidden misery that one is constantly stumbling on," he said, his voice and eye grown soft with compassion. "that child doesn't look like one accustomed to beg. if the poor woman wants a minister, why shouldn't i go with you? i am at your service." "if it's quite convenient," said roland, "it would be very kind if you would." "oh, as for that, ministers and doctors mustn't stand too much on convenience. i've learned a good many lessons from my medical friend blanchard. we both own the same master, and i've no more right to be careful of my convenience than he has. well, my dear, come away!" for, as he talked in his rapid energetic manner, he had been as rapidly donning overcoat and gloves, and, hat in one hand, now extended the other to the little girl. "that's right, gracie, wrap her well up! tell mother that i'll be back as soon as i can, but you needn't keep tea waiting for me, if you are all too hungry. now then, you can shut the door." roland courteously raised his hat to the young girl, as she stood looking after them with a smile very like her father's, while her long, wavy, golden hair was rippled by the cold december wind. he felt a wistful regret at leaving the warm, homelike atmosphere behind, when the door at last closed upon them. mr. alden drew a few more particulars from the child as they hastened on. her mother had been ill a good many days, she couldn't tell how many. no, there had not been any doctor to see her. mother said she hadn't money enough. they had bread, but no tea, and mother could take nothing but tea! mr. alden darted into a little grocery and came out carrying two small brown parcels. frequent practice had made him equal to all such emergencies. they had gone a good way past the better class of houses, into a region of unpromising and dingy tenements--a region long ago deserted by all who could afford to leave it. at last the child stopped at an entry door. "it's here--up-stairs," she said, looking up at her companions. they went up a rickety stair, black with years of unwashed footmarks, and followed the child into the room. she entered; but they stood still on the threshold, while roland's brow contracted as if with a sharp sensation of physical pain. it was a wretched little room, bare beyond anything roland had ever seen in minton. there was no table, only one dilapidated chair and a low wooden stool. on a shake-down on the floor lay the slender form of a young woman, nearly covered by an old shawl which did not quite conceal her poor and shabby attire. there was scarcely any fire in the rusty little stove. on an old trunk near the window were an evidently much-used box of water-colors, a few brushes, and a card or two, with flower designs painted sketchily, yet with some spirit;--objects so much out of keeping with the rest of the apartment that they at once attracted the eye. the young woman, who eagerly pushed the shawl aside and looked up the moment the door opened, was evidently very ill indeed. her face was slightly flushed, though the room was far from warm, and her labored breathing told mr. alden's experienced ear that it was a severe case of bronchitis. the little girl ran up to her mother at once, throwing her arms around her neck with a passionate clasp. then in answer to the eager inquiring eyes that met hers, she explained: "here's a minister, mammy! _that_ one wouldn't come--but _he_ did! so now you'll be better--won't you?" as the mother remained for a moment in the child's close embrace, roland, absorbed as he was in the distressing scene, could not help thinking that it was very evident whence the latter had derived her unusual type of beauty. the mother had the same dark rings of clustering curls--tangled now with the restless tossing of illness; the same large liquid eyes of dark gray, under long, dark lashes; the same exquisite curves of mouth and chin, even though suffering--physical and mental--had dimmed a beauty that must once have been bewitching. but the eyes had a restless, pining look; and now, all at once, the fevered flush ebbed away, leaving her deadly pale, while she seemed to struggle for breath, unable to speak. mr. alden rushed to her assistance, and raised her a little, with difficulty detaching the clinging arms of the child; then, glancing around the room, his quick eye fell on a small flask that stood in a corner cupboard, otherwise empty enough. he motioned to roland, who followed his glance, and brought him the flask. mr. alden seized a cup that stood near containing a little water, and, pouring into it some of the spirits that the flask contained, put it to her lips. she drank it down eagerly, and then lay back on the pillow, in a sort of exhausted stupor. "she must have medical attendance at once," said mr. alden. "she is dying from neglect and exhaustion. i suppose you don't know any doctor near?" "no," said roland, "i am a stranger here as yet." "then i must go for my friend, blanchard. or stay--it won't do to leave this poor woman alone with that child! she might have died just now. and you'll make better time than i should. i'm sure you won't think it too much trouble to take a note to doctor blanchard, and to pilot him here." roland willingly assented. mr. alden tore a leaf out of his note-book, on which he hastily wrote a few lines, addressed it to his friend, and handed it to roland, who hurried off at his customary "railroad pace," leaving mr. alden in charge of the scarcely conscious patient and the frightened child. chapter ii. a twilight reverie. after his unceremonious dismissal of his unwelcome visitors, mr. chillingworth betook himself once more to the quiet sanctum into which no profane foot ever intruded. the fire was blazing brightly now, lighting up, with its warm glow, the stately ordered rows of books that lined the walls, and the two or three fine engravings which mr. chillingworth's fastidious taste had selected to relieve their monotony. a charming etching of holman hunt's picture, "the hireling shepherd," opposite the fireplace, came out distinct in the warm light that just touched another of the "light of the world," by the same painter, above the mantel. mr. chillingworth threw himself luxuriously into his easy-chair by the fire, to enjoy this twilight hour of meditation, when, the dull winter day shut out, his thoughts could roam freely in that realm of religious speculation which was most congenial to his mind. he wanted to complete the particular train of thought which had been flowing so successfully when he had been interrupted by roland graeme. he took the unfinished page that he had been writing, and held it in the glow of the firelight, so that he might read again the last completed sentences, and so recall the thoughts with which he had intended to follow them. the subject of the sermon was, the opposition of the religion of christ to the easy-going, selfish materialism of the age. and the last sentences he had written ran thus:-- "men often labor under the delusion that christianity is an easy religion. its founder taught another lesson. the palm is to be won, only in the blood and dust of the battle; the battle with sin, with the world, aye, hardest of all, with _self_! the warp and woof of the 'white raiment' are the incarnadined hues of self-denial and self-sacrifice, which, collected and fused by the prismatic power of love, blend in the dazzling purity of light itself." mr. chillingworth did not feel quite satisfied with this illustration, though he had been delighted with it while in the glow of composition. now it seemed to him a trifle confused, and he tried to think it out--for of all things he disliked mere vague and glittering rhetoric in pulpit oratory. but, somehow, his mind refused to stick to the point, and insisted in slipping off perpetually into the reverie which the dreamy influences of twilight and firelight are so apt to foster. there was nothing uncomfortable or self-reproachful in his reflection. no thought of the earnest young man he had repulsed, or of the child to whom he had refused to listen, troubled him in the least. mr. chillingworth was a conscientious man, and he had not done anything contrary to his own sense of right. he was simply protecting himself from the profitless invasion of time dedicated to important work, by matters that lay outside of his sphere. this, at least, is how he would have put it, had any one ventured to argue the point with the dignified mr. chillingworth. but his mind this evening seemed caught by some hidden link of association, operating sub-consciously as such things often do, and was thereby carried off to scenes and events long left behind. mr. chillingworth did not often indulge in retrospection. when one gives one's self up to its influence, one cannot select at will. pleasant recollections are interwoven with painful ones, which have a way of pouncing unawares on the unwary dreamer. and men whose lives are filled to overflowing with present engrossing interests, do not usually give much play to the power of painful memories. still, whatever it might be that had stirred the vision, he was haunted to-night by a picture that stood, as real as the engravings opposite him, before that "inward eye" which is not always "... the _bliss_ of solitude." the picture was one of an old-fashioned english garden, sweet with pinks and lavender, bright with early roses and laburnum, framed in by walls clustered over with masses of glossy ivy, by stately old cedars, and, beyond these, by blue, wooded hills, soft-tinted in the dreamy hue of an english june. and the centre of the vision he saw might have served as an illustration for tennyson's "gardener's daughter": "but the full day dwelt on her brows and sunned her violet eyes, and all her hebe-bloom, and doubled his own warmth against her lips, and on the bounteous wave of such a breast as never pencil drew. half light, half shade, she stood, a sight to make an old man young." for a few minutes, mr. chillingworth closed his eyes and yielded himself without stint to the overpowering reminiscences of days that could never be entirely effaced, not even by the remembrance of succeeding bitterness. sweet voice, sweet eyes, sweet lips! how sweet you were! and why, ah why, should all that sweetness have been swallowed up in a horror of great darkness? cruel fate! no, he did not believe in fate. was it then one of those mysterious providences which seemed so often to mar human lives, or had he, himself, been to blame? he supposed he had. the temptation of a mere outward beauty had been too strong for him, who should have been proof against it. well, that old folly was all past, long ago! all trace of it seemed to have vanished from his life. old wounds were healed. why should he let them smart again? fruitless regrets for the past were contrary to his principles. so, to fight off the troublesome recollection, he rose and went to an open parlor-organ that stood near his study-table, his one special recreation and delight. and, taking up a score of the "messiah" that lay open upon it, he struck a few opening chords, and, in a fine tenor voice, began the recitative "comfort ye, comfort ye my people." but the music could not soothe him to-night as it usually did. the restless mood was too strong, and presently he rose abruptly, as a sudden thought occurred to him. he had promised to drop in, very soon, at dr. blanchard's, to talk with miss blanchard about the proposed rendering of this oratorio for the benefit of his projected new church, in which he wished to enlist her coöperation as a vocalist. this was the hour at which he was most likely to find her at home, the hour at which mrs. blanchard usually dispensed afternoon tea, a ceremony of which he thoroughly approved. the pleasant cosy drawing-room, with miss blanchard's graceful figure as a centre-piece, seemed, just then, infinitely more attractive than even the tranquil study with its glowing fire and the prospect of a summons, erelong, to a solitary tea-table. for mr. chillingworth was a comparatively young man still, and, notwithstanding a certain fastidious exclusiveness, his social instincts were by no means weak. he gave himself a little inward pinch as he thought of some sentences of thomas à kempis that he had read that morning; but, as he said to himself, he had a good reason for breaking through his ordinary rule of shutting himself up on the last days of the week, and he was no ascetic, nor meant to be! so, after telling the trim maid that she need not bring up his evening meal till his return, he took what had of late been his frequent way to dr. blanchard's hospitable home. in the bright, daintily furnished drawing-room he sought, there were at that moment assembled three or four persons who were, as it happened, discussing him, and perhaps, like "superior" people in general, he would have been a little surprised at the freedom of some of their remarks. these people were: mrs. blanchard, arrayed in one of the first "tea-gowns" that had ever been seen in minton, whose delicate green set off the warm tints of her hair and complexion; miss blanchard, whose quiet afternoon dress, soft and close fitting, contrasted with the more pretentious attire of her sister-in-law, and showed a fine figure to perfection; and two afternoon visitors, who were evidently very much at home. one of these was a young lady, with fair fluffy hair and very fashionable dress, of a peculiarly fresh and delicate prettiness, and a manner that every one called very "taking." the other was a slender, undersized young man, fairly good-looking, with regular features, dark hair and eyes, and an expression of nothing in particular save satisfaction with himself, his surroundings, and his carefully faultless attire. two children completed the party; a tiny girl in a mass of white embroidery, playing with a pet terrier on the hearth-rug, and a small boy with an aureole of reddish curls, who sat on miss blanchard's knee, thoughtfully gazing into the fire. "oh!" exclaimed the fair young lady, as she handed her empty cup to the young man who was waiting for it. "_did_ you hear, nora, about my cousin, janie spencer?" "what about her, kitty? is _she_ engaged, too?" "oh, dear no! nothing, so common! something _you'll_ say is a great deal better! in fact, i call it grand, heroic! don't you know she's actually made up her mind to be a nurse, and she's gone to the saint barnabas hospital for training!" "has she, really?" exclaimed miss blanchard, with great interest, her cheek flushing a little, and her dark-blue eyes lighting up. "well, that's good!" "i knew you would say that," said kitty, complacently, rejoicing in the effect of her bit of news. "and, do you know, she tells me it was all through mr. chillingworth's lovely sermons about self-sacrifice, and--giving up, don't you know. they made her feel so selfish, and as if she had no object in life but enjoying herself, and so, she said, she couldn't rest in her mind till she set to work to do something for other people. and then, she said, they had girls enough at home without her, and she was tired of doing nothing in particular, and she always did have a fancy for nursing. now, you must be sure and tell mr. chillingworth all about it, the first time you see him." "why not tell him yourself, kitty?" was the laughing reply. "you see him oftener than i do." "oh, i never can talk to him about such serious things! he looks as if he didn't expect it, or as if it was a sort of liberty; and then he seems to think i'm making fun of him, and i never feel sure that _he_ isn't making fun of _me_." "well, i shouldn't say that mr. chillingworth was overburdened with 'fun,'" said the young man, smiling at kitty. "he wouldn't make his fortune as a humorist; his views of life are too serious, and it seems he is making other people's views serious, too." "a good thing, too, if he were to do a little for you in that way," she replied. "yes, i'm sadly aware that i am far behind you in that respect, miss farrell," he retorted, with mock gravity. "don't be impertinent, mr. pomeroy!" replied the young lady. here a diversion was made by the curly-haired eddie, from his post on miss blanchard's lap. his long and serious contemplation of the fire ended with a sigh, and the subject of it came out in the remark: "i like the crusaders a great deal better than the giant-killers, auntie! don't you think they were the best?" "i don't know, eddie," replied miss blanchard, truthfully. "i never thought about it, i am afraid." "well, think! auntie, _think_!" persisted the child, hugging her neck very tightly, while the others laughed. "i think some of the crusaders _were_ giant-killers, eddie," said the young man, not sorry to air his historical knowledge. "saladin gets the credit of being a pretty fairish giant, doesn't he, miss blanchard? or so i think my school-books used to say. by the way, wouldn't chillingworth have made a first-class crusader, a crusader _chaplain_, you know?" "why, it was only the other sunday he was telling us what mistaken views the crusaders had, and how they often left real duties for visionary enterprises. see how well i have remembered _that_!" exclaimed kitty. "i doubt if _he_ would have seen it, _then_," replied mr. pomeroy, chuckling over a happy thought. "oh, nora, are you going to help in the oratorio, the 'messiah,' you know? mr. chillingworth is taking such an interest in it! all we girls in the choir are to sing in the choruses. hasn't he asked you?" "yes," said nora, quietly. "why, he's been here three times within the last fort-night," said mrs. blanchard; "he's just set on getting nora to sing; and she's got some sort of idea in her head about it, i don't know what. there's another ring, nora; look if there's any tea left, there's a dear!" chapter iii. an unexpected interruption. as nora rose, and set down eddie, a leisurely masculine tread sounded in the hall. when the door opened and revealed mr. chillingworth's tall figure, young pomeroy turned to miss farrell, theatrically whispering: "speak of angels and you hear the rustle of their wings!" "good evening, mr. chillingworth," said mrs. blanchard, effusively; "here are these young people all talking about you." "i hope they haven't found anything very bad to say," said mr. chillingworth, smiling graciously, as he greeted the party, yet unable to conceal altogether the sensitiveness to being "talked about," natural to most reserved and dignified people. "no! i should hope not!" replied his hostess. "do you think they would dare to say anything bad of you here? on the contrary, miss farrell has just been telling us how her cousin, janie spencer, has been led, by your preaching, to make up her mind to be a hospital nurse. i think it's splendid of her!" "yes, it's very fine," replied mr. chillingworth. "i am glad she has decided so. her mother spoke to me of it some time ago, and i begged her to say nothing to dissuade her, but to leave her to follow, unbiased, her own convictions of duty. she has set a noble example." "well, i should think you would feel yourself rewarded," mrs. blanchard said, as she poured out a cup of tea, and handed it to her dignified guest; while miss farrell exclaimed: "i hope you don't expect us all to follow it, mr. chillingworth, and go to be hospital nurses right away!" "not in the least," he replied, his dark eyes glancing up at the young lady from under his strongly marked eyebrows. "i don't think that is likely to be your vocation, miss kitty, at any rate. but there are other ways of doing good. life is, indeed, full of opportunities. the pity is, we let so many of them slip," he added, rather sententiously. "it would be a pity to let this one slip," remarked mr. pomeroy, handing the clergyman a plate of macaroons, and helping himself at the same time. "miss blanchard, i believe you made these macaroons. they are first-class." the young man rather resented the clergyman's intrusion, as he considered it. he preferred to have both young ladies to himself, just then. "the macaroons are excellent," said mr. chillingworth, "but i want you to do something better than that for me. i hope you have been trying over those choruses, and the air i wanted you to take as a solo." miss blanchard's bright look clouded a little, and her broad white brow contracted slightly with an expression of perplexity. "i have tried them," she said; "but i haven't quite made up my mind about the choruses. i don't altogether like the idea of it yet! and i am quite sure that my voice isn't equal to a solo of that kind, in such circumstances." "well, you will try it for me, _now_, at least?" he said. nora blanchard was not given to affectations of any kind, so she rose and complied, quite simply, at once. the clergyman could not but feel that she was right after all, in her estimate of her voice. her rendering of the air "he shall feed his flock like a shepherd," was very rich and sweet, for a drawing-room, but lacked the power and compass sufficient to fill a concert hall. at his request, she went on with one or two of the choruses, in which he and miss farrell joined her; the three voices blending very harmoniously in the grand music. mr. chillingworth noticed a new arrangement of the hymn, "lead, kindly light," on the piano, and asked miss blanchard to sing that to him, which she did with great feeling and expression. as the closing lines came out in solemn hopefulness-- "and, with the morn, those angel-faces smile which i have loved long since, and lost awhile--" the clergyman's gaze, as the observant mr. pomeroy noticed, grew strangely dreamy, as if he were absorbed by the influences of the song. he seemed to be seeing some inward vision, with pain in it as well as pleasure; and on the cessation of the music, he started as if awakened from a spell. just then, the door opened, and a maid looked in to know if mrs. blanchard could tell when the doctor would be home. "no, i'm sure i don't know," was the reply. "i thought he was back in the surgery by this time. is it any one in a hurry?" "yes, it's a young gentleman wid a note, as wants him right off," said the girl, a new servant, unaccustomed as yet to the exigencies of a doctor's household. "oh," said miss blanchard, rising hastily from the piano, "i suppose it's some one from mr. easton's, for the medicine that will told me about. i was to see him and give him a particular message. excuse me, mr. chillingworth, i won't be long." the clergyman seemed still preoccupied, and did not join in the talk of the others while she was gone. in a few minutes she returned, her cheek glowing and her eye bright with some new interest. "what's the matter, nora?" said mrs. blanchard, looking at her with some surprise. "oh," she replied, hurriedly, "it's a messenger from mr. alden, wanting will at once, for a very sad case--a poor young woman who seems dying of bronchitis and exhaustion. and she has no one with her but a child. i think i must go myself, for i know quite well what to do. i didn't nurse auntie through bronchitis last winter for nothing! i can take some fluid-beef and make her a little beef-tea, at any rate. and i know where there is some of the medicine will prescribed for auntie." "oh, dear! i _wish_ you weren't _quite_ so philanthropic. i don't like to let you go, but--i suppose you must, now you've taken up the idea. and if mr. alden knows about it, it must be all right. will can go as soon as he's had dinner, and bring you back. i'll keep some dinner for you. i hope it isn't far, though." "oh, no, not very," replied miss blanchard. "i'm sorry to seem rude in leaving you all," she added, smiling, "but you see, if one doesn't go out to be a nurse, one must not let slip the opportunities mr. chillingworth was talking of just now." "certainly! it is most praiseworthy," said that gentleman, "and if you'll allow me, i shall be most happy to be your escort." mr. pomeroy had come forward at the same moment with a similar request. but miss blanchard courteously declined both, saying that mr. alden's messenger would be escort enough. "and i shall leave the address, as well as i can, on the surgery-slate," she added, "and will can drive down when he's ready. i've no doubt the poor thing needs nourishment more than medicine. of course i'll take some spirits with me, too," she added. "i believe it was that saved auntie, little as she likes to admit it." "well, don't go taking bronchitis yourself," said her sister-in-law. "mind you wrap up well, for it's raw and cold, as mr. pomeroy says." "oh, yes, don't be afraid!" said nora brightly, as, with many regrets on the part of her friends, she left the pleasant, luxurious apartment. "i believe," said mrs. blanchard, as the door closed after her and eddie, who went to see her off, "that nora wouldn't feel at home here, without some sick people to visit and look after. you see she always goes about everywhere with aunt margaret, in rockland. aunt margaret's a regular sister of mercy, without a uniform, and nora has always taken to going with her quite naturally. you know, rockland's such a quiet little place, that there's hardly anything else to do in winter. that's one reason why i wanted nora to spend the winter with us, for once, and see something different. she has been with aunt margaret so long that she has taken up all her ideas and ways." "then, aunt margaret must be a darling," said the enthusiastic kitty, "for i am sure nora is, if there ever was one! she and janie spencer are the best girls i know." "it's nice to be one of miss farrell's friends," said mr. pomeroy. "i hope you do as well by me when i'm not there." "_you_, indeed!" laughed kitty, though she colored a little, or so thought mr. chillingworth, whose critical eye rested admiringly on the charming _piquante_ face with its delicate bloom, and the very fair hair, "thrown up" by an artistic gainsborough hat of dark-blue velvet, with a long drooping feather. he was rather disconcerted by miss blanchard's sudden departure;--still there was no denying that miss kitty farrell made a very charming picture, and, as mr. chillingworth was fond of saying to himself, "beauty has its uses." "well, they're gone!" announced eddie, coming in presently. "_they_--who?" asked his mother. "why, aunt nora, and the--man," said eddie, slowly. he was going to say "the gentleman," but as he always heard his father talk of "men," he was trying to imitate him. "oh! the man mr. alden sent, i suppose. i hope he's all right," she added, a little uneasily. "but, of course he came for doctor blanchard himself," she continued, reassured. "oh, he's a real nice man!" said eddie. "_i_ like him. he talked to me while auntie was getting the things ready. i hope he'll come here again!" "eddie is always taking such funny fancies!" said mrs. blanchard. "i'll have to ask nora about this unknown cavalier." mr. chillingworth's brow contracted--he scarcely knew why. he was sorry, now, that he had not more strongly pressed his escort on miss blanchard. he did not like the idea of her traversing the streets after dark, attended by an unknown "man" who had made himself so agreeable to eddie. but it couldn't be helped now. it was strange, after all, how much of the life and charm seemed to have gone out of the little party with nora's departure--for she was not a great talker herself. meantime she was on her way to her unknown patient, while her guide carried her basket, and, so far as he could, answered her questions about the poor woman in whom her interest had been so suddenly awakened. chapter iv. a consultation. when roland graeme's inquiry regarding the time of the doctor's return was answered by the entrance of a tall and graceful young lady, he naturally supposed her to be the doctor's wife. he met her with his usual frank and ready courtesy, addressing her as "mrs. blanchard, i presume?"--apologizing for the trouble he had given her, and describing briefly, but graphically, the condition of the patient on whose behalf he had come, as mr. alden's messenger. miss blanchard, on her side, was surprised at encountering, in roland graeme's unusual type of face and expression, with the clear, candid, gray-blue eyes, so different an individual from the one she had expected to find waiting in the surgery. she expressed no surprise, however, but quietly corrected his mistake in addressing her, and, after listening attentively to his statement, added, after a moment or two of thought: "as we don't know just when my brother will be in, i think i had better go with you myself, in the meantime; not that i pretend to any medical skill, but i have nursed a relative through an attack of bronchitis, and could take some things with me that i know would do her good." roland thanked her warmly, regarding her more attentively than he had done while absorbed in stating his errand. he could not help noticing the earnest and sympathetic expression of the dark-blue eyes, the fair forehead with its natural curve of dark-brown hair, untortured by "crimps," and the sweetness of the smile that seemed just to hover about the flexible mouth, as she--half-apologetically--made the unexpected offer. she was gone in a moment, and then his attention was monopolized by eddie, who, with childish curiosity had followed his "auntie," and with whom he had a delightful talk while awaiting the return of the doctor's volunteered substitute. for, to roland graeme, children were always delightful, doubtless because of the childlike element in his own nature. but miss blanchard soon returned, ready for her expedition, with a small basket on her arm, of which roland speedily relieved her, as they passed on through the now lighted streets, full of work-people returning from their daily toil. roland, with the old-fashioned courtesy in which he had been trained, offered the young lady his arm--an offer which she courteously declined, with a touch of somewhat stately dignity. it was clear, indeed, that the firm elastic step needed no support. they walked on rapidly, miss blanchard asking more questions about their patient than roland could answer, only explaining briefly that he and mr. alden had found her out, accidentally, through the child's appeal. "is it not sad," she said, taking a long breath, "how many such cases there must be around us that we never know? it puzzles me often to understand how such things can be." "it's positively maddening, sometimes!" said roland, irrepressibly breaking into the subject that was generally nearest his heart; "especially when one sees the cool, selfish indifference, with which so many people actually shut their eyes to these things; how they even help, so far as they are able, to crush their fellows down and to keep them down!" "why, how?--who would do that?" she asked. "employers are doing it all the time, and the rich employers are the worst. i suppose that is one reason why they _are_ rich! but if they did not generally keep their rates of payment down to the minimum they can get men and women to take, there could not be such hard, grinding poverty. the truth is, a large proportion of our laboring classes are always living next door to starvation, and if sickness or want of work comes, it is next door no longer!" "that seems very strange to me," said miss blanchard, thoughtfully. "i have lived all my life in rockland, a quiet little place among the hills;--where everybody knows everybody else, and where our one or two employers think it their duty to know all the circumstances of all their workers, and are always ready to help them on, and to tide them over a difficulty." "yes, that's beautiful!" said roland. "i know there are such noble exceptions--and they are especially likely to occur in small places, where the fierce tide of competition for wealth and luxury isn't so irresistible, and people seem to have some humanity left! here, in minton, where i haven't been so very long, i know numbers of cases where people are living on what i call starvation wages--especially women. you see, operatives are so apt to leave everything to selfish managers, whose main object is to please the firm, and these managers are often guilty of positive inhumanity. there now," he said, as they passed a large building gleaming with long rows of lighted windows, from whose entrance a stream of young women was pouring forth; "there's a place where too many things are done, contrary to all sound principles of justice and humanity. the operatives are made simply working-machines, obliged to work more hours than any young woman should be allowed to do; miserably paid, and exposed to petty tyrannies enough to take out of their life any little comfort they might have in it." "whose place is it?" she asked. "pomeroy & company's silk and woolen mills." "why, i know young mr. pomeroy very well!" exclaimed miss blanchard; "and his mother, mrs. pomeroy, is a very good woman! i'm sure they can't know about such things!" "they probably then don't try to know," he replied. "that's the great trouble. the heads of such places are so fully occupied with the business part of their concerns, that they have no time to think of the people by whom the business is made." as they passed the building, they came up with two of the girls who were standing engrossed in earnest conversation. "don't go, nelly!" they heard one say to the other. "it won't come to no good, any way, and jim would be that vexed, if he knew!" "oh, i guess he'd live to get over it," laughed the other. "don't _you_ bother about it, liz!" and she turned toward them, as they passed, a pretty, pert face, beneath a mass of elaborately frizzed hair, and a very tawdry hat. "those poor girls!" miss blanchard remarked, as soon as they were out of hearing. "how little real interest or pleasure there must be in their lives! how it makes one wish that we, who have so many pleasant things in ours, could do something to brighten theirs!" "yes, indeed," replied roland. "i've often thought about that, and people do try more than they did--in that way. but so long as the work hours are so protracted and so exhausting, you can't make life much brighter for them, do what you will. it's one of my ambitions to do something toward securing shorter hours all round. i believe every one would gain by it in the end." "yes, i suppose it is pretty hard to have such a long day of steady work at one thing--especially for girls. i am afraid i shouldn't like to have to do it," said miss blanchard, with a sigh. "but, then, it doesn't do to judge altogether by the outside," rejoined her companion, in a more cheery tone. "i suppose, after all, 'ilka blade o' grass has its ain drap o' dew.' the greater wickedness is," he added, "when heartless fools try to squeeze the one 'drap o' dew' out of it! but here's our destination." they found mr. alden seated on the one broken chair, near the miserable pallet. the child lay curled up beside her mother, fast asleep. the invalid seemed somewhat revived, and able to talk a little. she fixed her eyes on miss blanchard, as she entered, with a strange, wild, almost hunted expression, which rather startled her visitor. miss blanchard's gentle, kindly greeting, with mr. alden's introduction, seemed to reassure her a little, however, and she swallowed a portion of the soothing medicine that miss blanchard had brought for relieving her harassing cough. then the young lady produced a tiny spirit-lamp from her basket, and soon had prepared a little cup of hot beef-tea, doing it all with a quick and ready lightness that showed her to be quite at home in work of this kind. mr. alden and roland felt themselves to be supernumeraries at once. the latter, indeed, after offering the young lady some scarcely needed assistance in her arrangements, began to think that it was time for him to retire, when a step was heard on the stairs, and a young girl entered, carrying a cup of tea. she hesitated a moment in surprise at the unexpected sight of the strangers, dimly seen by the light of the one poor lamp. miss blanchard thought she recognized the pale, eager face of the girl who had begged "nelly" "not to go," as they had passed the two standing under the lamp-post. she was sure of it, when the girl approached the invalid, scarcely looking at the visitors, and said, in the same deaf penetrating tone: "well, mrs. travers, how do you feel yourself to-night?" "a little better now, thank you, lizzie, but i have been so ill to-day! i thought i was dying a while ago, and cissy went out and brought back this gentleman, and he has been so kind!" she spoke in a soft musical english voice, decidedly the voice of a lady, mr. alden thought. then turning to him, she said, with some energy: "this is my best friend! she has been so good to me--sat up with me at night after working all day! i'd have been dead before now, if it hadn't been for her." miss blanchard, as she bent over the patient, with a cup of beef-tea which she was administering by teaspoonfuls, looked up at the new-comer, with a light of softened admiration in her expressive eyes, which recalled to roland graeme, as he chanced to catch it, the memory of his enjoyment of the sistine madonna, at dresden, on a brief visit he had made to europe. he had not thought of calling miss blanchard beautiful, nor did he now; still there was something, either in feature, or expression, or both, that reminded him of the most beautiful and spiritual of raffaelle's madonnas. he looked at the poor working-girl, however, with scarcely less of admiration in his honest eyes--little as there was of beauty in the pale, thin face, without any advantage of dress to make up for the defects of contour and coloring. the invalid, with the wilfulness of illness, insisted on putting aside the broth for the cup of tea that lizzie had brought her. "you see, she's used to it," lizzie said, apologetically. "i always bring her a cup of tea and a bit of toast before i take my own supper, and she likes it." "well," said mr. alden, "i ought to be going home, if i can't do anything more here; but i don't like leaving you alone till your brother comes, miss blanchard. perhaps this good friend of mrs. travers wouldn't mind coming back when she has had her supper, and staying with you till your brother comes, or i return, which i shall do, in any case." "i am going to stay here all night, mr. alden," said miss blanchard, decidedly.--"i shall be only too glad to relieve you," she said to lizzie, who was looking at her in surprise. "it's too much for you, when you can't rest in the daytime, as i can easily do; and i don't mind being alone, mr. alden! however, if you will be more satisfied----" "indeed, miss," lizzie eagerly interposed, "i'll be back in ten minutes, and stay with you as long as you like. it's so good of you to say you'll stay all night! i don't mind it generally, but to-night i am dead tired." and she looked it. mr. alden insisted on roland's going home with him to tea, as he was so far from his own quarters; and, as soon as lizzie had returned, they took their departure. miss blanchard begged that mr. alden would not return that evening, as her brother would soon be there to give her all necessary directions, and mr. alden could see him later as to what it would be best to do for the patient. she bade roland, also, a cordial good-night, which he as cordially returned; thinking, with some regret, how little likely it was that he should have any opportunity of improving an acquaintance which, brief as it had been, had already strongly interested him. "miss blanchard is one of my special admirations," said mr. alden, smiling, as they walked on together. "she's an uncommon type, and has been brought up in a very different atmosphere from minton society. a quiet, refined country home, time and training for thought and study, good literature to grow up among, a wide-minded, philosophical father of the old school, and an aunt with the soul of a saint and the active benevolence of a sister of charity; it is no wonder that nora blanchard is a sort of _rara avis_ among girls." "you believe in heredity then, sir, and in environment?" said roland. the clergyman looked at him keenly, but with a genial smile. "certainly," he said; "i believe in both, but i believe also in something else, that is not either; and in this lies the difference between my philosophy and that of the people who are so bent on making _automata_ of us all. they always seem to me to give, in their own persons, a most apt illustration of the lines, "'unless above himself he can erect himself, how poor a thing is man!'" "yes," replied roland, "i believe we were meant to aspire. '_excelsior_' seems the motto of the universe." "and a good motto, too! but here we are." and stopping at his own door, he admitted roland and himself with his latch-key. chapter v. a family party. the light and warmth of mr. alden's hospitable home, with the rippling laughter of children's merry voices, seemed to roland in delightful contrast with the raw, cold december evening without, as well as with the depressing influence of the miserable apartment they had just left. the father's return was greeted with joyous shouts from the little ones, and roland was speedily included in the warm welcome. a bounteously spread tea-table, with its pretty pot of ferns in the centre, was awaiting mr. alden's arrival, and looked inviting enough to a young man who had been out in the chill air during most of the afternoon. the happy children's faces, the delicate and sweet-looking little mother, the freedom and unaffected gladness of the family life, strongly impressed roland, and vividly recalled the associations of his own childhood. grace, the helpful, eldest daughter, had, roland thought, the sweetest, purest, sunniest face he had ever seen. the clear, frank eyes, with the light of a happy heart sparkling through their peaceful blue, the smile so sweet and sincere, the sunny, golden hair, and silvery, gleeful laugh, so childlike in its ring, fascinated him like a spell. no wonder, he thought, that the shadows cleared from mr. alden's thoughtful brow as soon as he crossed his own threshold. yet, much of the family sunshine there was a reflection from mr. alden's own spirit. and, however the shadows of the world without might sometimes weigh on his own heart, he never allowed them to sadden his children, if he could help it. he was fond of exhorting his people to keep their children's childhood as happy as they could, without letting them grow selfish and heartless. and he would often quote victor hugo's expressive lines: "grief is a fruit god will not let grow on boughs too feeble to sustain its weight." "cultivate sympathy in your children," he would say, "but not so as to burden them prematurely"; and what he preached he practised. meal-times were, for the children's sake, always bright and cheerful. mr. alden had the precious gift of humor, and it served him in good stead to balance a nature acutely sensitive to the pain, the ills and the discords of human life. he seldom failed to catch and bring home some little quaint or amusing experience, which, told as he could tell it, would provoke the good-natured laughter in which he believed, as one of the safety-valves of our nature. frank, his eldest boy, roland's first acquaintance in the family, inherited his father's tendency to see the humorous side of things, without, as yet, his counterbalancing depth of feeling; and so it often happened that the father and son together would set the little ones in a small uproar of laughter, which mrs. alden's love of propriety would often constrain her to try to keep in some sort of check. but it was no wonder that these children enjoyed their father's presence at meals, and missed it when he was absent. after tea, the whole party adjourned to the parlor, which was purposely kept not too fine for the frequent incursions of the children. the younger ones rapidly improved their acquaintance with roland, gathering close about him, reciting to him some of their pet rhymes, and examining him as to his acquaintance with their favorite stories. fortunately he had read grimm and hans andersen, and knew most of the stories that they had heard, over and over, from their father and grace, who had caught up his knack of telling a story so as to be an acceptable substitute when "father" was too busy. roland and they were _en rapport_ at once on the strength of his familiar acquaintance with "the little match girl," "the snow maiden," "the ugly duckling," and "prudent elsie." "grace may be sorry they ever heard that," declared frank, "for now she hears nothing but 'prudent elsie!' whenever she calls them back to put on their mufflers or overshoes." "oh, i don't mind!" said grace, laughing. "i think "prudent elsie" a very nice name, isn't it, father, dear?" her father drew her close to him as she sat on the arm of his chair, with one hand resting caressingly on his shoulder. "'simple susan' would suit you better, my dear; but 'what's in a name?'" he said, looking smilingly up into her bright face. "'a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!'" "come now, john," interposed mrs. alden, looking up from the little sock she was busily knitting; "i can't have you passing on to your daughter any of your old fine speeches to me." "infringing on your copyright, little mother?" he playfully returned, glancing fondly at the wife, who, roland thought, must at grace's age have looked a good deal like what _she_ did, now. half an hour passed so quickly that roland scarcely realized it. he was just beginning to fear that he might be inflicting his presence too long on the family circle, when mr. alden said: "now, gracie, go to the piano! and you, youngsters, get your hymn-books. mr. graeme will excuse us, i know, if we go on with our little evening service." then turning to roland, he added: "we always have it at this hour, before the children grow sleepy." grace sat down at the piano, and in a clear young voice led the little choir, who had clustered around her, each eager to take part in the singing. mr. alden followed the hymn with a brief reading, and very simple prayer; and then the younger portion of the family said "good-night," in due form. roland, to whom these simple vespers had brought back vivid recollections from his own childhood, now thought it was time for him, also, to say "good-night" and take his departure. "i will walk part of your way with you," said mr. alden. "i want to see blanchard about what it is best to do for that poor young woman. he will be back by this time, i think. i hope he will advise her going to the hospital, where she will have proper care. she seems to have no one belonging to her but that poor child." they walked together to dr. blanchard's, which was not very far from roland's own quarters. before they parted, mr. alden took down the young man's address. then, holding his hand kindly, he said, "i should be glad to have you for a member of a certain little society for social reform, that i have lately started on a broadly christian basis." roland hesitated a little. "i mustn't allow you to misconceive my position," he said. "i am not what _you_ would call a christian; that is, i cannot at present see my way to accept what is called orthodox christianity." "never mind that just now," said mr. alden. "and don't suppose that i can't appreciate honest difficulties of belief. but this society of mine is purposely made wider than church lines. it is meant to include any one who loves the christian ideal, and is willing to promote the practical influence of the christian spirit in this selfish world. from what i have seen of you, i think you are one of that number." the tone was kind, sympathetic, appreciative--something between that of a father and of an elder brother. roland's responsive heart was touched. "if you will take me in on that understanding, you can count on my willing service!" he said. and with a cordial leave taking, they parted, mr alden taking his way to dr blanchard's house, roland walking off to his lodging at his usual rapid pace. he had hours of work before him, and must be at it. when he reached the house in which he boarded, he let himself in with his latch-key, and bounded lightly up the stairs to his own apartment. it was not a large room, and certainly not luxurious, and its confusion of books and papers would have been the despair of any tidy housekeeper. books, pamphlets, newspapers, were piled on shelves, tables and chairs, in a manner that to any eye but roland's would have seemed hopeless confusion. volumes of philosophy and poetry, ancient and modern, were scattered among piles of blue-books and reports of all kinds. on his writing-table, amidst loose sheets of manuscript and newspaper clippings, lay a well worn bible, thoreau's "walden," carlyle's "sartor resartus," whittier's and browning's poems, emerson's essays, and henry george's "progress and poverty." evidently the occupant of the room had somewhat varied tastes. and, while roland is industriously looking over his clippings, sorting his manuscripts, and making a fair copy of his rough draft of a leader for the first number of _the brotherhood_, let us take a retrospective glance over the history of the young man himself. chapter vi. looking backward. roland graeme was, by birth, a canadian. his father had been a scottish clergyman who had emigrated to canada in early life; a man of poetical and dreamy temperament, of large and loving nature, which yet, by force of education and habit, had been somehow forced into the compress of an intricate and somewhat narrow creed; or at least had been led, like many others, by an intense veneration for ancient authority, to submit without chafing even to some articles against which his heart and moral intelligence would have strongly protested had he allowed them any voice in the matter. as it was, he worked on tranquilly, scorning worldly delights and living laborious days, troubling himself little about formal theology, and seeking to inspire his flock to love and practice the christian graces, "against which there is no law." in temporal matters, he was as unpractical as he was unworldly, and, but for his wife's calm, judicious judgment and practical common-sense, would have been in perpetual financial straits. she, poor woman, had found it, indeed, no easy task to steer the family bark clear of the rocks on which the good minister's easy-going benevolence and trustful generosity were continually on the verge of wrecking it. roland was this good man's only son, and on him his father had concentrated all the ideality of his nature. living in a remote country place, where no good grammar school was easily accessible, he had himself prepared his boy for college. roland had absorbed eagerly all that his father had to teach him, of classic lore, of poetry, of nature, as well as the rudimentary, informal theology, that was, so to speak, filtered through the spectroscope of a mind which unconsciously rejected all that was harsh and narrow, allowing free passage only to what was akin to his own loving spirit. under such paternal influences, intensified by his mother's strong religious nature, roland had grown up with his whole being inspired and colored by the great principles of christianity. the teachings of christ himself, household words from his earliest infancy, had taken a firm hold of his plastic young soul. principles of action seemed to him matters of course, which, as he too often afterward found, were, to the average christian people with whom he came in contact, as an unknown tongue. till he left his home, the boy supposed all the nominal christian world to be only an extension of the little circle in his childhood's abode, and his fervid nature looked forward to something like a repetition of his father's life under new circumstances, possibly, with wider scope and under more congenial and hopeful surroundings. but, when he went to college, his sanguine nature was painfully disenchanted by his first dip into the cold, commonplace reality. many of his comrades seemed to him little better than baptized heathen. he saw things done, heard things said every day, by people who would have been indignant had any one denied them the name of christian, that seemed to him in direct opposition to the spirit and teachings of the master they professed to own. many, even of the religious students he met, repelled him. their religion for the most part seemed so shallow and conventional, their creed so hard and narrow, their ideals so worldly, that their conversation jarred and revolted him. he sought some refuge from his perplexities in writing to his mother, who sensibly reminded him that as he had had special privileges, he must not expect the same degree of religious culture from lads brought up under very different influences; that his own duty was, to hold fast by the truth he knew, and, in so far as he could by his example and influence, help others to see it, too. so the boy staunchly adhered to his principles, and was thought "an odd sort of fellow," but "with no harm in him," who could always be depended upon for a good turn, though a sort of "crank" on certain points, especially as regarded poetry and religion. he found no difficulty, with his natural talent and thorough preparation, in taking a high place in his classes, though his love of literature and general knowledge, combined with a natural dreaminess, kept him from taking the highest honors of his course. this was, perhaps, a slight disappointment to the good father, who cherished for his bright, enthusiastic boy, ambitions he had never entertained for himself. but, just at the close of roland's undergraduate course, when he was already looking forward to beginning his theological studies, his father suddenly died. it was a terrible blow to the lad, in more ways than one. his father had been so much to him, a centre of such passionate love and reverence, that life did not seem the same to him now that his father was no longer there to guide and advise his still immature mind, and to sympathize with his enthusiasms and aspirations. moreover, this sad event seriously affected his own prospects. he could no longer, for the present at least, continue his professional studies. he must "buckle to" the task of providing for his mother and two younger sisters, whom it was necessary for him, in great measure, to support and educate. teaching was the work readiest to hand, and he soon secured a fairly remunerative position, entailing, however, work which absorbed the greater portion of his time and strength. he toiled on, steadily, faithfully; finding, as time passed, much satisfaction in knowing that he was so well fulfilling the responsibilities bequeathed to him by his father. he still read omnivorously, seizing eagerly every fresh vein of thought, or view of life and nature that came in his way. of course, modern science threw over him the glamour of its fascination, and he rapidly assimilated its leading facts and theories, with an avidity characteristic of his active and unresting mind, while, after the manner of young men, he did not always stop to discriminate between fact and theory. nor did he always discern just whither the theory was leading him. as he had by no means given up the hope of eventually prosecuting his theological studies, he began, as he could spare the time from his daily duties and the more secular reading that so fascinated him, to take up some of the old text-books which had been in his father's library. one of these was the intricate and elaborate compendium of doctrine which formed the standard creed of the ministry of his church--an able synopsis of a certain rigid, scholastic, one-sided theology, having, for most thoughtful minds nowadays, the great fault that it attempts to compress into a series of logical propositions, mysteries far transcending human thought, and never thrown into this dogmatic form by the original teachers of christianity. he found there, not only statements that seemed to conflict with the teachings of science, but also declarations concerning the deepest mysteries of divine purpose, against which his heart and his sense of justice alike rose in passionate revolt, and which he could never have dreamed it possible to conjure out of the love-lighted pages of his new testament. was this, he thought, what his father had believed? looking back on all he had ever heard from that father, he could not think so. at all events, he knew that _he_ could never believe it or profess to do so. his mother could give him little help in his perplexities. she had never troubled herself about abstruse theological questions. her bible was enough for her, and she did not think his father had felt himself bound to believe everything the theologians taught. yet there was confronting him, this long series of definite propositions, subscription to which was the only entrance-gate to the ministry of the church which was so dear to his imagination through a thousand traditions and tender associations. he felt that, for him, that gate was firmly barred. but this was by no means all. the questioning and disintegrating process, once begun, did not stop here. the mystery of life and being seemed to have opened an abyss before him which he now seemed unable to bridge by the old simple faith that had hitherto been enough for him. sceptical friends, by plausible arguments, increased this difficulty, and the attacks on the divine origin of christianity, which were constantly coming in his way, found a ready entrance into his perplexed mind, unarmed to repel them. a "horror of great darkness" seemed to have swallowed up the very foundations of his faith. life and death--the present and the future--seemed shrouded in the cloud of unfathomable mystery which his baffled vision vainly strove to penetrate. much thought about it became too heavy a burden to bear; and he practically gave up the struggle for light, making up his mind, for the present, to follow the one compass in his possession--the christian ideal and conscience that had been developed and educated with his own growth, till it had become an inseparable part of his moral being. he was at least happy in having his life founded on this rock, even though his eyes might be for a time blinded as to the true source of his strength. some busy years had passed, lighted at least by the consciousness of practical duty honestly followed and of being the trusted prop and consolation of his mother's life; while for his sisters he did his best to secure as careful an education as had been bestowed on him. the interest that he had felt compelled to withdraw from speculative thought, he had thrown, all the more strongly, into some of the great practical questions of the day, unconscious that much of his early faith still survived in the enthusiasm with which he caught at every new plan or measure for lightening the load of the more burdened portion of humanity. altruistic by inherited temperament, the "enthusiasm of humanity" gradually possessed him like a passion. it seemed as if the wrongs and woe of oppressed multitudes lay like an actual weight on his heart. he devoured the works of henry george, as they came out, till these "problems" absorbed his own mind, and the remedies proposed by george and others seemed to bring up the vision of a fair utopia which might become the noble aim of a modern crusade. to devote himself and his life in some way to such an object, seemed to him the aim most worthy to set before himself. but, of course, his first duty was to provide for his mother and sisters. an unexpected event, however, set him free from this obligation in a very agreeable way. the elder of his two sisters had been gradually and imperceptibly developing into a very charming and attractive young woman; and, much to roland's surprise, he one day discovered in a wealthy young friend of his own a prospective brother-in-law, who was generously ready to provide a home for the mother of the bride he was eager to claim. and as his younger sister was almost ready for her own chosen vocation of teaching, roland could now begin to think of a career for himself. one of his most promising and congenial classmates at college, with whom he had always kept up a steady correspondence, had, some years before, gone to the united states, to engage in journalistic work, and had become the editor of the minton _minerva_. he had frequently urged roland to join him there, setting before him the inducements of a wider sphere and a more active and busy life. roland had always had strong republican sentiments and sympathies, and humanitarian instincts were still stronger in him than were local or traditional attachments and associations. there was the attraction, too, of possibly helping on a great "movement" in which he thoroughly believed, and then there was the fascination of new scenes and surroundings to one whose life for years had been so monotonous. he stuck to his post, however, till he had saved enough to supply his own simple needs for a year or two, and then set off on a rapid trip to those portions of the old world which, from his childhood, he had most longed to see. there, besides the old quaint cities and ruins, around which a thousand literary and historical associations clustered like the ivy which clothed them, and the glorious mountain scenery of which as a boy he had so often dreamed, he had found in his wanderings another subject of deep interest. this was the condition of those "forgotten millions," of which he had read so much of late. here, as in other cases, he found all his conceptions fall far short of what he actually beheld--men, women and children, pent up in rank and wretched slums, fighting with gaunt famine for a miserable existence. he saw them, at early morning, searching heaps of rubbish for a few crusts, only too eagerly devoured. he saw young girls, forced to still more revolting means of procuring daily bread--means that dragged them rapidly down to worse than physical death. he saw young children, with haggard unchildlike faces, and most unchildlike sharpness and callous greed, born of the premature "struggle for existence" that was written on their pinched young features. he saw human beings who had not, literally, "where to lay their heads," glad to throw themselves down on the damp grass of city parks, yet driven from thence, and from every other resting-place, by the relentless order to "move on!" he knew that, of these multitudes, fighting hand to hand with starvation, many could not, by any effort, secure remunerative work. for these, there seemed nothing but despair and death, on an earth which could no longer make good for them the promise--"in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread." for them there was neither work nor bread. the sights he then saw burned themselves into his heart and brain forever. and, side by side with all this misery, he saw gorgeous displays of wealth and luxury, such as he had scarcely thought possible, outside of the "arabian nights;" evidences of idle _abandon_ to voluptuous pleasure--of unblushing and reckless extravagance--until he wondered how it could be that a just and over-ruling providence should not interfere; how it was that the earth did not open to swallow up these selfish cumberers of the ground. it was the old problem which perplexed the righteous soul of job in the dawn of history--which has perplexed many a moralist and driven to despair many a bewildered enthusiast in all the ages. but if anything had been needed to intensify in him the "enthusiasm of humanity," the passion for reform; to grave on his heart the resolve to "open his mouth for the dumb, in the cause of all such as are left desolate," it was what he then saw of that hopeless, inarticulate hardship and misery, which rarely finds expression in speeches or pamphlets, but sometimes does find it, at last, in strikes and catastrophes! a little, too, he saw, of _that_ underlying social dynamite, and felt to his heart's core the gravity of the situation. it was, therefore, with no room in his mind for trifling, and little for selfish aims, that roland graeme returned from abroad to take up the work of his life. he first, of course, paid a brief visit to his mother and sisters, to satisfy himself as to their happiness and comfort; and then, with his few belongings--chiefly books--he betook himself to his friend at minton. dick burnett received him cordially, and at once gave him some light work, in the way of reporting and editorial writing, which would at least keep his purse moderately supplied, while he was also studying law in a lawyer's office, with the view of eventually entering that profession. to him, among other things, fell the work of reporting sermons for the _minerva_, a task for which, of course, he was well fitted by his early training; and this was the reason why, for some months past, mr. chillingworth had wondered at the skill and accuracy with which his sermons had been synopsized for the benefit of the readers of the _minerva_. in fact, he sometimes could not help admitting to himself, that, in clearness of thought and felicitous condensation, the abstract was almost an improvement on the sermon. had he been aware that roland graeme was his unknown reporter, he would doubtless have been more affable in his greeting on the occasion of the young man's visit. minton was largely a manufacturing town, and roland soon found that there were many wrongs around him calling for redress. his investigations speedily brought him into contact with leaders of the "knights of labor," and sympathy with their aims very soon led him to enroll himself in their ranks. he could not, indeed, remain a member after he should become a legal practitioner, as the rules of the order do not admit lawyers; but he could and would work with heart and soul for its objects, both in the ranks and outside them. he found the leaders cordially grateful for his aid and counsel, and in the sympathy and coöperation of some of the more intelligent workingmen he found much of the pleasure and stimulus of his new life. of course, his efforts on their behalf sometimes evoked, from the "party of the other part," sentiments of a very different character; but roland was happily so constituted as to care little for that; and, so long as he could carry a point for the benefit of his friends, the _employés_, he could bear hard names with great equanimity. so absorbed was he, indeed, in his ideals and enthusiasms, that the "personal equation" had become very insignificant. he found, however, that, in order to rouse the public mind on certain points, he wanted an opportunity for stronger expression than he could venture to use in his editorials in the _minerva_, which, of course would not risk irretrievably offending its wealthy patrons. the editor, who was in part proprietor, was by no means uninterested in the "labor question," and was quite willing to go as far as he thought "safe" in its interests. but roland wanted more liberty of speech for the burning thoughts that filled his breast; and the idea gradually took shape, in the course of their discussions in the _sanctum_, of issuing a small weekly journal to be devoted entirely to the object nearest to roland's heart, his friend the editor being willing to afford all the facilities of the printing-office to the new journal, and even to bear part of the expense, which was also to be shared by an eccentric old scotchman who boarded in the same house with roland, and with whom he had struck up an odd sort of friendship. roland was determined to call his paper _the brotherhood_, so that it would bear in its very title the imprint of the truth which his christian training had interwoven with every fibre of his being, and which, he also expressed in the motto, "_all ye are brethren_." in the simplicity of his heart, roland imagined that every christian minister must be as profoundly impressed with this great truth as he himself was, and that he could count on the warm sympathy which they, at least, would accord to his paper--intended, as the prospectus stated, "to bring this fundamental principle and its corollary, the golden rule, to bear on all social questions," including business arrangements and the relations of employer and employed. so obvious an application of practical christianity must, he thought, enlist the cordial coöperation of those whose vocation was to teach it. as we have seen, however, he sometimes found himself disappointed in this very natural expectation. chapter vii. a midnight meeting. roland was writing busily on, scarcely conscious of the lateness of the hour, absorbed in the pleasant task of pouring out on paper without restraint the passionate pleas and arguments with which his mind was filled, when he was roused by a rather peremptory knock at his door, immediately followed by the apparition of a rugged old face with gray shaggy locks and beard, surmounted by a picturesque red _toque_. "weel, lad, hard at work? have ye got yer firebrands all ready for the wee foxes' tails, that ye're gaun to send in amang the philistines' corn? there's a bit o' yer' 'modern interpretation' for ye!" the voice was deep and guttural, and the accent a broad doric. "i hope you don't mean to compare me with that grim practical joker!" said roland, pleasantly. "i'm sure i don't want to do anything destructive. my line is all _con_structive." "aye, that's weel enough! but sometimes the t'ane can't be done without the t'ither. and ye'll soon be gettin' credit for that 'ither, or my name's no' sandy dunlop!" "sandy dunlop," as he called himself, and as his friends called him, did not always indulge in broad scotch; that, in his own estimation, would have been "throwing pearls before swine." he reserved it for his moments of expansion, for the seasons of unrestrained talk with the few in whose company he did expand; especially when, like roland, they were of scottish lineage, and could appreciate the beloved old doric, his affection for which was one of the soft spots in a somewhat hard and caustic nature. doubtless this point of sympathy was one of the attractions that drew him to roland. but "sandy dunlop" was a shrewd judge of character. roland willingly threw down his pen, and settled himself back in his chair, for one of the rambling talks which offered a little recreation to his rather high-strung temperament. "d'ye ken?" pursued the old man, "yon was a grand, simple kind o' way they used to have o' settlin' their disputes! nane o' yer vile newspaper calumniations or underhan' plottin's, but just a good honest tussle, and done wi' it." "but you don't suppose i'm going to calumniate anybody, i hope!" said roland, opening his eyes. "_you_, laddie, deed na'! weel i ken that," replied the old man, with a sort of chuckling grunt. "it's just some o' thae poleetical articles i've been readin', till i'm sick o' it all! when will ye get yer _brotherhood_ ideas into party politics? tell me that, lad, if ye can!" roland smiled and sighed. "aye, aye! the warld'll tak' a wheen o' makin' over yet, an' it'll no be you nor me that'll do it. however, ye might read me some o' yer screeds," he added, looking at the young man with much the same air of grim patronage with which a sagacious old mastiff might regard a well-meaning but rash young terrier, attempting impossibilities. as he spoke, the door below closed with a bang, and a snatch of an operatic air, hummed _sotto voce_, was borne to their ears, as rapid footsteps sounded lightly on the stairs. "here's that harum-scarum callant," said mr. dunlop, looking somewhat glum. a light tap at the door was scarcely answered by roland's "come in," when it was followed by the entrance of a young man of blonde complexion and rather slight figure, dressed much more fashionably than roland. his blue eyes, fair hair, and teutonic accent plainly bespoke his origin, and his greeting showed him to be on the most unceremonious terms with roland, as he jauntily entered, nodding familiarly to the old scot. "a midnight meeting in the interests of the _brotherhood_!" he exclaimed, theatrically, glancing at the sheets of manuscripts on roland's desk, and at the expectant attitude of the old scotchman. "i may come in for the rehearsal, too, _nicht wahr_?" "yes, if you will be quiet, and listen, and not interrupt too much," returned roland. "quiet? ah yes!--i will listen to the words of wisdom." and, throwing down his hat, he seated himself on one corner of roland's writing-table, looking down at him with smiling expectancy. mr. dunlop, with both hands resting on the table before him, listened with head bent forward, and keen attention in his shrewd, observant eyes. roland read with rapid utterance, but feeling intonation, one sheet after another; first the leading article, setting forth the scope and objects of the paper, then one or two minor ones, touching on matters of detail. mr. dunlop occasionally interposed a criticism or a suggestion, which roland noted for consideration, while the fair-haired young teuton fired off a stray shot, now and then, at roland's sometimes too florid periods, which the latter took good-humoredly--sensible that there was some ground for the strictures. "he lets himself be run away with sometimes," said this critic, turning to dunlop. "keep cool, _mein lieber_, keep cool! keep thy head and bridle-hand!" "all very fine, waldberg," said roland. "see you practice what you preach. of course, these last are only rough drafts. the first article i went over carefully with burnett, and he thinks it will do well enough now, though i think that little modification of yours, mr. dunlop, is a decided improvement." "aye, lad--ye maun be canny! nae guid in runnin' yer heid against stone walls, for _they_ tak' nae ill frae it, an' yer heid does. now, guid-night to ye baith, an' remember it's time ye were in yer beds." waldberg threw himself into the chair the old man had left. "well, how did you find your parsons?" he asked. "did they hail you as a brother, and promise to read and support the _brotherhood_?" roland smiled somewhat grimly. "one of them did, at any rate--at least he promised to read it; and some of the others promised to give the subject their best consideration." "well, you did better than i expected," the young man replied, "but this one who promised to read it--this wonderful man--he wasn't the reverend cecil chillingworth? i'd bet my head against that!" "why, what do _you_ know about it?" asked roland, in surprise. "oh, i've been having a sort of musical evening with him!" returned waldberg, smiling. "i went in to make some arrangements about the practice for his oratorio--he's going to have the "messiah" given for the benefit of his church, you know, and i'm to be accompanist, of course. so he got me to go over some of the tenor airs with him on his parlor-organ, while he sang them. he has really a good voice, and he is enthusiastic in music, if he is not in social reform." "but how do you know about that last?" inquired roland, who found it difficult to imagine mr. chillingworth talking freely to waldberg. and what had become of the "important work" that prevented his having a few minutes to bestow on _him_, and on these grave questions? "oh, very easily, indeed. he began to talk about some of the passages we were going over, for my benefit, of course. and we were discussing the question of a soprano for the air 'come unto him, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden,' for which he said he specially wanted an effective rendering. he grew quite eloquent; i think he must have been rehearsing a bit of his sunday sermon. he said the world was 'laboring and heavy-laden,' (thought i, '_that's_ true enough') and 'that it was because men would not take upon them the right yoke. there was no end of nostrums, nowadays,' he said, (and i felt quite sure he was thinking of you and the _brotherhood_,) 'but the only radical cure was the self-surrender of each individual heart to the yoke which is easy and the burden which is light.' there, you see how well i've got my lesson off by heart! you are welcome to that, for your report of his next sermon, in advance. it'll be there, sure enough!" roland could not help smiling at waldberg's close imitation of mr. chillingworth's measured and impressive manner. but he sighed the next moment, a little impatient sigh, as he broke forth: "that's the stereotyped way they all talk. but, how much 'self-surrender' does he get from his own 'prominent man,' mr. pomeroy, for instance? _he_ could make a good many people's yoke easier and their burdens lighter if he chose! when men like that show the cure, we'll begin to believe in it. yet he listens to mr. chillingworth, sunday after sunday, and i don't suppose he ever hears a word to wake him up to the fact that he's actually a murderer, in 'wearing out human creatures' lives.' but, in the name of all that's honest, waldberg, how can you go through such a thing as the 'messiah' with a man like mr. chillingworth, when you know you don't believe either in the theme or the treatment of it." "ah, but then, you don't understand art, _mein roland_; dramatically, you see, i can feel the very spirit of the music; as for the words, what matters? i rather suspect mr. chillingworth has a pretty good idea that i don't believe very much, and no doubt he thinks he is doing a good work in giving me some light, as we go along." "well, of course, you don't sing, only accompany," said roland, meditatively. "oh, that's nothing," said waldberg, coolly. "professionals simply go in for art in all these things. i know one of the soloists, at any rate, that i am getting for him, believes even less than i do--an atheist out and out." "well, i know _i_ could not stand up and sing parts of that oratorio, knowing how other people believe it," said roland, "and i'm no atheist." "no," said the other, "that's just where your scruple comes in. if you an were atheist, you wouldn't think it mattered much what you sang, so long as the music was good. as for the girls who sing the choruses, i don't think they know half the time what they're singing." roland thought of his father's old-fashioned veneration for the sacred words, and wondered how he would have borne what seemed to his own fastidious taste a profanation of them, even while he maintained his own negative position. "there will be some pretty good voices in the choruses," continued waldberg, critically. "miss farrell's is sweet and clear like a bell, though it is not very strong--wants compass. and another young lady i had the honor of accompanying at miss farrell's last _soirée musi-cale_--miss blanchard--has a very good voice too, plenty of feeling and expression, as far as she goes, and wonderfully distinct enunciation." roland had begun to listen with more interest. it was curious, as he had noticed before, that you no sooner met persons for the first time, than you were almost sure to hear of them very soon again. waldberg went on, not expecting a reply, simply talking because he liked it. "mr. chillingworth hopes to get her into the choruses. he was quite set on putting her in for a solo, but she declined, and i think she's right. she could never fill a hall, but chillingworth, _entre nous_, seems to admire her immensely." "i have seen her," said roland, carelessly. "she has a fine face, whatever her voice may be." and the madonna-like vision rose again before him. "yes, she has a noble air, 'presence,' as you say, but she can't compare with miss farrell for looks. _she_ is an exquisite creature, _herrlich schöne_ she looked that evening." "take care of yourself, waldberg," said roland, looking up with a smile, at his animated face. "she is not fair for _you_." "oh, i am not selfish, like that!" retorted the other, but with a heightened color. "i can admire, where i can do no more; and miss farrell likes me to find her fair, if i mistake not." "oh, i suppose she can flirt!" replied graeme. "most of the young ladies here seem to be able to do that. only 'beware,' she may be 'fooling thee.'" "thou art growing cynical, _mein roland_! thou thinkest too much! i shall bid thee good-night. _schlafe wohl!_" "_du auch!_" returned roland, who liked to keep up with waldberg the german colloquialisms he had learned abroad. "poor fellow," he said to himself, as he listened to the retreating footsteps, "i am afraid she _is_ 'fooling' him." he had heard a great deal, of late, about miss farrell, who was one of "herr waldberg's" most promising pupils as a pianist, and from whom roland believed that the young man was taking lessons of a more dangerous kind. however, after all, it was no business of his, and waldberg ought to be able to take care of himself. but he pondered a little over what seemed to him the strangeness of mr. chillingworth's finding it so easy to spend an hour or two enjoyably, talking music with a completely irreligious young man like waldberg, while he could not spare _him_ a few minutes for the discussion of matters which affected the well-being, higher and lower, of so many thousands, and which concerned the practical diffusion of principles of action which he had supposed must be at least as dear to the clergyman as they were to himself. roland did not yet know how easily some men can absorb themselves in beautiful ideals and vague generalities, till the practical side of life, with its tiresome details and rude collisions, becomes for them almost non-existent. and so mr. chillingworth "admired miss blanchard immensely"! roland felt interest enough in the young lady to wish her a better fate than a man whom he had begun mentally to sum up as "an egoistic iceberg." however, his business in life was not to settle the destinies of either mr. chillingworth or miss blanchard, or even of miss farrell and hermann waldberg. so he presently forgot them all in finishing the article in which he had been interrupted, and then went to bed to sleep that sleep of the laborer, which is "sweet" only when neither brain nor muscles have been overstrained to exhaustion. chapter viii. nora's dream. mr. alden found that dr. blanchard quite agreed with him as to the importance of getting their patient removed to the hospital. the doctor thought that her case was by no means hopeless, provided she could be supplied with the constant care and nourishment she so urgently needed, and this could scarcely be secured for her except in the hospital. dr. blanchard, who had all the ready, practical kindness which usually marks members of the medical profession, added to that of a naturally kind heart, willingly undertook to make the arrangements for the invalid's removal. miss blanchard returned next morning with an encouraging report. the care and nourishing food given frequently during the night had produced a decided improvement; and though the disease was deeply seated, and the patient was reduced to extreme weakness, she had youth and strong vitality on her side, notwithstanding all the privations and misery she had evidently endured. from lizzie mason, who had sat with her for an hour or two of her vigil, nora had heard, while the patient lay unconscious in a heavy slumber, some details about her past life which had gone to her heart, and had made her realize, with a sickening sensation, something of that struggle for life which a poor friendless woman, cast adrift in a busy world, must often endure. miss blanchard felt herself strongly drawn toward the pale, wistful young girl, who had been so ready to sacrifice her own sorely-needed rest in order to care for the invalid, and had drawn from her many particulars of her hard-working life. it was a simple story, told in a very matter-of-fact, uncomplaining way; but involuntary tears of indignant sympathy started to the listener's thoughtful eyes at the unconscious revelation of hard, unremitting, monotonous toil for eleven, twelve, and sometimes thirteen hours a day, as the pressure of work required, and that under conditions unhealthy enough to depress the most vigorous young life. "but cannot you find something better than that?" nora asked; "some healthier as well as pleasanter work? would it not be better to take to domestic service? every one says it is so difficult to find girls qualified to do it faithfully and well, and i am sure you would do both. you know there is nothing in serving others to lower any right self-respect," she added, quietly; "and who it was who said that he came not to be ministered to but to minister." "yes," said lizzie, "i heard mr. alden preach beautifully about that! i often go to his church, sunday evenings, for it's the nearest, and he speaks so plain-like, i do admire to hear him. but it's not _that_ indeed, miss! i'd love, myself, to be in a good, quiet house, where one could sit down when one was tired, and not have to go out in the dark, all sorts of mornings, and have to be on the go all day! but, you see, if i live at home i can give mother my board, an' that's such a help to her. an' if i was in a place, i'd have to wear good clothes, an' that would eat up all my earnin's, an' mother needs all i can do to help her and the children. an' then my brother jim's a little wild, and if i'm at home, i can look after him a bit." nora, interested in getting for herself a definite idea of this girl's daily life, drew her out a little more about this brother, the eldest of the family. he worked in the mill, too, and would be a great help to the family if it were not for his unsteadiness, which had run away with a good deal of his earnings, and he had once or twice been on the point of being discharged. "he has never been the same boy," lizzie said, sadly, "since he has taken up with nelly grove." "that was the girl you were talking to this evening when i passed you, was it not?" asked miss blanchard. "yes, that was nelly. she's not a bad-hearted little thing, but she's awful flighty and fond of pleasure. she's an orphan, too, an' her friends live in the country, so she hasn't any one to look after her here. i think she'd be good enough to jim, if she was let alone, but there's a gentleman"--and lizzie lowered her voice still further--"as turns her head with compliments an' attentions, an' it makes jim so jealous that he just goes off on a tear, whenever he finds out about it, unless i can manage to coax him and stop him." "i see," said miss blanchard, thoughtfully; "but what a shame it is!" and so, by force of cruel fate, as it seemed, this girl was as truly chained by invisible fetters to her daily toil among those relentless wheels and pulleys, as if she were a galley-slave. the plantation slaves, on the whole, were not so badly off. they had their regular hours of toil, but their hours of relaxation were free from care, and full of fun and frolic, and--which was another great relief--they had frequent change of labor. roland graeme's words occurred to her mind with a new force and significance. but how was it? did not the heavenly father in whom she had been taught to believe, care for the sparrows, and did he not much more care for helpless girls? was his care not for lizzie as well as for her, in her pleasant, protected life? it was too deep a problem, and she remembered a saying of goethe, which she had lately read that "man is not born to solve the problem of the universe, but to find out what he has to do, and then to do that." and if she could hereafter do anything to help her less favored sisters, she then and there registered an unspoken vow that she would do what she could. the following being as mild a day as was likely to occur that season, dr. blanchard recommended that mrs. travers should be at once removed to the st. barnabas hospital. but it was a task of some difficulty to gain her consent. she seemed to cling tenaciously to the privacy of her wretched little room, and to shrink nervously from the idea of a common hospital ward. she so clearly bore the impress of refinement and culture, that nora felt as if it were inflicting an indignity on her to ask her to endure the trial; and she offered to bear, herself, the expense of a private room for a month, if the patient would consent to the removal. but what then was to be done with the little girl? she could not go to the hospital, and there seemed to be no room for her in lizzie's overcrowded home. "i'll take her in," said mr. alden, with his good-humored smile, as they were consulting over the difficulties in the way. but nora demurred. he had enough of his own, and she did not want to put one more care on mrs. alden or gracie. she took her sister-in-law aside for consultation, and presently returned triumphant. "sophy says i may have her here," she said to her brother. "she's such a dear little grave creature, i don't think she'll give any trouble, and she will help to amuse eddie and daisy. they are almost too much for nurse, now baby's growing so lively." "trust nora for finding the bright side of everything," said dr. blanchard, laughing. "she's a born optimist." "indeed, i thought i was growing pessimistic last night," said nora. "it's horrible to find out, really, how so many people have to live!" she added, looking at mr. alden, with a perplexed look in her eyes, and a shadow over her usually bright face. "and you've had no rest yet!" interposed her brother. "you must go and lie down at once. i'll see the poor woman transferred to her new quarters as safely as may be, and bring the child here; and you can go to see the mother another time." nora went to her dainty, quiet room--such a contrast to the one in which she had spent the night!--and, lying down on the soft luxurious bed, she tried to close her tired eyes in sleep; but it was rather a failure. a healthy young _physique_, accustomed to sleep only at regular hours, does not readily adapt itself to irregular rest; and heart and brain were still too much excited to encourage sleep. the aspect of the miserable little room seemed photographed on her inner sight; the oppressed breathing of the invalid, the sad glimpses into other people's lives, haunted her whenever she closed her eyes. as she lay there on her soft couch in the daintily-appointed room, with the pretty things about her with which girls like to surround themselves, and the light softly shaded to make an artificial twilight, visions rose before her of droning wheels and flashing shuttles, of long arrays of frames, such as she had seen in the factory some time before; and the thought of the girls with feelings and nerves like her own, tending, through so many weary hours, these senseless and relentless machines, oppressed her quick sensibilities like a nightmare. then, when at last she fell into a brief, troubled slumber, she dreamed that she was following some one through mile after mile of endless corridors, all lined with that inexorable, never-ceasing machinery, tended by armies of pale, slender girls, many of them children. and whenever she desired to sit down to rest, her conductor kept beckoning her onward, and she seemed compelled to follow, on--on--would it never end! and as her companion looked round impatiently to urge her advance, she saw for the first time that it was the young man who had been her guide and escort the preceding evening. and, just then, eddie, stealing on tip-toe into the room to see if "auntie were awake yet," dispersed the illusion, and she awoke to a glad consciousness of liberty and restfulness, yet with a strange sense of latent pain behind it. nora lay still a little longer, thinking with some interest of the curious way in which the sights and sounds of waking hours interweave themselves into new and absurd combinations, when the guiding will is for the time off duty. she was naturally introspective, and had a special turn for psychological studies, in which her brother's line of thought harmonized with her own. but suddenly she was startled by sounds that stole into the quietude--sounds of a child's unrestrained, sobbing grief, intermingled with unsuccessful attempts at consolation. chapter ix. in the hospital. "why, eddie, is that daisy crying? what is the matter?" she asked, starting up. "oh, it's the new little girl that's come," replied eddie, with cheerful unconcern. "and she won't stop crying. i've showed her tatters and my noah's ark and the gray kitten; and 'tisn't any use--she's such a silly!" "oh! dear!" exclaimed nora. "i must go down at once." and, hurriedly re-arranging her hair and dress, she ran down-stairs, followed by eddie. on the rug outside the drawing-room door crouched the little girl, shaken by a storm of passionate sobs. she had borne the separation from her weak and passive mother, with a quiet resignation mainly produced by the doctor's assurance that if she were good and did not worry her mother, who was going where she would be made better, she should soon see her again. the grave quietude which the child had maintained with a great effort had not given way, until dr. blanchard, in haste to reach an urgent "case," had put her inside his own door in charge of a servant. then, the strangeness of everything about her, and the blank loneliness of the situation, from _her_ point of view, had apparently so oppressed her, that the unnatural composure gave way before a tornado of passionate abandonment. mrs. blanchard was out, but the nurse had tried her best to console and divert her, and so had eddie and daisy; but so far without avail. nora could hardly help smiling, as she remembered her programme for the children's relation to each other, and saw how it had been reversed. the plump little daisy stood over her, looking concerned, but holding out her gray kitten as if it were the olive-branch of peace, while the neglected inhabitants of noah's ark lay in picturesque confusion in the background. when miss blanchard appeared, however, matters changed a little, as she bent over the sobbing child with loving words and gestures, pushed aside the old hood and shawl, and smoothed the tangled mass of dark, curly hair, till the sobs grew fainter and the child allowed herself to be raised from the floor. under the uncouth disguise of her outer raiment, now removed, she wore a neatly-made, though faded, print frock; which, though evidently outgrown, was whole and clean; and, for the first time, miss blanchard realized her unusual beauty of face and form, with the pleasure of one keenly sensitive to beauty of all kinds. she had heard from lizzie that "cissy" was passionately fond of music, and the happy thought occurred to her of taking her into the drawing-room, and playing to her some sweet and simple melodies that were favorites of her own. the experiment succeeded beyond her hopes. the child listened like one entranced. her large, soft, lustrous eyes dilated, and her whole face seemed lighted with a new expression, as she followed with evident appreciation every change of the music. it was as if the delight of listening absorbed her whole being. then, as nora began to sing to her, her delight seemed to increase. a dawning smile relaxed the sad curves of her lips, a dewy moisture suffused the lovely dark-gray eyes. it was clear, miss blanchard thought, that she had discovered here a musical soul. "does your mother sing to you sometimes?" she asked. "not much," said the child. "she likes _me_ to sing to her, best." "sing to me now, then," replied nora. but the child was too shy. that evening, however, when she was alone with the other children in the nursery, nora heard her trying to hum over the airs of the songs she had sung to her, with wonderful accuracy and sweetness of tone. this discovery set her castle-building at once. there was no knowing what musical talent this little one might develop! and if she could aid her to develop it, she would thus help one girl, at least, out of the weary monotony of poorly paid and unremitting toil. the following day was sunday, and nora had a headache, as was hardly surprising, after her unusual fatigue and excitement, so that it was only on the day following, that she and the little cecilia, for whom some garments had meantime been remodelled out of old ones of mrs. blanchard's, were set down by the doctor at the door of the hospital. it was a new experience for her, and she walked with some nervous dread along the whitewashed corridors, oppressed by the feeling that behind those white walls were being fought, unseen, many battles between disease and death on the one hand, and medical care and skill on the other. as she passed on, guided by the porter, she could catch glimpses, through partially open doors, of wards filled with "heavy cases"--every bed, apparently, tenanted; of others where convalescents were sitting among neat beds with snowy coverlets--pictures and plants giving an air of comfort to the place. at the end of a long passage, she found herself in a cheerful little room, with an open fire burning brightly in the grate, and her old acquaintance, miss spencer, kitty farrell's cousin, in her pretty nurse's uniform, sitting beside the bed on which lay the invalid she had come to see. the latter looked pale and weak, indeed, but seemed so different in her new surroundings and fresh white draperies, that miss blanchard would scarcely have recognized her. the little cecilia threw herself upon her mother in a close, clinging embrace, which the nurse presently loosened gently, lifting her to a seat on the bed, where she could look at her mother without tiring her. the latter was evidently very weak, and scarcely cared to talk; but she looked gratefully, if shyly, at miss blanchard, and then lay with her beautiful dark-gray eyes, so like the child's, and half-screened by the long dark lashes, fixed on the little one beside her. the dusky hair that lay in a mass about her pale face, on the white pillow, seemed to make it paler by comparison, but also made her look even younger than miss blanchard had supposed her. the latter purposely made her visit very brief, but suggested that she and miss spencer should leave the mother and child alone, with the almost unnecessary caution "not to talk," to which neither seemed disposed. miss spencer led the way to the little sitting-room used by the nurses, which was then empty. "how nice and neat it all is!" said nora, as they sat down, her eyes coming back from their survey to rest admiringly on the serene, happy face of the young nurse. janet or "janie" spencer, as her friends called her, had interested her very much in their occasional meetings. there was something about her, not easy to define, which attracted most people. she was a rather large, well-developed young woman, with her cousin kitty's fairness of coloring, but not kitty's exquisite delicacy of complexion and moulding. an expression of kindly good sense and good-humored benevolence seemed to shine in her clear eyes and to hover about the curves of her red lips; her calm, even manner was soothing in itself, and in her fresh picturesque uniform, nora thought she looked like an impersonation of the divine art of healing. "well, how do you like your work?" asked nora, eagerly. "'_like_' isn't the word!" was the reply. "it's intensely interesting. you get so absorbed in the interest of it that you never take time to think whether you like it or not! of course, there are things you can't like in themselves, but you forget that, when you know that you are doing what is of real consequence. and then i think i always was cut out for a nurse. ever since i was a child, i liked nothing so well as caring for sick people." "we all thought it was very lovely of you to make up your mind to do it, though." "well, i simply couldn't go on as i was. you know there were some things i could never forget----" nora touched caressingly the soft hand that looked so strong and helpful, with all its softness. she had heard of the young lover whose sudden death had altered janie spencer's life. presently she went on: "that ordinary, humdrum, easy existence--so many of us girls at home, and no interests but calls and parties and novels and fancy-work--it seemed just trifling away life; and i thought if ever i could save any one who was ill as _he_ was, how sweet it would be!--almost as if i did it for him!" "then it wasn't mr. chillingworth's preaching, after all," said nora, vaguely disappointed. "oh, i think that did decide me," she said. "it was one of his strongest sermons, i think, and it came just when i was feeling so sick of doing nothing in particular. he was speaking, you know, of the beauty of the christian ideal of living for the good of others; and he gave as an example, the life of a hospital nurse, and how happy she might always be in realizing the truth of the words, 'inasmuch as ye have done it to one or the least of these, ye have done it unto me.' i think it was _that_ that decided me." "but now," said miss spencer, after a short silence, "i suppose you don't know much about this poor young woman?" "no," said nora; "but i'm sure she has a history." "so am i! one or two things she said made me suspect a romance of some kind. i notice that her wedding ring is very massive, and she has a habit of fingering it in a caressing sort of way." "poor thing! i suppose she's a widow." "she wouldn't say, and i couldn't press her. it seemed to pain her to talk about it. my impression is that she is _not_; but of course that is merely an impression." "the child is passionately fond of music," said nora. "i shouldn't wonder if she turned out to be a musical genius." "possibly, then, her father may have been one of those professionals who seem so lax in their matrimonial ideas, and desert their wives so easily.--at least, i've heard of such cases," she added. "i suppose the 'artistic temperament' as they call it, has a tendency to forsake ordinary lines." "it's queer," said nora, thoughtfully. "one would think music should always be an elevating influence." "i'm sure it is, at its best," said janet. "but it has another side, like most things." "oh dear!" said nora, "this is a very puzzling world. well, it's nice to be you, and to have found out just the work you are fitted for, and how you can best help other people." and this thought clung to her as she walked home with the still silent cecilia, through the damp, foggy december afternoon, the child bravely keeping down her strong inclination to cry, lest she should forfeit the privilege of going again. the world seemed, to nora's imagination, to have taken the dull, cheerless aspect of the day, seen from the under side, from which she had lately been looking at it. and it seemed to her that they alone could be counted happy who knew how to lighten a little the cheerlessness and gloom. if she only knew _how_! chapter x. a fireside talk. the fog and moisture had turned to snow, and the cold grayness of the early winter dusk emphasized the cheeriness that lighted up mrs. blanchard's drawing-room with its warm glow. nora was practising, perseveringly, the choruses that were to be sung that evening at the first general practice for the oratorio, whither mr. chillingworth was to escort her, after dinner, to which he had been invited. mrs. blanchard reclined luxuriously in an easy-chair in front of the fire, half-lulled to sleep by the combined influence of the heat and the music, undisturbed by the prattle of the children, who, in the absence of visitors, were in full possession. cecilia held "tatters," the pet terrier, cuddled close to her with one hand, while with the other she helped eddie and daisy to set up the animals from their noah's ark, in a "'nagery percession" between two lines of stiff, conical trees taken from eddie's "village," and supposed to represent an "avenue," with occasional little painted wooden houses behind it. as several of the animals had lost some of their legs, the setting up was a task of some difficulty, and presented some curious situations, the maimed wolf having to lean for support against his neighbor the lamb, while a hen that had lost one of her stout pedestals had to be similarly propped up against a fox of equal size. the long procession having been finally completed, nora was called to come and admire. "see, auntie, it isn't a noah's ark percession," said eddie, "it's a 'nagery percession. and those ar'n't noah and his sons either. they're barnum and the keepers." "oh, young america!" said nora, laughing, in a semi-soliloquy. "you must remodel everything, even noah's ark." "well, noah's ark was a sort of 'nagery," replied eddie, answering the tone rather than the words, "and i guess noah was about as clever as mr. barnum." nora walked back to the piano, concealing an irresistible laugh. after all, she thought, children had to interpret those old stories of the past through present-day experiences--but her own childish conceptions had never been quite so realistic. cecilia followed her to the piano, and stood by her in her usual attitude of absorbed attention, while miss blanchard went through the passage, "he shall feed his flock like a shepherd." neither heard the doorbell ring, and mr. chillingworth had quietly opened the door some time before his presence was noticed. "thank you," he said, advancing, with a smile, "i wanted to hear that to the end before you knew you had an audience of even one--though i should say _two_," he added, glancing at the child, whom in her altered dress and surroundings, he did not in the least recognize. "_i_ was listening, too," said mrs. blanchard, rousing herself to greet him, and continuing to her sister-in-law: "oh, you needn't laugh, nora, i could hear the music quite well, if my eyes were shut. there's nothing that soothes one so." "yes, i know you find it soothing, sophy, dear," replied nora, demurely, while mr. chillingworth discreetly held his peace. meantime cecilia had stolen away, back to the other children, whom the nurse had come to summon to tea. she recognized the clergyman at once, and she instinctively shrank from another encounter with him. "you have a visitor there, i see," remarked mr. chillingworth, as the children disappeared. "what a pretty child she is! she has such lovely eyes. who is she? somehow her face seems familiar to me, or else she is like some one i know." "oh, i don't think you can have seen her before," said nora. "she's the child of a poor young woman will sent to the hospital--the young woman he was sent for to go to see that evening, you know." "oh, the one to whom you went to act the good samaritan? i meant to ask you how you found her." "she was very ill indeed," replied miss blanchard, gravely; then turning fully round, she looked up at him and exclaimed: "oh, mr. chillingworth, i never could have imagined any one living in such a wretched place! scarcely any furniture, and the poor thing lying on such a miserable bed on the floor! and she seemed so refined and pretty! it is horrible to think that such things can be!" mr. chillingworth half closed his eyes for a moment, as if to shut out the picture she conjured up. such scenes always jarred terribly on his æsthetic sense, and on principle, he avoided them as much as possible. they always upset him so, and he could do so little to help! "yes, my dear miss blanchard, this fleeting life of ours has many mysteries about it, sad and strange enough, but we should only be making ourselves perpetually miserable, if we were always looking at them and trying to solve them. and then you must remember that things often look worse, when we see them from the outside. human nature has a wonderful way of adapting itself to circumstances, and this life is only a fleeting one, you know. the great thing is--to lead the sufferers to look beyond!" "yes, i know," said nora, somewhat impatiently. "but then, i do think it would be better, for _us_ as well as for them, if we were to try to make it better for them now! that was what the good samaritan did--you spoke of just now, wasn't it, when the priest and the levite passed by on the other side?" "undoubtedly, as you say, that _is_ best for us, as it is for them," he replied. "yes, the life for others is the true life. "'the quality of mercy is not strained, it blesses him that gives and him that takes.'" mr. chillingworth always rendered the quotation so as to convey the impression that the "giver" was a good deal more to be considered than the "taker." "well, nora did her duty as a good samaritan," interposed mrs. blanchard, tired of being left out of the conversation. "she stayed in that wretched room all night, and sat up with the poor woman. i only wonder she didn't catch something dreadful, herself." "is it possible!" the clergyman exclaimed. "but that seems too great a sacrifice on your part. was there no one else at hand?" "yes," said nora, with a touch of satire in her tone. "there was a poor girl, a mill hand, who had been working all day, and sitting up at night with this poor sick woman. i thought that _was_ too great a sacrifice!" mr. chillingworth's dark eyes lighted up. "ah," he said, "such scenes transfigure the dark places of life, do they not?" nora sighed--a little impatient sigh. she could not, it seemed, convey to the mind of any one else the intolerance she felt of a social state in which such hard conditions of life could prevail, for any portion of humanity. every one about her seemed to acquiesce resignedly in the inevitable. "and so you have added to your kindness, that of taking in the poor woman's child?" he continued. "yes," again interposed mrs. blanchard. "there seemed to be no one else to take care of her, so nora begged to be allowed to take her in, and you know we are all her abject slaves!" nora laughed. "i'd like to see you an abject slave to any one," she said. "indeed, i feel abject enough just now," she replied, yawning slightly. "mr. chillingworth, how many visits do you think nora and i paid this afternoon?" "i shouldn't venture to guess," he said, smiling. "fifteen! not one less. haven't i a right to feel tired after such a day's work? just think of all the talking i've done." "but then several of the people weren't at home, so we only had to leave the cards and come away," explained the severely truthful nora. "well, eight visits, with all the talking that means, is a very good afternoon's work." and having successfully diverted the conversation from such unpleasant topics, mrs. blanchard kept up a little skirmishing small-talk till dinner was announced. kitty farrell came in to join them after dinner, as had been arranged. she was looking particularly bright and pretty in her soft white wraps. she had brought her father's neat little brougham, in which they drove down to the hall, where the practice would be held. "i suppose you're both going to mrs. pomeroy's dinner-party, on saturday evening?" said mr. chillingworth, on the way. "i am," nora replied, "and it is scarcely necessary to ask if miss farrell is." "indeed, i don't see any reason for taking it for granted," said kitty, coquettishly; "but if you really want to know, i believe we're all going. it will be quite large for a dinner-party; so, nora, mind you are to look your best!" just as they got out of the brougham, and stood full in the light of the lamp at the entrance, a young man, passing hurriedly, looked up and took a rapid survey of the trio. nora caught the glance, and recognized the young man who had walked with her through the lamp-lighted streets a few evenings before. she was sorry that she had not had time to show that she recognized him, for he had interested her almost as much as the new trains of thought he had started. the practice went on very much as all practices do. the choruses had to be gone over again and again, till the time and harmony were, in the conductor's estimation at least, approximately correct. nora could not help wishing that some other words could have been used for the practice, than those carrying such sacred meanings and associations. she began to see why her aunt margaret did not care for oratorios, when she noticed some of the girls tittering over mistakes in the rendering of some of the most solemn and touching passages. mr. chillingworth watched it all carefully from the artistic point of view--which, for the time at least, he seemed to have disassociated from the religious. at last it was over, for that evening, and kitty and nora were resuming their wraps, while mr. chillingworth was holding an animated talk with the conductor and the accompanist, herr waldberg, on points connected with the rendering of some of the passages. waldberg, his handsome face lighted up with the glow and sparkle of musical enthusiasm, came up with mr. chillingworth, and, courteously bowing to the young ladies, exchanged a few words with kitty in an undertone. she lingered a moment, as nora waited for her at the entrance. "i needn't take you and mr. chillingworth out of your way to walk round with me," she said. "you know i didn't order the carriage to come back, as i didn't know just when it would be over, and father does not like to have the horses standing at night. but mr. waldberg has kindly offered to see me home, so you won't have to come all that way round, and it's snowing quite fast, isn't it?" nora felt vaguely dissatisfied, she hardly knew why, at the proposed arrangement. but of course she could offer no objection, and mr. chillingworth was by no means sorry to be permitted to walk home with miss blanchard, _tête-à-tête_. they were both enthusiasts in music, and could talk about it, the oratorio and its rendering, with more freedom from distraction than when kitty, with her butterfly nature was at hand, ready at any moment to strike off on some other tack. and again, as they walked on, nora observed that her unknown friend passed them at a rapid pace, but this time he was going the same way, and she did not know whether he observed her or not. chapter xi. thorns and roses. "what are you going to wear to-night, nora?" asked mrs. blanchard, as the two still lingered in company over the breakfast-table, which the busy doctor had, as usual, quitted before them. this was always the most important question in mrs. blanchard's mind, when they were going to any entertainment. "i suppose my black velvet will do, won't it?" said nora, looking up from the newspaper in which she was, at the moment, reading a paragraph describing the miseries of poor sewing-women, and the pittance for which they are often compelled to give their long hours of toil. "well, i suppose so," said her sister-in-law, discontentedly, "though that black velvet certainly does seem too old for you. why not wear that pretty _écru_ and black lace costume?" "but then," objected nora, "i wore it at mrs. farrell's musical-party, and i don't want to wear it quite so soon again. besides, this won't be a very big party." "not big, certainly, but awfully swell. mrs. pomeroy's dinner-parties always are. just wait till you see! however, your black velvet does look quite elegant, and that old lace of aunt margaret's and her pearl cross look just lovely with it! they suit you, somehow; so perhaps you couldn't do better. but i wish you would get a new dress; crushed-strawberry satin would be so becoming, and you'll want it, for you will be going out a good deal this winter." "no," said nora, "i couldn't think of getting anything more now; i have all i really need, and it seems horrible to think of getting more than one needs, when some people have to live like this!" and she read aloud the paragraph that had caught her eye. "oh, dear!" said mrs. blanchard, "i wish you weren't always seeing such things. there always was and there always will be misery in the world, but what good does it do any one to make yourself miserable about it? and if you get a new dress made, doesn't that help somebody?" nora was always perplexed when other people's notions of political economy were arrayed on the side of selfish expenditure. was the world built up on _selfishness_ after all? if so, where was the place of self-sacrifice? but it did not seem as if it "helped people" very much "to wear out their lives" in return for the barest subsistence. that afternoon, she took little cecilia on a second visit to her mother. it was very cold, and the snow lay white on the hard, frozen streets; but nora, well wrapped in her furs, felt the cold, keen air as exhilarating as a tonic, as they walked briskly on to the hospital, the child also wrapped warmly in the mufflings that nora's care had provided. she had begun to be a little more communicative, but was evidently a fitful, uncertain child; in general reserved and quiet, though subject to fits of extreme excitability, in which it seemed as if nothing but music could soothe her. both dr. blanchard and nora had been studying her with much interest, the doctor declaring that under-feeding and a life of unnatural confinement and solitude must be responsible for many of her peculiarities. at the hospital, miss blanchard found mrs. travers getting on favorably. she showed more pleasure at seeing her child than on the previous occasion, and, in reply to nora's inquiries, expressed herself as very comfortable there. "it would be strange if i were not," she added, "every one is so kind, miss spencer especially. she couldn't be kinder, if i were her sister." and again miss blanchard was struck with her unusual refinement of tone and manner as well as of language. but she seemed rather shy and ill at ease, nora thought, and she was about to turn aside to look up at miss spencer, when a gentle knock sounded, and lizzie mason entered. the invalid was evidently genuinely glad to see her, and held her hand, as if she could not let it go. nora, as she watched them for a few moments, was pained to see that lizzie looked as if she had been crying, and seemed particularly sad and depressed. "i did not think of seeing you here," said nora; "i thought you were engaged at this hour." "it's saturday, you know, miss. there's always a sort of a half-holiday on saturday." "well, you look as if you needed a little fresh air," replied nora, gently. "i'm afraid you have had some trouble." her kind voice and gentle words seemed too much for poor lizzie. she bent down her head, as she sat by the bed, holding the invalid's hand, and sobbed quietly. by degrees, nora drew from her the cause of her grief. "jim" had been going on badly, had been off on another "tear," incited thereto by jealousy of nelly's flightiness, and of her mysterious admirer. he had been "run in" for drinking and disorderly conduct, and lizzie had had to take most of the money she had been saving up for warm winter clothing, in order to pay his fine. "oh, lizzie, why did you do that?" asked miss blanchard. "indeed, miss, how could i let jim go to jail, and have mother fretting to break her heart? i'd rather starve!" and nora knew, in her heart, that the girl could not have done otherwise. but that was not all. the manager had threatened to dismiss "jim" unless he should behave better, and meantime had put him at lower work for lower wages. "perhaps i might ask young mr. pomeroy to speak a good word for him," nora said. "i know him very well." "oh, no, miss, don't!" cried lizzie, nervously; "it wouldn't do no good! the manager does as he thinks best, and they never interfere with him. why, he cut down nearly all the girls' wages lately, and they knew they durstn't say a word! he'd discharge the first one that did! an' all that makes it so much harder now to get on." nora did all she could to console the poor girl, talked of "trust" and "patience," till the words, coming from one in her position, to one in lizzie's, seemed almost to die on her tongue, and she wondered they were not thrown back in her face. but lizzie had learned her lesson of "patience" better, and when mrs. travers said, rather bitterly, "ah, yes, it's a poor world for us poor women," lizzie only said, wiping away her tears: "oh, well, we must make the best of it! tain't no good frettin'!" nora offered, rather hesitatingly, to go to see lizzie next afternoon, if she liked, and the offer was gratefully accepted. "and maybe you could say a good word to jim; he'll be at home then, and though i never can get jim to go to church, i guess he would listen to you!--and p'raps nelly might be there, too. i do wish you could get to know nelly! she'd mind what you would say, a sight better than anything i can tell her." nora walked silently homeward, with a new sorrowful image before her. as she dressed for the dinner-party, the pale tear-stained face seemed still before her, and she was calculating how much it would cost to buy a good warm winter jacket for the half-clad girl. little cecilia had begged to be allowed to help her to dress, and eagerly did all she was permitted to do, admiring with silent intentness the rich soft folds of the velvet that showed to such advantage the straight, graceful, rounded figure, and the white neck and arms that gleamed out of the fine old lace; and, what seemed to the child the most beautiful of all, the cross of pure, translucent pearls which so fitly adorned the white throat above the square-cut corsage. this old pearl cross, aunt margaret's parting gift, and a prized relic of her long-past girlhood, was nora's favorite ornament. its form was symbolical of a thousand tender, sacred associations, and the purity of the pearls seemed emblematic of a higher purity, divine and human. she liked to wear it as a reminder to herself of many things that she desired never to forget, even in the gladdest and most festive moment. and to-night it seemed connected in her thoughts with lizzie's pale pathetic face, and her life of perpetual self-sacrifice. "well, you look very nice!" said mrs. blanchard, approvingly, as she came in to make an inspection--"only you're pale--you want some roses." and as she spoke, she produced a lovely cluster of pink and blush roses, which she fastened on the creamy lace of nora's corsage; while deftly twisting an opening bud among her silky coils of hair, to cecilia's manifest delight. "there," she said, "that lights it up a good deal!" and she walked back, casting critical glances at the general effect. "the severe style does suit you--that can't be denied!" she added. "oh, what lovely roses!" exclaimed nora, bending her graceful head, to inhale their delicate fragrance. "it was so good of you to get them for me!" "well, i didn't get them, to tell the truth! i meant to get some, though; but this morning i got a little box from mr. chillingworth, with a note, begging that you and i would oblige him by wearing the contents. see, here are mine," pointing to a cluster of tea-roses on her own blue satin. "so you see i kept them for a surprise, sort of _coup de grâce_; now, i think that was quite a clever idea." "but ought i really to wear them?" asked nora, doubtfully. the "roses" had come to her face, now, as well as her dress, giving just the one touch which her sister-in-law had thought she lacked. "why, of course you can," replied mrs. blanchard, quickly. "just as well as i can wear mine! it was so nice of the dear man to think of us _both_!" "it was _very_ kind, and there's nothing i like so well as roses," said nora, again breathing in their fragrance; "and these made me think so much of summer and rockland." but it is doubtful whether it would have given her so much pleasure to wear them, in her present mood, had she known just what they cost! chapter xii. table-talk. when the little party reached mrs. pomeroy's sumptuous drawing-room--a blaze of light and color--most of the guests had already arrived. mr. pomeroy, a large, important looking man, who seemed to be on excellent terms with himself and with the world in general, greeted them with a rather pompous cordiality, and then retired to the background to continue his conversation with an old gentleman of somewhat grim and shaggy aspect, whose old-fashioned frock-coat contrasted somewhat oddly with his host's expansive shirt-front and irreproachable dress-suit. mrs. pomeroy was a rather small, dark-eyed woman, with a good deal of character and energy in her face, and a dress of sober richness, almost suggestive of quakerism in its hue. miss pomeroy, rather tall, and dark, and good-looking, though with a slight hardness and discontent about the curves of her face, was engaged in an animated conversation with mr. chillingworth. kitty farrell--looking exquisite and radiant in some diaphanous, pink, silky texture, was appropriated, of course, by young pomeroy. her father, with a thin careworn face, quick and restless in his movements, was talking with mr. pomeroy and the old gentleman, while mrs. farrell, fair, languid, and most tastefully attired, reclined on a sofa beside mrs. pomeroy. there were some other people, including a banker and his wife--a mr. and mrs. cheever, accompanied by a miss harley, an english lady with an english complexion and roundness of figure, who was paying them a visit, and on whose account, mainly, the party was given. nora was speedily introduced to a young man who arrived almost simultaneously with themselves--fresh and good-looking, with dark-brown hair and full moustache, which parted in a frequent smile over very white teeth. he was introduced as "mr. archer," and nora was trying to make up her mind whether she liked his face or not, when dinner was announced, and her new acquaintance offered his arm. the dinner-table seemed like a miniature garden of exquisite flowers, amid which gleamed the silver, crystal, and costly haviland china--a recent acquisition. mr. pomeroy was a man who always liked to be sure that he had "the best" of everything, and who regarded it as a duty to gratify his desire to the utmost. as nora sat down and involuntarily took in the impression of beauty, brilliancy and costliness afforded by the whole, her thoughts went back once more to poor lizzie's struggling life, with its sordid surroundings, and the winter jacket she couldn't buy. but mr. archer's amusing flow of talk, and the interest of finding out the ideas and tastes of a new acquaintance, soon diverted her thoughts. mr. chillingworth, who had taken in his hostess, was seated on her other side, and claimed a large share of her attention. a certain mr. wharton, of literary proclivities, and the old gentleman aforesaid, were nearly opposite. "so good of you to come this evening," said mrs. pomeroy. "we shouldn't have fixed on saturday, but it seemed the only evening we could have miss harley, who will be here only for a few days. but we thought you wouldn't mind, for once." "oh, i happened to be pretty well up with my work this week; so i could allow myself the pleasure, with a clear conscience," replied the clergyman. the talk drifted about in the usual inconsequential manner of dinner-parties. the courses, _entrées, et cætera_, were many and elaborate, and were evidently thoroughly appreciated, by the gentlemen, at least. mr. archer smilingly noticed that miss blanchard declined wine, as indeed did the hostess, also, who had pronounced views on the subject of total abstinence, it appeared, although yielding to her husband's wish to have wine at his table. mrs pomeroy was indeed a "prominent worker," as the _minerva_ would have put it, on various philanthropic and mission boards so she hastened to reinforce miss blanchard in a playful skirmish as to the merits of total abstinence societies and of prohibition, of which she was a strenuous advocate. mr pomeroy presently, however, shut off the discussion by telling his friends that they had better enjoy their champagne while they could, as mrs pomeroy was determined to take it from them altogether, and there was no knowing how soon she might succeed. and then he struck at once into a fresh subject. "by the way, wharton, that was a capital letter of yours in the _minerva_ the other day, on that last book of henry george's." "glad you thought so," replied mr wharton, complacently. "i thought the _minerva_ was growing quite too enthusiastic over it, so i just touched them up a little on the subject." "and you did to some purpose," said his host. "that was a good point you made, anyway--when you showed up the fallacy of that absurd assertion that the poor are growing poorer. i haven't read the book myself, but if that's how he talks, i should say it's great stuff!" "oh, that point's the thing!" rejoined mr wharton, pleased to dilate a little on a favorite subject. "if you grant him that, you have to grant him a great deal more. but of course it's absurd." "well," said mr. archer, his moustache parting over his white teeth, with his cynical smile--"i suppose we don't any of us live just as our ancestors did in queen elizabeth's time. i doubt if her majesty ever saw such a charmingly arranged dinner-table in her life!" here he bowed toward the hostess. "but i happened to see something of the tenements of new york lately, in connection with a case which involved the proprietorship of some of them. i really think i'd rather have the elizabethan style, so far as the laborer is concerned. but of course, all laborers don't live in rooms that would hardly be fit for a dog-kennel." nora's thoughts went off to the wretched apartment in which she had so lately spent the night, but she was too shy to join in a general conversation. her brother, however, remarked tersely, that he saw some wretched enough kennels, even in minton, and that, "if some quarters of the city were not soon looked after, they would be hearing of an outbreak of typhoid fever or diphtheria, the first thing." "oh, doctor!" exclaimed mrs. farrell, in alarm. "you don't say so. i do hope it _will_ be looked after soon!" mrs. pomeroy, however, remarked that, for her part, she thought the poor people seemed very happy and comfortable, so far as she came in contact with them, in connection with the clothing club. mr. archer smiled again. "by the way, mr. pomeroy," he remarked, "have you seen the new paper?" "what new paper?" inquired the host. "_the brotherhood_, the new champion of the oppressed and down-trodden workmen! i tell you, you manufacturers will have to look out. you'll be brought to book for all your iniquities." "yes, i believe i did see a wretched little sheet of that name somewhere, started by some crank. but of course, i haven't time to look at such things." "ah," said mr. chillingworth, "i suppose that is the paper a young man came to canvass me for! i don't know whether he wanted me to take it or to write for it. but i see he has sent it to me." "oh, _both_, mr. chillingworth!" retorted mr. archer, smiling with mock persuasiveness. "the editor of it, mr. roland graeme, is well known to me; in fact, i have the honor of having him at present in my office, and i can answer for him that he would be delighted to accept any contributions from your pen." "or from mine, say," remarked mr. wharton. "i'm not so sure about _you_! you are too much on the philosophical tack! you wouldn't have enough sympathy. _the brotherhood_, you know, is founded on the idea of christian fellow-feeling." "thanks, very much, for your good opinion!" retorted the other. "i've heard a good deal about that fellow, roland graeme," remarked mr. pomeroy, in his tone of bland patronage. "i should say he hadn't enough to do! he's been aiding and abetting the 'knights of labor,' in every way he can; in fact, they say he's one, himself: and they're troublesome enough, without having better educated people, who ought to know better, putting their oars in!" "'knights,' indeed!" echoed mrs. pomeroy, sarcastically, "precious _knights_!" "why, they actually had the cheek to come and interview _me_, lately," said mr. pomeroy. "they had a whole list of grievances that they wanted remedied. willett wouldn't have anything to say to them, so they came on to me. and i believe this roland graeme was at the bottom of it." "well, he isn't half a bad fellow," said mr. archer, "but he's awfully soft in some ways. a child could get round him, quicker indeed than a grown-up person," he added, half to himself. "but what did you do? did you grant their requests?" "not i! there were far too many. they wanted shorter hours, and bigger pay, and half-holidays, and all the rest of it. oh, by the way, there _was_ one thing, willett had been negligent about, some shafting that had been left uncovered; i had that inquired into and put right." "then the interview wasn't absolutely without results," remarked the elderly gentleman in the frock-coat, joining in the discussion for the first time, and speaking in a deep, guttural, scotch voice and accent. "oh, i've no doubt we'd have put that all right in due time, without their interference," said the host, somewhat superciliously. "aye! after an accident, and an inquest, and a suit for damages," returned the scotchman, with a dry smile and twinkle of the eye. "come! come! mr. dunlop, you have a rather bad opinion of us, i know; but for our own sakes, you know, we want to have everything right about the mills. and as for all these other things--why, if we went to pampering and coddling those people to that extent, they would think so much of themselves, that by and by they wouldn't want to work at all. why now, if we were to do as they ask, increase their pay and shorten their hours, how could we compete with firms that went in the old way? the thing is preposterous. as it is, those people who get their pay regularly and have no care, are better off, this minute, if they only knew it, than we who have all the care and responsibility, that they know nothing about. let me help you to a bit of partridge; you'll find it just right, i think." "and would you be caring to exchange with one of them?" persisted mr. dunlop, as he accepted the slice of partridge. "why, no, of course, it wouldn't suit me any more than my work would suit them." "that's a very fallacious test of yours, mr. dunlop," interposed the sagacious mr. wharton. "as mr. pomeroy says, what would suit one wouldn't suit another. and then, the environment we are accustomed to counts for something. our friend here, accustomed to his charming surroundings, as a matter of course, could not lose them without real deprivation. but a man unused to them would find them only a burden. depend upon it, things in this world find their own level after all." "of course they do," rejoined mr. pomeroy; "as for all this talk about 'fraternity and equality,' the stuff such people as this graeme are so fond of spouting--poisonous trash!--it's simply making people discontented with the inevitable conditions of life, and doing them no possible good. it's so much rank poison, morally speaking, is it not, mr. chillingworth?" the clergyman had been listening silently, but he now readily responded. "oh, there is no doubt in my mind that all the evils complained of--and no doubt there are some hardships--can be remedied in only one way, in the spread of the christian spirit of love and service which must eventually prevail over selfish and partial views." "and that would probably have been your verdict, in the last generation, as against abolitionists like garrison and phillips and whittier, would it not?" remarked mr. archer, in his even, cool, slightly satirical tones. "slavery would die out gradually, as the christian spirit spread among the planters. but then, the question would have been, again, who should _begin_? slave-holder number one wouldn't want to begin till slave-holder number two did; so it would be difficult to see how the reformation would get started." "come now, philip!" said mrs. pomeroy. the young man was a distant relation of hers, and took liberties accordingly. "you don't mean to put us all on a level with slave-holders, surely! this is a free country, i should hope; and no one is called on to do more for his _employés_ than he conveniently can." "ah, now, my dear cousin, that's a delightful sort of philosophy! do you know, i've sometimes found it inconvenient to pay my clerks, when i had been going in heavily for opera-tickets--i'm glad to think i'm not called on to do more than i conveniently can." philip archer could always turn the most serious argument into a joke when he pleased--and he always pleased at a certain point--but mr. wharton was not going to let him off so easily. "of course you were not serious in that analogy of yours," he said. "there can be no parallel between a distinct wrong to humanity, and purely relative matters like wages and hours." "and are ye sure ye have a clear comprehension of what _are_ the _rights_ of humanity?" struck in the deep scotch voice. mr. dunlop had finished his partridge, and, having laid down his knife and fork, seemed ready to begin hostilities in earnest. "i tell ye what it is," he went on, without waiting for a reply, "it would pay all you capitalists and employers just to take a look into things a little, to see what your men are doing and thinking--what the 'knights' and 'unions' are after--and consider if ye couldn't arrive at some rational understanding. there's nothing would propitiate them quicker than that. this thing's going to grow! it's young yet, and only totters on its feet; but by and by it will be as we say in scotland, 'neither to haud nor to bind!' awhile ago, ye were speaking of 'fraternity and equality,' mr. pomeroy. there was a third thing that went wi' them in the old days, that ye didna' mention! we're supposed to have got _liberty_, and it's bound to work out its own salvation. i tell ye there's a big, silent army, marshalling without fife or drum, and if ye persist in ignoring it, as the grandees of france did before _their_ revolution, _ye'll_ maybe have a revolution, too. what if the men were growing nae poorer? they see you all growing richer, the style of living rising on all hands. can they be o' the same stock with you, and no want to rise too? and then wi' your 'protection' an' your 'combines,' ye're loading them down wi' a greater weight o' taxation than it took to make your ancestors rise and fight, shoulder to shoulder, for their independence! but ye won't see it! it's been aye the way, 'whom the gods would destroy they first make mad'!" "why, mr. dunlop, i had no idea you were such a pessimist! you must have been taking an extra dose of carlyle!" said mr. pomeroy, evidently trying to smooth out a frown, and retain his usual bland exterior. "aye! i've read my 'french revolution' to some purpose, an' human nature's the same in all places and ages," was the grim reply. "and what would you have us poor blinded creatures do?" inquired his host; "take all our men into partnership? a nice muddle they'd soon make of it!" miss harley had been listening with deep interest to the little skirmish, her cheek flushing slightly, and her clear eyes shining with some vivid emotion. now she spoke, with a soft clearness of tone that seemed to give every word additional weight. "i think," she said, "that we, in england, have got so much accustomed now to the word _coöperation_, that it begins to sound quite natural to us. mr. ruskin, of course, did a great deal to drive it into us, and a good many others have caught it up. and i can tell you something of the success of one experiment. my father had extensive works in wiltshire. he had been reading ruskin's _fors clavigera_, mainly on social matters, you know, and, being a quaker, and having strict ideas as to duty, he began to think he wasn't using his men quite fairly. he knew, too, that there were some socialists among them, trying to breed mischief, and he thought he would try an experiment. so he invited a large number of the more intelligent of the men to meet him and hear his report of the state of the business. he laid it all before them, in the most precise and business-like way, explained the assets and debts--cost of working, annual proceeds, and all. he tried to give them an idea of the risks run, the capital needed, the fluctuations of trade, and so on, and then he told them that he would give to each man who proved his steadiness, and who chose to accept it, instead of wages, a certain share in the profits, graduated according to the value of his work. of course it was only the picked men who accepted. the more shiftless and less intelligent preferred to take their ordinary wage, which was always a generous one, thinking 'a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush'. but the others made, my father used to say, 'capital partners'--they took such an interest in the business, were constantly suggesting little improvements and ways of saving waste, and were always on the lookout for all carelessness or 'scamped work' among the other men. and when a tight time came, they were able to convince the others that if they were kept on at all, it must be at a reduction. 'you see _we_ can't afford more,' i've heard one man say to another, going home from work. and when there were 'strikes' and failures all around, his business continued to live on, like an organic creature, as he used to say, drawing itself in or letting itself out according to circumstances. and sometimes the generosity of the men in a slack time used to bring tears to his eyes, as he would tell us about it with pleasure and pride." every one had listened with interest to the pleasant little episode. mr. chillingworth's dark eyes had lighted up with enthusiasm. "ah, that was beautiful, indeed!" he said, with a warmer spontaneity than usual. "thank you, indeed, miss harley, for telling us about it. that is how things should stand between master and men. we have some noble men in the old land yet!" "now, mr. chillingworth," broke in his hostess, "you're not going to go back on _us_, surely!" "by no means! but you must pardon an englishman his pride in the old stock." "i should quite imagine," remarked mr. pomeroy, "that in such an old country as england, so conservative in all social matters, and so tenacious of vested rights, such a plan of coöperation would answer very well. but it would be quite a different thing, in a more democratic community, to let workmen get in any degree a hand on the reins. business is too complex here--financiering too delicate. it would be like letting a bull into a china shop." a lady has one great advantage in an argument, that she cannot be abruptly choked off, especially by her host, no matter how distasteful her arguments may be. perhaps miss harley was conscious of this advantage, for she forthwith proceeded to describe, at some length, a most successful profit-sharing enterprise which her father had taken her to see, at guise, in french flanders; a great foundry which owed its prosperity, mainly, to the zeal, and enterprise of monsieur godin, a disciple of fourrier's, who had consecrated his life to elevate the condition of workingmen. the capital, she said, was gradually being transferred to the workmen, who already owned more than half a million dollars worth of stock; and the success, so far, was most encouraging. she then described enthusiastically the great _familistère_, or residence establishment, begun by godin about --the large quadrangular buildings with courts covered in with glass, the coöperative shops and schools, the arrangements even for coöperative char-women, till it seemed as if she were quoting from some dreamer's utopian fable. mr. archer took a mischievous delight in drawing her out on the subject, as mr. pomeroy subsided into silent endurance till, at length, to the host's evident relief, the ladies rose to leave the table, when he quickly switched the conversation off on a political track. chapter xiii. pippa passes. when the ladies adjourned to the drawing-room, which was so littered with costly knick-knacks that, as nora afterwards averred, "it looked like a bazaar," that young lady gravitated by a natural attraction to miss harley's side, eager to ask her more questions about matters which had begun to interest her deeply. from flanders, their talk soon drifted onwards to germany and italy. nora, strange to say, had never yet been abroad, and cherished a most fresh and unsophisticated interest about those far countries which she had as yet seen only in books, pictures and dreams. then they went on to talk of art; and, as a book of illustrations of italian art lay conveniently at hand, they looked over a number of the engravings of old pictures together. they were lingering over the tragic face of beatrice cenci, with the mystic sorrow-laden eyes, which so attract and haunt the beholder; and miss harley was giving nora an outline of her story, as you hear it in rome, when the door opened, and mr. chillingworth entered, speedily finding his way to miss blanchard's side. "i got tired of the politics in there," he said, smiling slightly, "so i thought i would set a good example. ah! you're looking at the cenci. what a tragedy lies sealed up in those dark eyes! what a type of the thousand tragedies that lie sealed up in many a ruin of those terrible old days!" "and do you think we have no tragedies about us now?" asked miss harley, looking up at the tall figure above her. "oh yes, undoubtedly! but not so many, or so grim, i hope! and then, you know, we don't see present things quite so effectively, or in such good perspective as we do the past! we need a little distance, you see, in order to take things in as a whole." "i suppose you are right, artistically speaking," replied miss harley, doubtfully. "but for myself, i must say, the sorrows of the real people about me always interest me more than the most romantic stories of the past." "now, don't try to persuade me that you are quite such a realist, miss harley, when you have shown what an idealist you are on social topics. what a noble man that father of yours must have been! i should like to know more of him. but come, miss blanchard, i see you are trying to make up your mind whether you're on miss harley's side or mine, and i don't want you to give judgment against me! suppose you give us a little music, you and miss farrell. can't we have a few airs from the _messiah_, now? it would be such a good finish to the week's work--just what i need to put me in tune for to-morrow's duty!" nora colored a little at his thought-reading, but at once rose to comply with the request, which miss harley warmly endorsed. she had heard of miss blanchard's singing, and would be charmed to hear it for herself. there was a parlor-organ in a corner of the large room, in addition to the piano, and as they all agreed that this accompaniment would be much the more suitable for the music, mr. chillingworth gave his services as accompanist, playing with great taste and feeling. nora sang the air, "he shall feed his flock like a shepherd," and the other "he was despised and rejected," with clear sweetness and pathetic expression, while a subdued stillness gradually stole over the little group of talkers at the other end of the room. then, to check the little buzz of admiring comment, she insisted on kitty's following at once with the air, "come unto him all ye that are weary and heavy laden:" mr. chillingworth took his turn in rendering, "every valley shall be exalted," playing the beautiful undulating accompaniment for himself. miss pomeroy wanted to hear some of the choruses they had been practising, and they were just trying the angel's song, "peace on earth and good will to men," when the other gentlemen entered the room. the old gentleman, whose appearance and words had interested nora a good deal, did not appear with the others, and she presently asked mr. archer, who came up to join her at the piano, what had become of him, and who and what he was. "oh, dunlop always likes to slip away early," he said. "he's a queer old party! he's made a good deal of money in one way or other, so he's considered worth cultivating, and he knows it. he lives very quietly, they say; he's been a widower for years. he goes across the sea now and then, but always comes back 'to look after things.' he's got some ideas of his own, too, and he seems to take a great interest in this new paper of graeme's--that 'crank' they were talking about. now, i hope, since i have so amiably gratified your curiosity, you will gratify me by a song. i could catch distant echoes, tantalizingly remote, and now i want to hear the reality." but nora would sing only in the chorus they were just about to begin. she would not sing songs after the oratorio music. when the chorus was over, mrs. pomeroy suggested that mr. chillingworth should give them a short poetical reading before the party broke up. "i know," she said, "that you'll give us something very nice, to dream on. suppose you give us something from browning. i just love to hear you read him! clara, dear, won't you bring mr. chillingworth a volume of browning?" miss pomeroy, who belonged to a "browning club," speedily produced a volume which she knew contained a favorite reading of mr. chillingworth's. that gentleman seated himself where the soft light of a silver reading-lamp could fall most pleasantly on the book, while the rest of the company disposed themselves in various attitudes of luxurious repose, as people are apt to do after a sumptuous repast. young pomeroy threw himself on a sofa beside kitty, where he could make whispered comments _ad libitum_. nora found a place near miss harley, while mr. wharton lay back in an easy-chair with an expression of complaisant and critical expectancy. it was the beautiful opening of the poem "pippa passes," that mr. chillingworth read, in a voice of musical quality and with a finished elocution, for he had paid special attention to that art. perhaps it might have been objected that the reading suggested too much of the artist, and too little of the man. but nora listened with keen and absorbed pleasure, as, through the music of the poet's lines and the reader's voice, one scene after another rose before her "inward eye." the glorious italian morning just breaking over a sleeping country; the sunrise reddening, flickering, then "pure gold overflowing the world"; the little mill girl springing up, eager to lose not one minute of the long, lovely day, appealing to it, with its "long, blue solemn hours, serenely flowing" to "treat her well," and not spoil her one precious holiday by such gloom or showers as would not mar the pleasure of people richer in holidays and joys--the haughty beauty, the happy bride and groom, the boy and his mother, or monsignore, in his dead brother's palace, the grandees of her little world: "but pippa--just one such mischance would spoil her day that lightens the next twelve months' toil at wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!" nora's thoughts went back with a bound to poor lizzie mason, her sad, tired face and shabby dress, and wondered if such thoughts and fancies ever flitted vaguely through her brain on a holiday. but the little girl is dreaming now of what or whom she shall please to be to-day: "to-morrow i must be pippa who winds silk, the whole year round, to earn just bread and milk: but, this one day, i have leave to go, and to play out my fancy's fullest games." ah, poor lizzie! far too heavily weighed down by serious and pressing cares, to have any wish to "play out fancy's games!" she glanced at mrs. pomeroy, who sat with clasped hands and attitude all attent, and at miss pomeroy, reclining with her cheek resting on her hand and an unusually softened expression in the lines of the somewhat hard face. she wondered if it occurred to them, how many _real_ dramas might be going on about them, as worthy of their sympathy as this one, idealized by the power of the poet. she began to think how it would be, if she were, there and then, to go to mr. pomeroy with a petition to restore to his toiling maidens their full measure of wages. strange that people should feel so much more for a girl in a book, than for the real flesh-and-blood ones, in daily life! but mr. pomeroy had apparently gone to sleep, and his son was whispering to kitty, instead of listening. ah, what was that? was not this kitty--to the life! "for are not such used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, as if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature? a soft and easy life these ladies lead: whiteness in us were wonderful indeed." was that how their protected happy life looked to those who saw them _de bas en haut_? was it any wonder that girls like nelly were pert and discontented? with such thoughts drifting through her mind, she listened, swayed by the magic power of poetry over the souls that are open to its charm, to pippa's pathetic yearning for the love which, after all, is the blessing of blessings--the warm, cherishing love of the brooding bird, the love of the mother for the child, ending in the cry, "if i only knew what was my mother's face--my father's, too!" but what are these lines that follow? nora listens with caught breath to the passage which closes the reading, given in mr. chillingworth's most impressive manner. "nay, if you come to that, best love of all is god's; then why not have god's love befall myself as, in the palace by the dome, monsignor?--who to-night will bless the home of his dead brother; and god bless in turn that heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn with love for all men! i, to-night at least, would be that holy and beloved priest. "now wait!--even i already seem to share in god's love; what does new-year's hymn declare? what other meaning do these verses bear? "all service ranks the same with god: if now, as formerly he trod paradise, his presence fills our earth, each only as god wills can work--god's puppets, best and worst, are we; there is no last nor first. "say not 'a small event.' why 'small'? costs it more pain that this, ye call a 'great event,' should come to pass, than that? untwine me from the mass of deeds which make up life, one deed power shall fall short in or exceed!" and so poor pippa passes on, consoled for the wearisome silk-winding, the scant food, scant raiment, scant human love. "oh yes-- i will pass each, and see their happiness, and envy none--being just as great, no doubt, _useful to men, and dear to god, as they!_" yes, that was the best thing after all. surely poor self-denying lizzie had this best blessing of loving service. nora scarcely heard the finishing lines of the passage, so engrossed was she with that thought. mr. chillingworth closed the volume, and a chorus of thanks and admiration followed. it was nora's first introduction to pippa. she was familiar with most of the poets of the century--tennyson, whittier, wordsworth, longfellow; but with browning she had scarcely got beyond the outer husk which repels so many, and really knew only one or two of his minor lyrics. but the new, strenuous, heart-searching note took her captive. and often as she afterwards read the poem, she never did so without seeming to see the pathetic picture of lizzie mason, side by side with the little dreaming italian silk-winder. after the guests took leave, kitty asked her if she would not come to church with her on the following evening, to hear mr. chillingworth preach, as she was occasionally in the habit of doing--mr. alden's church being the one her brother regularly attended. nora willingly promised, and a little meaning smile passed between kitty and her _fiancé_, as well-informed people now considered harold pomeroy to be. chapter xiv. a reporter at church. the blanchards were an old puritan family, and dr. blanchard, who inherited a good deal of the puritan steadiness of temperament, held staunchly by the old ways, notwithstanding the fact of his having married an episcopalian wife. mrs. blanchard's family were parishioners of mr. chillingworth, she herself having married shortly after he had entered on his present charge, and he had always been treated as a friend and welcome guest. but mr. alden had been dr. blanchard's minister since he had first come to minton. he had owed much, as a young physician, to mr. alden's kind brotherly counsels and warm christian influence; and his preaching just suited men like the doctor, to whom plain, downright, unpretentious, practical teaching was most acceptable. nobody ever heard mr. alden dealing with any abstract "plans" or "systems," or with purely commercial considerations of future "rewards and punishments"; or with a so-called "salvation," uncomprehended as to its real nature, to be procured by a certain vague assent to an equally uncomprehended formula. he gave his people, not scholastic theology, but _religion_, as he found it in the bible, warm, concrete, throbbing with the human heart. he showed them the infinite as he saw him in every page of his bible, but especially in the man of nazareth; not as the cold, stern law-giver, ready to make his creatures suffer for even intellectual shortcomings and mistakes, but as the infinitely loving--infinitely righteous father, seeking to raise all his children to their highest possibilities; while, at the same time, he laid down the irreversible laws of spiritual and moral life and health, with the faithful candor of a true physician. and he was perpetually seeking, first to call out in the hearts of his people a grateful and loving response to that infinite love, so divine yet so human; and, next, to show how the truth of that response lay in real turning from sin, a willing and faithful obedience to the voice of god in duty, in every relation of life, and that duty nothing less than that of "loving our neighbor as ourselves." no one ever left his church without feeling more strongly impressed with some point of his duty to his brother man--without having had another lesson in the truth that "love is the fulfilling of the law." some critics, especially clerical ones, who missed a certain familiar terminology, and a well-worn conventional way of putting things, shook their heads over what seemed to them "superficial" and "latitudinarian," but mr. alden only smiled quietly to himself. he knew that he was not superficial; that what he taught people went to the very root of the matter; that, if he sought to be "broad as god's love," he sought also to show, in its divine distinctness, the sharp line of demarcation between good and evil, love and selfishness. and he knew that, in the real and quickened life of many, his ministry was not without its fruit. but roland graeme, with the best will in the world, could not find much material for a striking "report," as he sat next morning, note-book in hand, anxious to do mr. alden some justice in the _minerva_. there were no high imaginative flights, like those in which mr. chillingworth indulged; though now and then there would be a burst of real eloquence, struck out of the tense emotion of a tender heart, yet almost impossible to summarize in a sentence. all roland could do was to give the outline of the clear, practical teaching addressed to the heart and conscience, the appeals to do battle with the demon of selfishness, the close analysis of the base substratum of so many current usages and maxims, and the condemnation of them by a simple comparison of them with the teachings and example of christ. miss blanchard's quick eye soon noticed the young man, though he sat at some distance on the opposite side of the church. she recognized, at once, the slightly upward poise of the head, the clear candid eyes, the earnest, kindling look, as the preacher warmed to his subject. she observed, also, his pencil and note-book, and wondered if he were taking notes for his own benefit. for no one ever thought of "reporters" in mr. alden's church. once roland's eye caught the graceful figure and _spirituelle_ face that he had by no means forgotten, and saw by its expression, that he too was recognized. nora fancied that his glance wandered frequently, from the preacher to the sweet childlike face of grace alden, sitting with a troop of little ones in the minister's pew near the pulpit. she did not wonder at it, for she, herself, loved to look at gracie, of whom she had grown very fond. there was in her fair face, such a heavenly purity, combined with a sunny brightness, of which the golden wavy hair seemed the natural outward expression, that she attracted nora's eyes as if by a magnetic influence. and nora knew, too, that the outward beauty was only a symbol of the genuine goodness and sweetness of a nature of rare gentleness and purity. kitty was as fair in all external points--more exquisite and finished indeed; but her face could never "hold" nora as did that of this child of sixteen. as miss blanchard passed out, grace pressed up to her as she usually did, for the affectionate greeting they always exchanged. "father wants you to come, to-morrow evening, to a private meeting of the 'helping hands,'" she said. "he's going to make arrangements for a christmas festival. he wants you on the programme for a song or two, and you are to come to tea, of course, he says." "you can depend on my coming, then," was nora's ready reply. few people lingered when mr. alden said "come!" that afternoon, nora prepared for a visit to lizzie mason, with a little nervous trepidation. she had been accustomed from childhood to visiting among her poor friends in rockland, and loved to do it. but, much as she was interested in lizzie, she felt shy about going in among a set of strange faces, and into such a home as she could but dimly picture, with the formidable figure of "jim" in it, too, as a subject for her exhortations. however, the thing must be done, and she braced herself to do it, accordingly. it was not so hard, after all as she found when she reached the poor street, with the dingy unattractive houses, and stopped at the door to which roland graeme had guided her. lizzie was on the lookout for her, and showed her into a little family sitting-room, where everything was poor and shabby enough, but yet clean and tidy. no one was there but "jim," a rather good-looking young fellow, with a somewhat sullen brow and weak mouth and chin, who sat reading a newspaper, quite unconscious of the various little wiles whereby lizzie had managed to detain him indoors till her expected visitor should arrive. he rose and saluted miss blanchard awkwardly, with evident surprise at her appearance, and then retreated into the background, where he could look at her at leisure without being observed. the children were out at sunday-school, lizzie explained, "and mother had gone in to see a neighbor." she herself looked rather better and much brighter than she had done the day before. "after you were gone, yesterday afternoon," she said, "the nurse came in, and thought i wanted a tonic, so she went and got me one from the dispensary, and i declare i feel quite set up by it already; and she talked a good deal to us, too. my! it was just beautiful! it brightened me up ever so much to see her and you!" of course, thought nora, the poor girl needed a tonic; she wondered she had not thought of it. certainly janie spencer _was_ cut out for a nurse. but it was not the tonic alone which had done lizzie good; the kind sympathy and cheering talk had been quite as effectual. nora tried to draw "jim" out a little, but it was hard work. he replied by monosyllables, chiefly negatives. he didn't care for reading; he didn't go to church, he didn't think it would do him any good if he did. as for approaching the special subject of lizzie's dread, it would, of course, have been impossible without something to lead up to it. nora was rather relieved when the door opened, and nelly stepped in, very much "got up" for a sunday walk, and looking prettier and more pert than ever. she was really a good deal taken aback at seeing miss blanchard seated there, but she nodded familiarly, and answered in a tone meant to assert the dignity and independence of one who felt herself "as good as anybody." nora did her best to try to get at the girl's real self--talked to her patiently and gently, overlooking the pertness that offended her fastidious sense of the fitness of things. at last she asked her if she ever went to church with her friend lizzie. "no," said nelly, "i guess i've got enough of big stuffy rooms full of people, all the week! i want some gayer kind of a picnic than that!" jim laughed, and even lizzie smiled a little. they evidently thought this a clever speech of nelly's. nora made no reply, indeed she was at a loss what to say; and presently nelly rose, remarking that she must go on for her walk, as the afternoon was nearly over. jim, of course, accompanied her. nora could not help thinking of the tender-hearted, dreamy pippa of the poem; and wondered what could be done with such a hard and frivolous specimen as this. yet, had she only known it, her grace and gentleness and culture had had their effect on this girl, under all her _insouciance_; had set her vaguely longing for something that as yet she only dimly felt, something better and nobler than anything she yet knew. we are not, as a rule, ready to show outwardly when our self-satisfaction has been upset, and more than half of the elevating influences of life arise out of mere contact of the higher with the lower; far more out of what we _are_, than out of what we say. nora remained a little longer with lizzie, gently trying to raise her mind to the ideal that had so cheered herself in thinking about the poor overweighted life. the girl did, evidently, lay hold of it to some extent. she had that in her already, which prepared her for it, even if she could not yet comprehend the words in which the poet had put the truth, that: "all service ranks the same with god." but the anxious, loving little heart could at least grasp and hold something of the "best love of all." after waiting to see and greet the mother--a tired-looking woman, prematurely broken down by ceaseless toil, nora bade lizzie good-by, putting into her hand ruskin's touching little "story of ida," of which she herself was very fond, and which she thought lizzie might be able to appreciate. later, she was thankful that she had followed the impulse to do it--one of those instincts that are quicker and often truer than reason. mr. chillingworth's evening sermon was the one on which he was wont to "lay himself out." strangers often came to hear it, and it was frequently reported. roland graeme was there as usual, as reporter; and miss blanchard again, from her seat in the gallery, caught a glimpse of the young man scribbling away in his note-book. it was odd, she thought, how often he had seemed to cross her path since their accidental meeting. the sermon was one of mr. chillingworth's most eloquent ones, full of grand ideals, with no lack of fine and forcible expressions; here and there, roland thought, somewhat too rhetorical for a thoroughly cultivated taste. there were touches in which nora could recognize traces of the browning reading, the evening before, for mr. chillingworth could hardly refrain from bringing into his sermons anything which had strongly impressed him. but, however fine mr. chillingworth's ideals might be, there was always a gap between these and the realities of common life, which he seemed unable to fill up. their uplifting influence did not, in general, last longer than the concluding words, except in the case of the few who could supply what he failed to give them. in that of most of his audience, there was a period of transient exaltation, followed by a collapse of the artificial wings, and a sudden descent to the commonplace flats of average life and feeling. neither did his hearers, in general, connect these ideals with the humble details of daily life; especially as his presentation of good and evil was often drawn with such melodramatic intensity of light and shade, that his hearers failed utterly to connect either with themselves. it never occurred to mr. pomeroy, for instance, that the "self-surrender" so glowingly advocated implied that he should devote time, thought and sacrifice to the interests of his work-people. to mrs. pomeroy the idea meant only increased devotion and generosity to her favorite "missionary enterprise." it never occurred to her that it might mean, also, a loving, motherly interest in the many comparatively friendless girls, whose toil was helping to gather in for her the wealth she had to bestow, but for which _she_ "neither toiled nor spun." as for young pomeroy, he never once even thought of any reason why he should ever put himself out for anybody. miss pomeroy was perhaps beginning to think a little, though she was naturally neither responsive nor expansive; but it was not mr. chillingworth who had made her begin. _as_ the seat occupied by the pomeroy family was not far from that occupied by the farrells, harold pomeroy joined nora and kitty _as_ they moved out. when they reached the foot of the stair, they encountered, in the full light of the vestibule, roland graeme, coming from the opposite side. not being of the order of girls who can carelessly pass, without sign of recognition, a person with whom they have conversed, because they may not have been formally introduced, or because he or she may not be in "their set," nora was glad of the opportunity of giving him a courteous salutation, and a pleasant "good-evening," which was as courteously returned. "why, how on earth did you come to know that fellow?" exclaimed young pomeroy in surprise, after roland had passed on. "why should there be anything surprising in it?" returned nora, rather stiffly. she cordially detested mr. pomeroy's "airs." "only i shouldn't have supposed you were likely to have met graeme," he said, in a somewhat apologetic tone. "is that roland graeme!" she exclaimed, too much surprised to think of anything else for a moment. kitty laughed heartily. "so nora, you didn't even know who it was that you were bowing to? that _is_ funny!" "no, i didn't know his name, certainly, but i know _him_. that was the young man who escorted me to see the sick woman i went to help that evening, don't you remember? i had a good deal of talk with him on the way, and i liked him very much. so that is the roland graeme they were talking about last night. well, i don't think he's a 'crank' in the least." "oh, even a crank can be sensible sometimes, you know," said young pomeroy. "but i hope he isn't going to make a disciple of you." "i shall certainly read _the brotherhood_ now," replied nora, maliciously. "i believe there's a copy in my brother's surgery." "and i certainly shall _not_" returned the young man, as he and kitty bade her good-night at dr. blanchard's door. chapter xv. helping hands. when miss blanchard reached mr. alden's house the next evening, she met with the usual warm welcome from the whole family,--grace as usual constituting herself her special attendant, and claiming a song from her friend before tea. "for we shan't have any time, you know, after, on account of the meeting," she said, coaxingly. but just as they were looking over the music, and deciding what song it should be, the door opened to admit mr. alden's cheery presence. and with him came in, to nora's amused surprise, mr. roland graeme. "i met mr. graeme down town," mr. alden explained, "and we got so interested in the things we were talking about, that he walked nearly all the way up with me before we knew it, so i wouldn't let him go back. i told him he must come in and have tea with us, as i want him to come to our meeting. so now, my dear miss blanchard, please go on. i'm glad i came just in time. you know my favorites--give me one of them, please." and he threw himself back in his easy chair, his face lighted up with its most genial smile. miss blanchard thought for a minute or two; then, with a significant smile, both at him and at roland graeme, she took a well-worn song that lay at hand, and sang with great spirit, "a man's a man for a' that." mr. alden listened with evident delight, his deep bass occasionally breaking into the chorus, till, when the last verse was reached, he turned to roland: "come mr. graeme, i know you can join in that song. gracie, let us all give that last verse in a ringing chorus." and they did--the four voices blending in very pleasant unison in the words: "for a' that and a' that; it's coming, yet, for a' that; that man to man, the warld o'er, shall brothers be for a' that!" "now, miss blanchard, i presume you gave us that as a delicate compliment to my likings and to my young friend's new venture--_the brotherhood_!" nora smiled and bowed. "but of course that song doesn't do your singing justice, for any tyro like me can sing it, in a way, if he only has the heart. now, i want you to give us my favorite love-song, "robin adair," my mother's old-time lullaby. _that_ does bring out her voice," he added, turning to roland. "it's a song i'm very fond of," roland replied. nora sang the old, tender, scotch love-song with a simple pathos that suited it as well as did her fine contralto. roland, who like most emotional people, was exceedingly sensitive to the power of music, felt it float through his whole being--soothing the nervous system which had been on the strain all day, and taking him, for a moment, into that world of romance among whose bowery walks it is so pleasant, for even the most practical-minded, occasionally to wander. but the dream of romance was abruptly ended by the summons to tea. and nora could not help noticing, all through that meal, how roland's eyes followed every motion of grace alden with a quite unconscious devotion. it recalled to her tennyson's line: "and her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung." but grace, she was sure, would never be the "shallow-hearted cousin amy" in any event. was she too much of a child, still, to be touched by this unspoken, though evident admiration on the part of a young man so attractive as roland graeme? nora could not, at any rate, detect, in the frank ingenuous face, any trace of consciousness. and the father and mother seemed equally unconscious; which was scarcely to be wondered at, for they regarded grace, at sixteen, as only a child still. fathers and mothers are often the last to see that the nestlings are fledged. nora, as most people will have discerned, was a rather romantic young woman, and it did not take many minutes for this little possible romance to flash through her brain. roland sat near her at tea, and his first remark was, naturally, an interested inquiry for the poor invalid to whom he had guided her. "and how is the little girl getting on?" asked mr. alden, when nora had given her report of the mother. "oh, she seems tolerably contented, now," was the reply. "but she is a strange child--rather; very variable in her moods, though very concentrated and self-contained. under all her quietness, she seems nervous and excitable, with a passionate and self-willed nature--i can see very well--though her very shyness seems to keep it down." "i have no doubt her mother must have a history," said mr. alden, thoughtfully. "i wish we could know what it is." "cecilia has a wonderfully good ear," nora went on, "and a perfect passion for music. i shouldn't wonder if she were to turn out a _prima-donna_ yet." "and so you have taken charge of the child, yourself," said roland, his eye lighting up with ready sympathy. "that was truly kind!" the words were said with so much feeling, that nora felt slightly embarrassed, but turned the matter off by declaring that, notwithstanding her peculiarities, she was a very interesting child, and they were all growing quite fond of her. she would be sorry when her mother could claim her again. "gracie must go and bring her here, some day soon. it would do her good to be with these noisy youngsters for a while," said mr. alden. "she's a remarkably refined child," said nora. "her mother must have kept her very much to herself." "well, we mustn't lose sight of her. there's no knowing what may be made of her yet." and then mr. alden turned to roland, and they resumed the discussion they had begun before. it was on some rather abstruse questions as to the relations of capital and labor; but nora--with her intelligence on such matters quickened by the argument she had so recently heard--listened with attention enough to grasp, at least, the general position involved. mr. alden had taken a great interest in the enthusiastic and generous young reformer, and was genuinely anxious to keep him, if he could, from rushing into extreme or ill-considered views, however plausible they might at first sight appear. and though he had not the advantage of roland's special reading on these subjects, his sound, common-sense experience and insight into human nature gave him a quick perception of the fallacy of any extreme position, such as roland, in his inexperienced enthusiasm, was often too ready to embrace. "the 'knights' want me to give them a lecture by and by. i'm thinking of taking up the subject of 'modern miracles,'" said roland, with a smile. "meaning, i suppose, the wonders science is perpetually astonishing us with?" "yes, especially as an agency at work in consolidating the human race into one organism; having common interests and common dangers, so that a famine in one quarter of the globe means scarcity in another. i don't want to take up the labor question directly, just now; i should get the name of an 'incendiary' or an 'agitator' at once, and i don't want to make the men any more discontented than they are. it's the employers we want to get at. but such a subject as the 'miracles of science' would afford plenty of opportunity for pointing out the benefits of coöperation, as being necessary for guiding these tremendous new forces for the good, not the ill, of humanity." "will any one besides 'knights of labor' be allowed to go?" asked nora. mr. alden looked at her with one of his broad, genial smiles. "are _you_ taking an interest in such matters, then?" he asked. "i have been, lately," nora said. "the subject seems to be 'in the air.' everything i've heard or read lately seems to bring it up. and i know so little about it, really, that i want to learn." "--the best possible frame of mind for getting wisdom," replied mr. alden. "i wish my people would only come to church in it! well, i hope mr. graeme is not going to shut the public out; and then you and i can go together to hear him." roland's face had again lighted up with pleasure. "i believe it's to be an open meeting," he said. "of course there's no reason for excluding the public, and i think they want to make a little by it. i'll ask 'brother' dunning, and let you know." "you all call each other 'brother,' in the order, do you?" asked mr. alden. "yes, 'brother' or 'sister,' as the case may be," he replied smiling. "it seems to be quite a matter of course, when you get used to it." "mr. graeme," said nora, as they walked together to the place of meeting, "would you mind telling me just why you became a 'knight of labor'?" "not in the least," he said. "it is very simple. i felt, as i think no entirely unprejudiced person can help feeling nowadays, that our working-classes do not get fair play in the great struggle going on about us; that here the 'battle' is emphatically 'to the strong,' and that the weaker are being, perforce, driven to the wall,--crushed beneath the great iron wheels of progress, capital, combination, and protection. and i always had an instinctive sympathy with the 'under dog in the fight.' ever since, as a boy, i read spenser's 'faërie queen,' it seemed to me the noblest task a man could devote himself to,--the fighting the battles of the weak against selfish tyrants, 'to ride abroad redressing human wrongs,' or whatever corresponds to that in our prosaic age." "yes," said nora, warmly, "but why, for that end, did you need to become a 'knight' of that description?" "for two reasons," he replied. "first, because the only way to thoroughly understand their position seemed to me to become one of them, as it were; to comprehend their feelings, aspirations, aims. and, secondly, because i think they need, above all things, some intelligent help and guidance from within. they are so apt to grow wrong-headed and unjust, simply from the perpetual pressure of the hardships of their position. although i can honestly say, too, that i have often been deeply impressed by the patience and moderation that they show in very trying circumstances. i seldom attend one of their mass-meetings without feeling deeply touched by the vague, wistful sense of the possibilities toward which they are groping, burdened with a sense of tremendous difficulties in the way, and of their own inability to cope with them. and i often wish i could only inspire a whole army of intelligent, energetic, educated young men to take up their cross and help them to win the day. it would be the salvation, it seems to me, not only of this country, but, in a great measure, of the human race!" roland spoke with all the warmth of his intensely altruistic nature, and his voice thrilled with irrepressible feeling. nora felt her own pulse quicken with the contagion of his enthusiasm. mr. alden, who overheard the last words, turned back to add:-- "yes, graeme, i believe it will be all that; _if_ only you can, at the same time, raise this great mass of toiling humanity in the moral and spiritual scale, as well as in the material and intellectual one. however, do all you can for both!" they had, by this time, arrived at the place where the "helping hands society" usually held its meetings. the place had a history of its own. it had originally been a much frequented saloon, which had stood like a dragon in the way of mr. alden's mission work, in a very unpromising portion of his field of labor. it was the place, also, where many days' wages were sunk in ruinous indulgence, instead of being spent in comforts for hungry families. there men lured each other to destructive excesses that besotted them till there was apparently nothing of their better nature left to which to appeal. mr. alden conceived the idea of out-flanking the dragon, and carried out his design, with the aid of a few generous members of his congregation. at a time when the place was about to change hands, through the necessities of an owner, ruined by his own merchandise, the building was secured for a comparatively low price, and forthwith turned into a mission-centre of a peculiar kind. mr. alden had too much shrewdness to turn the old "good-fellows' hall" into anything like a church or mission-hall--the idea of some of his zealous helpers. he knew that this would only frighten away the old _habitués_, and that a successor to the extinct saloon would speedily spring up. so the "good-fellows' hall," it remained, with the same external attractions as before, apparently changed in only one respect--that coffee, lemonade, and other temperance beverages were the only things sold there. a respectable temperance man was installed as keeper, and conducted this part of it on his own responsibility. men might come there and smoke, talk, or read the papers. they were not even prohibited from bringing their own ale with them, so long as they used it in moderation. but, as a matter of fact, they hardly ever chose to do so, feeling an unwritten law; and if they did bring it, the slightest tendency to excess was sternly repressed. but in all else they were free to do as they pleased. care was, of course, taken that all the papers and other reading matter on the table should be of the best and most elevating character adapted to their taste and calibre. so most of the old _habitués_ continued to frequent it; and if they grumbled at first, at the loss of the wonted dram, they gradually forgot to miss it, and met, and smoked, and told old yarns as readily as ever. but behind this expurgated saloon--and divided from it by double doors--were two large rooms devoted to very different purposes. one was a reading-room, with shelves tolerably well filled with interesting books, history, travels, tales, and modern books relating to various industrial occupations. this room was furnished with comfortable chairs, and any one might enter and read to his heart's content, provided he would leave his pipe outside. the other was fitted with seats, and served as a lecture-room or a preaching hall. here a sunday-school was held weekly, and here mr. alden or some one of his helpers frequently held simple, short services which were generally well attended by the people of the neighborhood. here it was, that the christmas festival was to be given by the "helping hands society," and a small committee-room adjoining was the place of the present meeting. its components were rather a heterogeneous group. there were two or three young business men, a shop-keeper and his wife, two or three mechanics and artisans who were "knights" and acquaintances of roland, and several girls in different occupations, two of them teachers, and almost all self-supporting. the festival was, of course, to be held for the benefit of the poor people of the neighborhood, who were not included in any other christmas-keeping arrangements. some of those present were representative of the people to be entertained, and to these mr. alden, as chairman, gave considerable heed in the preparation of the programme; but all could, in some way, assist in carrying it out. finally it was arranged as follows:-- first, of course, there was to be a "tree," laden with little gifts for the children; after that, christmas music, including a violin solo from one of the young men; then a magic-lantern exhibition of oriental views, followed by one of mr. alden's common-sense "talks"; and last, but not least, a reading from dickens' "christmas carol," by roland graeme. the latter undertook to escort miss blanchard home, after the meeting was over. as they walked together under the clear, cold, winter starlight, nora told the young man something of poor lizzie mason's story, and her anxiety for the brother, about whom she had also spoken to mr. alden. "i'll look him up," said roland, heartily, "and see if anything can be done with him. as for the girls whose wages have been 'cut,' that matter has been up before the 'knights' and a deputation is to interview the manager." "oh, do you think it will do any good?" she exclaimed. "that i can't say," he replied. "we can only try." "do you know, mr. graeme, if i were a man, i think i should be a 'knight' too!" he laughed. "but you know our modern 'knights' are not always _men_!" he replied. chapter xvi. a luncheon-party. it need scarcely be said that, after this, miss blanchard always looked out for _the brotherhood_, and scanned its contents with much interest. she was pleased--even a little surprised--by the temperate and moderate tone in which it set forth existing wrongs and grievances, and appealed to the sense of justice and humanity of those with whom it lay to remedy them. she was not, of course, a very critical reader, and was happily ignorant of the practical difficulties that lie in the way of great reforms; and it seemed to her that such a cause, so advocated, must be sure to win the day. in particular, trained as she had been to look upon christian practice as an essential part of christianity, she could not believe that any professing christian could withhold sympathy from pleadings which carried her own, as a matter of course. she had, from her childhood, been given to wondering how it was, that the very poor could bear the hardships of their lot as contentedly as they did; and now that, from the statistics and details which roland graeme industriously collected for his paper, she realized how much greater these hardships were, for many, than she had ever before imagined, she thought, in her simplicity, that every one who knew of them must desire to do something to lighten them. her imagination was fired, too, by the idea, now presented to her for the first time, that hard, grinding poverty need not always prevail on the scale on which it now exists; that it is within the right and the duty of man to remove much of it. such a hope, she thought, might well inspire to a new crusade, far more truly christian in its aims and methods than were those half-heathen wars of old, which took that sacred name. but, except from her brother, whose experiences as a medical man had prepared him to agree with her on most of these questions, nora found that she could secure little sympathy, or even toleration, for such "new-fangled notions." most people would agree that, of course, there were many hard cases, just as there was misery of all kinds in the world, which could not be helped; but they would shake their heads discouragingly over each proposed remedy, which "was sure" to involve new evils greater than the disease, till she wondered if there must always be "a lion in the way" of every undertaking for the good of humanity. she found she had not even mr. chillingworth on her side, when she somewhat timidly ventured to express herself to him on the subject of _the brotherhood_, at a grand luncheon-party at mrs. farrell's, a few days after the dinner at mr. pomeroy's. it was chiefly a "ladies' luncheon," also given in honor of miss harley; but two or three gentlemen were especially privileged, including mr. chillingworth and mr. wharton, who were not supposed to be engaged at that early hour. mr. chillingworth was a good deal surprised when he found that miss blanchard actually claimed mr. graeme as an acquaintance; and, furthermore, that she entered with so much sympathy into his views of social questions. somehow, mr. chillingworth did not find it easy to reconcile his sense of her grace, refinement and culture, with a "movement" that he vaguely associated with vulgar "strikes," violence, and other democratic developments, from which his æsthetic sensitiveness shrank with utter repugnance. "undoubtedly, my dear miss blanchard," he said, "there are many directions in which reform is needed. the poverty about us is but one, and reform cannot come by any sudden or artificial means; the only cure for this, as for all evils, is the radical cure from within--the spirit of christ acting on individual hearts. much of the poverty, also, arises from the faults of the poor themselves. many of them would be miserable in any case. and, you know, even our divine master said, 'the poor ye have always with you.'" "but he could never have meant that other people were to _keep_ them poor," replied nora, her cheek flushing. "and you know he told the young man 'to sell all his goods and give to the poor.'" "ah, but that was only in one case! he wanted to try him,--test whether he really loved his neighbor as himself, as he thought he did." "and don't you think there are many people who need the same test, now?" nora could not help replying. "oh, certainly, certainly;" he replied, dreamily; "but it seems to me you are forgetting to enjoy your luncheon. let me help you to some of this delicious cream." nora could see very well that the subject they had been discussing only bored the clergyman, so she dropped it; listening, however, as well as she could, through intervening droppings of talk, to a discussion that mr. wharton and miss harley were carrying on, as to the differences of aspect presented by the labor question in england and in america. and she could not help wondering again and again, as she surveyed the luncheon-table, profusely supplied with expensive delicacies, whether that same lord who had bidden the rich young man "sell all that he had and give to the poor," might not have had something to say to people who "had fared sumptuously every day," while lazarus starved at their gates. and then, with a fastidious sense of honor, she checked a thought that seemed like ungenerous treachery to her hospitable entertainers. only,--if poor lizzie mason could have had a share of the superfluous luxury, how good it would have been for _her_! mr. chillingworth, too, both puzzled and disappointed her. his eloquent altruistic appeals--his exaltation of the high christian ideal--so stirred her enthusiastic nature that she felt herself irresistibly drawn toward the man who could so well express the idealism of christianity. but, out of the pulpit--when it came to the practical application of his own principles--he often brought her up short in wonder at what she felt to be the inconsistency of his remarks about the details of ordinary life. there seemed to her a strange gap between the glowing enthusiasm on the one side, and a chilling narrowness and lack of sympathy on the other. like an electrical influence under different conditions, he sometimes attracted and sometimes repelled her. when she compared him with mr. alden, she felt the great difference, though she could not analyze it. briefly put, however, the main differences were these: it was not that mr. chillingworth was insincere; he was as sincere, in his own way, as mr. alden. but to his conception, religion consisted mainly in emotion--in a high-strung ideality, and in adoration of the supreme, infinite love. to mr. alden on the other hand, religion, though winged by emotion, must have its solid basis in obedience--_righteousness_--the service of god manifesting itself in the service of _man_. to mr. chillingworth--a natural egoist--a clergyman was primarily a "ruler" of the flock, though its shepherd as well. to mr. alden, long sitting at his master's feet had taught the lesson that the minister must be--if the leader--also the "servant of all." mr. chillingworth could sympathize only with what harmonized with his own ideals and opinions. mr. alden, though himself a man of strong convictions, could adopt the heathen poet's declaration, that nothing that concerned humanity was alien to him. in a word, mr. chillingworth was an ecclesiastic; mr. alden was, or sought to be, in all things, a simple follower of christ. which view was the more in accordance with the new testament ideal, each must decide for himself. nora was feeling these differences dimly in her own mind, with a vague sense of pain and disappointment that she scarcely cared to admit, when mr. chillingworth turned to her with his most persuasive air, saying that he had a great favor to ask. "but i know your generosity," he added, "so i don't think you will refuse!" nora, smiling, waited to hear what it was. "one of the members of our quartette has been laid up with a severe cold, and i fear it is out of the question that she can take her part at our christmas evening service of song. i don't very well see how we are to replace her, unless--a certain kind friend of mine will come to my help!" his voice was soft and low, as he could make it when he chose, and his eyes sought miss blanchard's with even more persuasive earnestness than the occasion seemed to call for. she colored, turned her eyes away, and replied, in a tone as low as his, that she was very sorry--but it was impossible. she had promised to sing at mr. alden's "helping hands" entertainment, on christmas evening. mr. chillingworth looked more annoyed than she had ever seen him look before. "i really think," he said, "that mr. alden might spare you to us for that evening. it can't make much difference to those people what sort of singing they have. they can't appreciate anything very good, so you will be quite thrown away on them. and your voice is just what we want. i think you might beg off, for our sake!" "i have promised," replied nora gently, and with real regret in her tone. "ah, you hold to the good old puritan rules, i see. well, it does seem too bad! we shall have to put up with some very inferior voice that could have pleased that sort of audience just as well. alden's very good and zealous, i know, and i quite understand his desire to give people like that some rational enjoyment, to keep them out of mischief; still, i think he would do better to keep to old-established ways. and that 'helping hands society' of his is a curious _omnium gatherum_ affair. i am told he's got all sorts and conditions of people in it, unitarians, socialists, knights of labor, agnostics!" "i don't think-it's quite so bad as _that_!" nora exclaimed, in amaze. "well, i'm told that this agitator, this roland graeme, actually belongs to it, and i believe he's a rank agnostic, if not an atheist." "oh, i am sure he can't be an atheist!" said nora. "an agnostic then, at any rate! archer told me so. after all, there isn't much to choose between them. the atheist will tell you there's no god--the agnostic, that he doesn't know of one. practically, there's no difference." nora was a good deal shocked. to her, as to the large majority of earnest, reverent christians, the position of an "agnostic" implied something very terrible--a wilful throwing away of truth and walking in darkness. to think of the gentle, generous, enthusiastic roland as such a one, seemed to her impossible. presently she said, rather timidly: "mr. graeme seems to me to have a large share of the christian spirit." "oh, no doubt--no doubt," said mr chillingworth, impatiently, "thanks to his christian education! 'train up a child in the way he should go'--you know. but there is no class so dangerous as these half christian agnostics, regular wolves in sheep's clothing! they go about, putting people off their guard by plausible talk, and then ensnare them unawares. i consider that young man's influence most dangerous to this community i beg you to listen to him as little as possible!" nora had a tolerably quick sense of humor, and, notwithstanding the shock it gave her to hear such things of mr. graeme, she could hardly resist a smile at what seemed to her the curiously inappropriate epithet of "a wolf in sheep's clothing," applied to the altruistic young reformer. it occurred to her that the metaphor might, in his case, be reversed--that "a sheep in wolf's clothing" would surely be more appropriate. "what are you two looking so serious about?" asked kitty, teasingly, as they all rose to adjourn into the drawing room. then, as she linked her arm into nora's, and drew her away into a quiet corner, she added, "i've been watching you both for some time, and i really thought mr chillingworth must be proposing! he was talking in such a low voice, and looking so irresistible. only i suppose people don't usually propose at luncheons." "kitty!" exclaimed nora, with reproachful severity. "well, you know very well he likes you, one always does!" she added, somewhat obscurely. "i should be sorry to think he _dis_liked me," replied nora. "but he was only proposing--that i should sing in the quartette, at his service of song on christmas evening, in some one else's place." "which, of course, you promised to do, like a dear." "which i can't possibly do, as i have promised to be elsewhere." "oh, poor mr. chillingworth! no wonder he looked so sad and serious! oh, don't you know, i've always thought his eyes had a sort of melancholy look, as if he had had some great sorrow in his life? well, miss harley says she is almost sure that she once heard him preach in england, and that she heard some tragic story about him, she couldn't remember exactly what, only she knew it was very sad!" "really!" exclaimed nora, looking much interested. "yes, and do you know, i've always had an idea--a sort of instinct you know--that he may be a widower. he has that sort of look, some way!" "_what_ sort of look? i didn't know you could tell widowers by looking at them." "well, i can't exactly describe it, but i know it when i see it. and you know he might easily have been married in england, and _we_ shouldn't know it. lots of men have been--like _that_ you know--and they don't think it necessary to talk about it." nora disliked the idea, she scarcely knew why, but set it down as one of kitty's fancies. there might be many kinds of tragedy in a man's life. if mr. chillingworth had suffered, it seemed to give him a stronger claim on her sympathy. but kitty wanted to know where she was going on christmas evening. "oh, i've heard about that," she said, when nora had told her. "mr. waldberg told me about it. he says that mr. graeme--you know--was to read at it; he lives in the same house with him, and they are great friends. hermann says he's the best fellow he ever knew." nora had no very high estimate of waldberg's judgment; still, after mr. chillingworth's condemnation, even this tribute was pleasant to hear. but she caught up kitty at once. "i didn't know you had got on quite so far as to call mr. waldberg, _hermann_." she remarked. "well, you see the poor fellow is away from home and everybody belonging to him, so he likes to have some one to call him by his old home name. you know germans have such nice romantic ideas!" "kitty, kitty! you ought really to take care! you don't know what mischief you may do!" "oh, he knows all about _that_!" she said, laughing and coloring, but holding out her finger, on which flashed and sparkled a _solitaire_ diamond. "and look here," she added, holding out, for nora's inspection, a new acquisition, a ring set with sapphire and pearls. "isn't this lovely? it was a birthday gift from harold this morning." nora looked "serious," as kitty called it. she had been afraid about kitty of late, and still more afraid for young waldberg. "well, be sure you know your own mind, and stick to it," she said, gravely. "remember, kitty dear, it really isn't worth while to be a lady clara vere de vere, even if you could; and flirting is a dangerous amusement!" "never fear," laughed kitty, "i'm not going to hurt anybody, that i know of. but do look at mr. wharton and miss harley--at it still! i declare it looks as if there was going to be----" "'an international episode'!" suggested nora, smiling. chapter xvii. a christmas entertainment. the weather was growing colder and more wintry, as christmas drew near. the usual bustle of christmas preparations had begun, and the shop windows were gayer and more tempting than ever to people who had any money to spend, as well as--alas!--to those who had none. nora had not forgotten lizzie mason and her needs, though the jacket was supplied in an unexpected way. mrs. blanchard, easy-going as she was, was really kind-hearted when her sympathy was awakened. so, when nora told her the sad little story, she dived into her limbo of slightly old-fashioned wearing-apparel, and produced a jacket, which with a little remodelling and a good deal of contraction, to which nora's expert band was quite equal, turned out just the thing lizzie needed. it was gratefully accepted, and nora was gratified by seeing her at church in it on the next sunday evening, and, to her surprise, nelly too. the interest miss blanchard had already aroused in the girl's untrained mind had called forth a vague curiosity to see the inside of the church she attended. grace alden had come and carried off little cecilia for a day, and the latter had at once become her devoted worshipper. her sunny face and voice, as well as her beauty, seemed to attract the child like a magnet. she shyly begged grace to take her that day to see her mother, who seemed as much captivated by her visitor as cecilia had been. grace sang hymns to her, in her joyous, bird like voice, cecilia now and then joining in, till the invalid, turning her head away, buried her face in the pillow and burst into tears. "i suppose it reminded her too strongly of old times," said janet spencer, as she told nora about it. "she says, perhaps she will tell me her story by and by, when she is stronger. i'm sure it's a sad one. but i was glad when grace asked her if she wouldn't like to see her father again, and she said 'yes!' for, when i wanted her to let me ask mr chillingworth to come and see her, she wouldn't hear of it. the very idea of seeing a clergyman seemed to upset her." "but you think she is really gaining, don't you?" asked nora. "oh yes! i think she will get round, though it will be a good while before she is strong again. but i wish she could get on without the brandy." "oh, do you think--" nora asked, and she stopped. "yes, i am almost sure that that's been at the root of all her troubles. i shouldn't wonder if it were a case of dipsomania. i've seen such a case here, already. some times she seems to have a nervous dread of it--to shrink from taking it--and then again she will take it so greedily that i have to be very careful not to leave it about, lest she might help herself when i am not looking." "oh dear, how dreadful!" nora exclaimed. "yes, it is dreadful! god help such poor creatures, for _man_ can do little! still, good care and nourishment will do something for her. she's safe in here, for the present." but the thought haunted nora, and she watched little cecilia more closely than ever. dr. blanchard told her that this malady was hereditary, and she found herself often wondering whether this child could have been born to such a fatal inheritance. meantime she was teaching her at home, finding her a very apt pupil, and she also gave her a short music lesson daily, and was much pleased with her progress. there was no doubt as to _this_ inheritance, at any rate, and nora could only hope that, in the worst event, the higher passion might overpower the lower. christmas-day came, as it always does, before people are quite ready for it. nora had planned several little christmas surprises and pleasures for the people in whom she was most interested--such as a new dress for lizzie mason, to "go with" the jacket she did not need to buy. then there was a pretty and comfortable invalid's wrapper lying on mrs. travers' bed, when she awoke from a tranquil sleep on christmas morning, ready to be put on as soon as the doctor should pronounce her able to try sitting up. it was long since the poor woman had had anything pretty to wear--longer still since she had had anything supplied by tender and thoughtful care--and the tears that rose to her eyes at the sight, were tears that seemed to refresh and moisten a parched life and a thirsting heart. there were appropriate little gifts, too, ready for mrs. alden and grace, as well as for the home-circle; and not least for the children, who were jubilant over the usual christmas offertory of toys, picture-books and pictures, that were scattered about the nursery in the confusion they delighted in. cecilia, of course, had not been forgotten. for her, nora had provided a little accordion, on which she could play, to her heart's content, all the tunes she had already picked up; accompanying them with her voice whenever she thought herself unnoticed. instigated by eddie's eager persuasions, the three children organized a little "minstrel band," he and daisy accompanying the accordion with drum and bugle, and producing an amount of noise which vastly delighted themselves, if not other people. as nora, unseen, caught a glimpse of them, marching along the passages, she thought cecilia, with her graceful poise of head and figure, and absorbed, serious eyes, would make a picturesque study for a painter who wanted a model for a little strolling musician. every step and motion seemed to express the child's strong artistic instinct and impulse. nora had her own private pleasures, too, besides the great one of contributing to the happiness of other people. she had her own christmas letters from rockland, from her father and aunt margaret, sympathizing with her interests and pleasures, and rejoicing that so large a portion of the time of her absence was now over. and, among her own gifts--each one expressive of the love she prized for itself--there was a small box, most neatly put up, and addressed in mr. chillingworth's characteristic handwriting, which, on being opened, disclosed a charmingly arranged bouquet of mingled roses and lilies. it brought the color to her cheek, and made her feel almost remorseful for the disappointment she had been obliged to give him, about his christmas evening music. she had, however, taken the edge off the disappointment, by volunteering to assist in the morning music, when she and kitty took their share in the christmas anthem assigned to the quartette. roland graeme was present in his capacity of reporter, and his rendering of the sermon gratified mr. chillingworth so much, when he saw it next day, that he ordered a number of copies of the paper to send to his english friends. waldberg was in his place as organist, a post to which he had been recently appointed through the influence of mr. chillingworth, who did not seem particular about religious qualifications in the matter of musicians, at any rate. nora noticed that the young man was waiting at the door of the church, to exchange a christmas greeting with kitty, who was unattended, her _fiancé_ not having "put in an appearance," as he himself would have expressed it and she saw, too, with some uneasiness, that as soon as kitty had disengaged herself from a lively group of saluting friends, the two strolled off together in a leisurely, _insouciant_ fashion. roland graeme, taking his solitary way homeward, noticed the same thing with much the same feeling. and yet, he thought, in the dreamy poetic vein into which he often relapsed, when not spurred on by his dominant philanthropic impulse, if kitty had only been some simple rustic phyllis, and hermann a corresponding corydon, what a charming bright pair of arcadian lovers they would have made to figure in a pretty poetic idyl. what a pity, he thought, that we cannot always live in arcadia! the lecture-room of the "good-fellows' hall" that evening was anything but an arcadian scene. the bare whitewashed walls, relieved only by the ubiquitous portraits of washington and lincoln, jefferson and garfield, the flaring gas-jets, the straight-backed rows of benches filled with what kitty would have relentlessly styled "very common-looking people," in the "common looking" finery which many of them affected, did not seem a particularly inspiring assemblage. nevertheless, nora scanned the benches eagerly, till she espied lizzie and nellie and jim, and then the gathering was interesting to _her_, at least. as for roland, wherever men and women with human hearts were gathered, there was interest for him, and to mr. alden each meeting here was part of an intensely interesting experiment, freighted, in his mind, with wider, more weighty issues than were present to the minds of any one else present--even of his own grace, who, with her instinctive divination, could, in her simple way, sympathize with him more fully than any one else there. the programme seemed to be fully appreciated by almost all the audience, though here and there a hard-looking "tough" would occasionally grow tired of sitting still, and would accordingly retire, with scant ceremony and carelessness as to making a somewhat noisy exit, that would have set all mr. chillingworth's nerves on edge. but mr. alden took no notice. it was understood that no compulsion of any kind was exercised; and, generally speaking, the absentees would return after a while; having, in the meantime, had a smoke, which restored them to better humor. there were one or two comic recitations, in the earlier part of the entertainment, by young workingmen like jim, given with great spirit and some dramatic effect. nora's music, and the magic-lantern slides led up gradually to mr. alden's simple colloquial address, setting before the audience, as vividly as possible, the great event which _made_ christmas, and some of its chief bearings on human life. and then bringing his talk to a close, before any one had had time to grow tired of it, he introduced the reading of "my friend, mr. roland graeme." roland took his place on the platform, with the quick, energetic motion habitual with him, yet with the dreamy remoteness of eye of a man absorbed in the pictures he is going to present. his fine, well-proportioned _physique_, and his candid, open face, enlisted the sympathy of the audience in the reading, in the preparation of which he had taken as much pains as if it were to be given before the most select and fashionable audience in minton. he had taken the "christmas carol" of dickens, and arranged it for a reading which should bring out the episodes and scenes most likely to carry the sympathy of his readers, bridging the gaps by a slender thread of narrative. he kept the audience alternately amused and touched by the mingled humor and pathos of the earlier scenes. he introduced them to the lonely boy at school, in whom early neglect was sowing the seeds of future churlishness; then to the youth, in whom the canker of worldliness was already beginning to work; then carried them on to the home of the cratchits, their famous christmas dinner, and the pathetic picture of "tiny tim." he kept the younger portion of his audience, at least, convulsed over his spirited rendering of the anxiety of the cratchits as to the success of their christmas goose and christmas pudding, and the final satisfaction of everybody, even the "ubiquitous young cratchits," at the result. then he put all the tense feeling of his own nature into the satirical reply of the "spirit" to the miser's agonized inquiry whether tiny tim would live:-- "'what then? if he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population!'" roland ought, in the exercise of a judicious discretion, to have stopped here; but he was a young man with a young man's heat of impulse, and he let himself be carried on into the words that follow, giving them with a stirring emphasis that vibrated through every chord in nora's sensitive heart. "'man,' said the ghost, 'if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant till you have discovered what that surplus is, and where it is. will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? it may be, that, in the sight of heaven you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child! o god! to hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!'" nora could not help glancing about her, to see whether such words might not have too much effect on that particular audience. she was reassured, however, by the discovery that it did not seem to produce much effect of any kind. the audience was not reflective enough to take in the satire. a little farther on, roland introduced the lean, gaunt, wretched boy and girl who appear at the edge of the robe of the spirit of christmas presents, "yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish, but prostrate, too, in their humility. where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked and jibed out menacing. no change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity in any guise, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread!" "'spirit, are they yours?' scrooge could say no more. 'they are _man's_,' said the spirit, looking down upon them, 'and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. this boy is ignorance. this girl is want. beware of them both, and all of their degree; but, most of all beware this boy, for on his brow i see that written which is doom, unless the writing be erased. deny it!' cried the spirit, stretching out its hand to the city. 'slander those who tell it ye! admit it for your factious purposes and make it worse! and bide the end!'" there was no mistaking the genuine emotion in roland's voice as these words rang out in tones of indignant warning. just such children had he seen, and the very fact of their existence seemed to him a wrong, not to man only, but to the god who gave their grand possibilities, abased, stunted and thwarted by man's sin and neglect. something of this he stopped to say, in a few strenuous, burning words, ending with a strong appeal to the fathers and mothers, "by all the holy memories of the day," to guard their children from evil, and ignorance, and do for them at least the best they could! "it is clear, then, he can't be an agnostic!" thought nora to herself, unaware of how indefinite is the term, and how indefinite too--as well as inconsistent--a position can be which has no basis but "_i don't know_." she looked around her again to see what the effect might have been, but again she saw that it counted for very little. the high-wrought, poetical description and the invective had gone over the heads of most of the listeners. one pale-faced, slender man, with dark, deep-set eyes riveted in breathless attention on the speaker, caught her eye and her interest. but in general, little more than the stirring tones and dramatic gestures had been taken in by ears unaccustomed to intelligent listening, and chiefly on the watch for something "funny." roland, knowing something of the taste of his hearers, passed lightly and rapidly over the sadder scenes of the last part of the story, touching them a little, however, by the fate of "tiny tim," in whom he centred the interest of the story. then, after a glance at the gloomy churchyard, where the remorseful miser beholds his own grave, he hastened to the cheerful reality of christmas present, of the delight of scrooge as he sees himself once more possessed of the possibilities of life, and of the heart to generously use them. and then, after depicting the altered fortunes of the cratchit family, under the auspices of a regenerated master, he threw all his heart into bringing out the meaning of the closing sentences: "'some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them, for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened in this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter at the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind any way, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive form. his own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him. "'he had no further intercourse with spirits, but lived upon the total abstinence principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him that he knew how to keep christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. may that be truly said of us and all of us! and so, as tiny tim observed, god bless us, every one!'" there was a great deal of applause, as the reader concluded, made his bow and left the platform, and there was more, again, when mr. alden in due form put a vote of thanks to mr. graeme for the pleasure he had given them, adding a few words on true christmas-keeping, in his own terse and characteristic way. nora found her particular trio as the assemblage broke up. "oh, wasn't it splendid!" was lizzie's enthusiastic verdict, as miss blanchard asked how they had enjoyed it. "my! doesn't mr. graeme read beautiful! it was just like as if we could see it all!" and lizzie's eyes were glistening still, with the pleasure caused by the new mental pictures called up by the reading that had carried her, for a brief space, out of the ruts and grooves of her monotonous life. nelly, too, looked as if she had, for once, been interested in something outside of herself, and even jim admitted, in a sort of reluctant, awkward way, that the entertainment was "first-class." "yes, indeed, miss," added lizzie, who thought jim was hardly effusive enough in his appreciation, "jim was real tickled at that christmas dinner mr. graeme read about--and all the rest of it." * * * * * "i was afraid you were giving us a little too much of what was intended for a different class of readers," said mr. alden to roland, as they all walked home together, while grace, arm in arm with nora, was artlessly expressing her enjoyment of mr. graeme's reading. "i suppose it mightn't have been a good thing if we had had a more thoughtful audience; as it was, it didn't hurt them, and it pleased me to do it!" replied roland, laughing. "but, anyhow, if we can't wake up the rich, why mayn't we wake up the poor?" "let the horrors of the french revolution answer that question, once for all!" returned mr. alden. "'that boy ignorance,' you know, can be a real devil when he is roused, and though a thunder-storm may sometimes have to come, we don't want to play tricks to bring it down. there is enough to wake up the poor to, in regard to their own shortcomings. let us try to wake each class up as to what lies in its own power to reform!" roland again undertook to escort miss blanchard from mr. alden's house to her own door. "i've been trying to get hold of your friend jim," he remarked, "but he isn't a very promising specimen, unless it be of 'that boy, ignorance'! he's never had any education to speak of, been at work ever since he was old enough to make a few cents a day, has got into a bad set of companions, and, besides, seems to have a rather sulky disposition. however, i'm going to try to get him into the 'knights of labor'; that will wake him up a little bit, besides keeping him in order, for he's rather of the turbulent kind." nora laughed a little. "one is generally led to suppose that 'the knights of labor' are generally disposed to encourage turbulence, rather than to repress it!" she said. "a complete mistake!" exclaimed roland, eagerly. "it is one of the principles of the order to do everything 'decently and in order'! its aims are to remedy wrong by peaceful means, if possible. every method of doing so is tried, before such an extreme measure as a strike--say--is resorted to. why, there is no counting the number of strikes that have been prevented through its agency." "it's too bad people don't know that," nora replied. "they don't want to know it," he said. "mr. pomeroy for instance should know, that but for the amicable negotiations of the 'knights,' he might have had a strike before now. and i am not at all sure that he may not have it yet! such surly, dissatisfied young fellows as jim are just the stuff to make mischief. however, if he joins us, we may do something with him. one of our fundamental positions is the dignity of all honest labor. this teaches the men to respect themselves, and that is one step toward respecting others. and then, too, the assembly meetings afford a place where all grievances can be ventilated--a sort of safety-valve, so to speak, where a good deal of gas can be got off, at any rate." "i see," said nora. "how often do they meet?" "once a week. by the way, i'm sorry that we haven't succeeded in getting redress for the girls. mr. pomeroy wouldn't interfere with his manager;--did not dare, perhaps, for fear he should leave: and willett is hopeless!" "oh, i am sorry!" exclaimed nora. "i'm not going to give it up, though," he added, cheerfully. "of course we'll keep driving away at the matter in _the brotherhood_. and how is my little friend, 'miss travers,' and her mother?" "oh, cecilia promises to live up to her _name_! i've been trying to teach her to read, at which she was very awkward, but she takes much more readily to music," miss blanchard replied. "she's trying very hard to play a little on the piano, with her small fingers, and you should see her using a little accordion i gave her. it is quite a picture!" "yes, she's a beautiful child! she seemed to me like a disguised princess in a fairy-tale, that day i saw her first. and is the mother getting on well?" "yes, she's getting better fast," said nora, somewhat doubtfully. "but, poor thing, what will she do when she is well?" "oh, something must be done for her," roland replied. "and surely she must have friends somewhere!" "miss spencer, the nurse who attends her, is going to try to find out, if she can only get her to tell her," replied miss blanchard. "will you permit me to come some day to see the child?" asked roland. "i should like to see her again." "oh, come whenever you like," nora responded cordially, as she bade him good-night, "come and see her--and me!" chapter xviii. afternoon visitors. the days seem to go on faster after the winter solstice is turned, and so, too, often do the life and work of men. roland graeme, at all events, found the days fly past with an increasing rapidity. he had, indeed, no idle time on his hands. his law-studies and office-work absorbed the best part of his day. his reporting and journalizing filled in all the intervals, and several evenings. the meetings of the "knights of labor" always occupied one evening in the week, and sometimes more; for besides his regular attendance at the assembly to which he belonged, his intelligence and ability were frequently called into requisition, either in getting new assemblies into working order, or in helping to settle difficult matters that came up for consideration. roland's influence had already made itself felt among the men, with whom a combination of honest enthusiasm, energy and ability like his, speedily becomes a power. dunning, the head of the minton organization, himself a shrewd, intelligent man, had soon recognized graeme's value, and frequently sought his counsel. and with the men generally, his ready sympathy, genial address, and persuasive eloquence had gained an influence that often surprised him, almost as much as did the fair and moderate views and temperate and sensible speeches that he often heard from them. he would laughingly remark to mr. alden, that, if the masters, generally, were only as fair and reasonable in their attitude as were most of the men, there need never be a "strike" or a "lock-out." to which mr. alden would reply, that, as it had been from the beginning, so it was still, most difficult for "a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven." then, in addition to all his other work, roland had his editorials for _the brotherhood_ to write, as well as all the rest of its editorial management on his hands; and though it was only a small weekly sheet, this work often kept his lamp burning till far into the night. with all these things on his mind, it is no wonder if he began sometimes to feel the pressure--if his color was somewhat less fresh and his face more lined and worn than on his first arrival in minton. both sandy dunlop and his friend dick burnet sometimes warned him that he was "burning the candle at both ends," but his own enthusiasm was like a spirited steed that will carry its rider on, at full gallop, almost in spite of himself. as for _the brotherhood_, it could not be called a very brilliant success, financially at least. this, however, had not been expected by any one concerned, and was a matter of least concern to sandy dunlop, who supplied most of the funds, with a grim satisfaction in feeling that he was thereby doing a little toward "the keeping in order" of bland autocrats like mr. pomeroy, for whom the rugged scotchman had little love. dick burnet helped his friend materially, by printing the paper as economically as possible, at the office of the _minerva_; though this was, for obvious reasons, kept very quiet. the new paper found, of course, its largest circulation among the workingmen, being a sort of recognized "organ" in their interests; and a good many business men, who wanted their patronage, used it as an advertising medium, its principal source of profit. but, of the people roland most desired to reach, few read it, or cared to do so. burnet, however, went as far as he thought he safely could, in reprinting portions of roland's best articles on general subjects, as well as some of his selections; and the very fact of the existence of such a paper with such a title and such principles, was not without its effect in the community. managers became somewhat more pliant; concessions were somewhat more readily gained; negligence of precautions was less common, now that the employers knew, at least, that there was "a chiel amang them, takin' notes," though it need scarcely be said that the "note-taking" individual was not particularly agreeable to the subjects of his notes. for this, however, roland cared little. his own affairs and the estimation in which he was held, did not, happily, weigh heavily on his mind. he had too many other people to think about, and, as yet, he had no engrossing personal interests; moreover, he could now always find a haven of rest and refreshment in mr. alden's pleasant home. the sight of grace, indeed, always refreshed him, in itself, as did a fine poem or picture. he was content simply to sit and watch her acting "little mother" to the other children, while he talked with mr. alden, and his boyish friend, frank. mr. alden smiled a little to himself, as he began to notice the magnetic attraction that drew roland's eyes constantly in the direction of grace's girlish figure. it reminded him of his own young days; and he knew that roland was as romantic as any young troubadour. he, however, had too much real faith to be a fussy or fidgety man, and he could see that grace was as unconscious of roland's silent devotion as any prudent father could desire. he knew that, in some things, she was even younger than her years, owing, in part, to her quiet and healthy up-bringing; and he was not afraid of a premature love affair. nor, indeed, was roland's the kind of devotion that easily finds expression in "love-making"--though among his papers there were scattered various fragments of verse which sometimes came to him, even in his busy life, and which owed their inspiration to grace alden. he would have felt it a desecration of the reverent emotion with which he regarded her, to say a word which would have broken or disturbed the childlike unconsciousness, the calm, even current of her life. grace was used to having people love her. she could not have fancied what it would be to live without what was to her the very breath of life, but it never occurred to her to think of it, or about herself in connection with it. so mr. alden reassured the slight uneasiness of his wife, and took no notice; but continued to give roland the benefit of his kindly sympathy and friendly counsel. he was, indeed, with the exception of sandy dunlop, the only man roland knew in minton to whom he could talk with perfect freedom and confidence in his honest impartiality. and, though mr. alden never forced on his young friend his own strong religious convictions, the latter often _felt_ them; and, without his knowing it, they helped him to keep up heart and hope even in his discouragements, by the recognition of the "divinity that shapes the ends" of men to other issues than they themselves have designed. roland's faith in this respect had never quite given way; and the influence of mr. alden's strong and happy realization of it very much helped his own. roland was not likely, however, to forget his promise of calling to see miss blanchard and the little girl whom he had first befriended. early in the new year, he called, late one snowy afternoon, when he thought he would be pretty sure of finding miss blanchard at home. she was alone in the drawing-room, reading by the window. she expressed great pleasure at seeing him again, and sent at once for the three children; having noticed roland's predilection for the society of the little aldens. eddie, who had by no means forgotten him, rushed at him with a familiar "hallo!" which rather shocked nora's ideas of propriety. but roland responded in the same fashion, and eddie and he were soon in a merry flow of talk, while daisy, on his knee, was trying to introduce "tatters" and give a catalogue of his accomplishments. cecilia, shy and grave as usual, recognized roland with evident pleasure, and soon seemed so much at home with him, that she willingly went, at his suggestion, to get her accordion and play him a tune on it. "she is really quite useful, now," said miss blanchard, in cecilia's absence. "she has great influence over these two, who think her the most wonderful musician that ever was." "the little aldens seemed greatly taken with her, too," said roland, laughing. "mrs. alden says she has made quite a conquest of frank." "well, grace has certainly made a conquest of her," replied nora; "the child has taken the greatest fancy to her, and i don't wonder. she is such a lovely girl, isn't she, mr. graeme?" and as she spoke she looked up, a half mischievous smile hovering about her lips and in her eyes. "she is, indeed!" replied roland, with straightforward warmth. he never had any self-conscious impulse to conceal his admiration for grace. but cecilia had returned with her accordion, and surprised him a good deal by her correct rendering of a number of airs which she had picked up entirely by ear. "why, you are going to be a modern st. cecilia!" he said. "do you know who she was?" he added. "yes," said the child, smiling, and looking up at miss blanchard comprehendingly. "she says her mother told her she was named after her father," remarked nora; "of course his name must have been cecil." "does she speak as if he were dead?" he asked, in a low tone, as the child began playing another air. "she doesn't seem to know anything about him," she replied, in the same tone. "miss spencer has an idea her mother may be a deserted wife," she added. "poor thing!" said roland; then turning to another subject, one of the objects of his visit: "i am going to give that lecture of mine that i was talking of, on 'modern miracles,' next week," he said, smilingly. "you said you would like to hear it, so i've brought you two or three tickets for yourself and any friends of yours who might do me the honor of coming. the price of admission is a merely nominal one," he added, disclaiming thanks, "simply to keep out 'roughs,' as the lecture is designed mainly for the men themselves. there will be a few seats reserved, for admission to which these tickets are intended; but i don't know that they will have many occupants. mr. alden and miss grace are going, so in any case you will have them for company, if you care to come." "oh, indeed, i want very much to go," replied nora, eagerly, "and i think my brother will go, too, if he possibly can. he reads your paper regularly, and is much interested in your work." "i am glad to hear it," he said. "i wish he could influence mr. pomeroy a little to be reasonable in meeting the reasonable requests of the men. i am afraid there may be trouble if he does not. we have been doing our best to stave off a strike, but it may have to come. by the way, that young fellow, mason, seems to have a desperate grudge against young pomeroy. one of our men says that there's a girl in the case,--that it's jealousy that makes him so set on mischief." "oh, impossible!" exclaimed nora. "mr. harold pomeroy is engaged to miss farrell, an intimate friend of mine." "so i've heard," said he. "but that hardly proves the contrary. young men do all sorts of silly and wicked things for a little amusement, i'm sorry to say," he continued, gravely. "and sometimes young ladies do so, too! however, there may be nothing in it. i only give it as i heard it." nora's mind had been going back to the things that lizzie mason had told her, in the beginning of their acquaintance. was it possible that harold pomeroy could be the unknown "gentleman" who "turned nelly's head with compliments and attention",--who had so upset jim and poisoned poor lizzie's piece of mind? the thought made her cheek burn with intense indignation. this would be worse than anything else. meantime roland's thoughts had been taking a different direction; and he presently remarked: "waldberg's going to relieve the dryness of the lecture with a little music. he offered, and i thought it a good idea." "mr. waldberg is a friend of yours, isn't he?" remarked nora. "yes, waldberg and i started a friendship when i first met him, along with a party of jolly students, while i was taking a walking-tour in germany. he and i spent some happy days, roaming about the black forest together; and as i found that he was just about to start for the new world to seek his fortune, i gave him a note to my friend burnet, the editor of the _minerva_, you know. so when i arrived here, i found he had cast anchor in minton; and we have kept together ever since. he and i recall to each other a good many pleasant associations, as we often talk over the 'fatherland;' and i keep my german a little in practice. he likes to talk it now and then, of course, though he speaks english so well. he and i and my old friend, mr. dunlop, get on very comfortably together. dunlop has rather a fancy for waldberg, though he thinks him a little reckless. i sometimes wish he had a little more of dunlop's sound scotch principle." "oh, i suppose that mr. dunlop is the old gentleman i took such a fancy to," said nora. "where did you meet him?" he asked. "at mr. pomeroy's; there happened a discussion there about these labor questions, and he spoke out so strongly!" "oh, yes, dunlop's sound enough on that head, and he's by no means afraid of saying what he thinks. you see, he's rich enough to be able to take liberties, though he likes to live quietly in his own old-fashioned way. he has plenty of time on his hands, and it has been a great interest to him to read this thing up. i should not have been able to start _the brotherhood_ without his help, and he's as much interested in this lecture of mine as i am." "is he all alone in the world, then?" asked nora. "yes--he seems so. his wife and only child died long ago, and he doesn't care to live by himself. he has his own two comfortable rooms, and he sometimes has waldberg and me in to dine with him. he has taken up some idea that i must be a distant relation of his, a scotch cousin of some remote degree, because my mother's name was dunlop. he has been writing to her about it, to see if he can establish some link of relationship." evidently mr. graeme must be a great favorite of this old gentleman, nora thought. presently she took up another subject that had been occupying her mind. "do you know, mr. graeme, an idea has come to me about something we might do for some of these poor girls. i was asking mr. alden if we couldn't start some sort of club for them, such as i've read about--a place where they could spend the evenings when they chose, where they could have books or music, or anything else they liked. don't you think that would brighten up their lives a little?" "yes, if you could get them to use it," he replied. "mr. alden thinks we might manage it," she said. "and he said he would let us have that committee-room where the 'helping hands' meet, and they could use it always, except when there are meetings. so i am going to get it nicely fitted up by some of the young ladies i know here. miss farrell's going to help, and i think miss pomeroy will, too, if i ask her." "it would be a capital thing, if you could only bring these young ladies into direct contact with the working-girls, so that they might know something of their lives, and realize their circumstances. that's what people really need, most of all." "well, i'm going to _try_," said nora, decidedly. roland rose as if he thought it time for him to go. he took up the volume of lowell's poems that miss blanchard had laid down on his entrance, and opened it where she had laid a geranium leaf to keep her place. "ah, i see, you are reading 'the vision of sir launfal'! that is one of my favorites," he said. "yes, i think it is a lovely poem," she said. he glanced at the open page, then out of the window, where, as the daylight was fading, the soft falling snow, clinging to the trees, was conjuring up a ghostly, spectral white forest without. "we might alter these lines just a little," he said, "to describe that fairy scene: "'down through a frost-leaved forest crypt, long gleaming aisles of snow-clad trees, bending to simulate a breeze.'" they were still talking over the poem, when the door opened, and mrs. blanchard entered, fresh from an afternoon _siesta_, in her pale-green "tea-gown." nora introduced "mr. graeme," whom mrs. blanchard expressed herself as much pleased to meet, having heard so much about him of late. "but why haven't you lights?" she asked. "you're almost in the dark!" "that's what i like, you know, at this hour, and it seemed a pity to shut out that white world!" said nora. "that dreary world!" said mrs. blanchard, turning up the gas, while roland courteously lighted it for her. he declined the offered cup of tea, and was just about to take leave, when the door opened again, admitting mr. chillingworth. the clergyman looked surprised at seeing roland there, though not by any means discomposed by his recollection of the previous meeting. he only remarked, as mrs. blanchard was about to introduce him, "i have met mr. graeme before," greeting him with something of his former stiffness, as roland, bidding the ladies a courteous good-evening, took his leave. "i wish he wouldn't have gone quite so soon," said mrs. blanchard. "i'd really have liked to hear him talk a little. he seems quite a mild young man, doesn't he now, mr. chillingworth?" "what did you expect, sophy?" said nora, laughing. "oh, i expected a beard, at least, and he has only a moustache, and doesn't look a bit fierce or revolutionary! and what has he been talking to you about, all this time, nora, for eddie told me he had been here a good while?" "he kindly brought us some tickets for a lecture he's going to give next week. will you have one, mr. chillingworth?" she asked, audaciously. "if you'll go, i'll give you one." "thanks very much, mrs. blanchard," said the clergyman, taking the offered cup of tea. "i'm afraid i must decline the pleasure," he said, returning the ticket. "i see he calls his lecture 'modern miracles.' very possibly it is just a pretext for bringing out some of his sceptical views." "oh no!" replied nora. "it's nothing of that kind. i heard him talking to mr. alden about it. he only means to give a sketch of the scientific wonders of the age, and show how human ingenuity has almost annihilated space and time. it is chiefly for workingmen, but i had said i should like to go." "ah well, you never can tell," mr. chillingworth replied, doubtfully. "people bring in their attacks on christianity under cover of all sorts of things." "well, we'll go to the lecture, and give you a full report," said mrs. blanchard, lightly. "by the way," said mr. chillingworth, glad to get away from the subject of mr. graeme and his lecture, "you'll be happy to hear that mr. pomeroy sent me, the other day, a cheque for five thousand dollars, for our new church." "oh, isn't that splendid!" said mrs. blanchard. "it was very handsome of him! and i've no doubt he'll give more, by and by." nora said nothing, but thought of poor lizzie mason, and her overworked, starved life, and wondered whether, after all, it had been his _own_ money that mr. pomeroy had bestowed. "now nora, let us have some music," said mrs. blanchard. "i know that's what mr. chillingworth wants." "you always comprehend my wishes, mrs. blanchard," he replied, moving at once toward the piano. "oh, cecilia," said mrs. blanchard, "it's time to take the children away for their tea." the little girl proceeded to comply, rather reluctantly, for she wanted to stay for the music. mr. chillingworth had never happened to hear her name before; since, mindful of her first encounter with him, she had generally kept out of his way. he looked round at her now, and said, smiling graciously, as he held out his hand: "so your name is cecilia! why, you are almost a namesake of mine!" the little girl did not seem to find this a very interesting circumstance, however, and only seemed glad to escape further notice by a speedy retreat, while mr. chillingworth luxuriously resigned himself to the enjoyment of the softly flowing "songs without words" which miss blanchard played so well. by and by, he asked her to sing for him a song with words, naming one of his favorites, "my queen." and, as he listened to her rich, clear voice, and watched, with æsthetic pleasure, the graceful poise of her head and figure, he thought that she seemed no inapt illustration of "that sweet calm" which was just his own ideal. chapter xix. "modern miracles." nora found that she and her brother and sister would have several of their friends for companions at roland graeme's lecture. kitty farrell was bent on going, though nora, of course, suspected that it was much more for the sake of waldberg's part in it, than of roland's. mr. archer, despite his somewhat cynical indifference, had some curiosity to see how roland would acquit himself as a lecturer, and had actually proposed that miss pomeroy should accompany him. she, moreover, had very willingly assented. she was a girl of some mind and character, who had grown heartily sick of the inane and monotonously luxurious life she lived, and did not feel much interest in the meetings her mother was perpetually attending. she was glad, therefore, of any new sensation that seemed to offer a little unusual excitement. and the more she heard her father's irritated remarks on roland's "dangerous doctrines," the more her curiosity was aroused to hear these "dangerous doctrines" for herself. and mr. wharton--who had been led, by his discussions with miss harley, to reconsider the labor question in some of its aspects--wished to hear all that roland had to say, as a contribution to the material he was collecting for a contemplated magazine article on the character and prospects of the "movement." mr. wharton and mr. archer had offered their services to escort miss pomeroy and miss farrell; as young pomeroy, who did not care for "any such stuff," had some more attractive engagement for that evening. the party stopped at dr. blanchard's, _en route_ for the lecture-hall, and took up the two ladies, leaving the busy doctor to look in when he could. it was a glorious moonlight night, the silvery radiance reflected back from the pure, white snow, making the night as clear as the day, while the pure, exhilarating air made it a delight to be out. "what a perfect night!" exclaimed mr. archer. "really it seems a shame to go to sit in a stuffy hall, instead of enjoying it out of doors." "well, we don't think of that, you know, when we go to a party," laughed kitty, who was walking with nora and mr. archer. "there are some other folks out on a tramp," said mr. archer, as a little procession of men and women, singing a rousing hymn, filed along a street not far off. "there goes the salvation army, trying to improve the world in its way, as graeme is trying in his. but what does it all amount to?" "to something, i should hope!" exclaimed nora. "and in any case, it's something to _try_! surely you are not so faithless as to progress, mr. archer?" "well, so far as i can see, it seems very like rolling a stone up hill, just to have it roll down again. things seem to go on, as a rule, much the same, whatever you do," he answered. "but what might it be if people were _not_ doing something all the time?" she asked. "don't you think it would be a good deal worse?" "oh, well, if people like to slave away on that principle--" he said, with a shrug and smile which nora had learned to detest. "you see i'm not fond of slaving. perhaps because i have enough of it in my office." "but then, willing service _isn't_ slaving. it's the greatest pleasure." "so i've heard," he answered, drily. "but then, one must have the will. you see i haven't." "stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed kitty. "you're not half so bad as you pretend to be, mr. archer. if you were, you wouldn't be taking us to this lecture." "_i_--taking _you_!" he exclaimed. "i thought it was you who were taking me! well, anyhow, we've got here. and it looks as if there was to be a fair audience, of men, at any rate. i expect you'll be the only ladies." this expectation, however, was not realized, as there were a few others, some drawn by curiosity, some by genuine interest. there were evidently, some few wives of mechanics who had come with their husbands, and who looked really interested in the lecture as it proceeded. some, nora thought, must be young working-girls. there was a large gathering of men, evidently workingmen, who nearly filled the body of the hall. in the side seats, to which mr. archer led his party, were already seated mr. alden and grace, with mr. dunlop, and two or three friends of his whom he had brought to hear his young friend's _début_ as an orator. at the precise hour appointed, roland graeme, and his friend mr. burnet, a slender, fair-haired, energetic looking man with spectacles, walked quickly up the platform, and the latter briefly introduced the lecturer. as it was roland's first attempt of the kind, and as he spoke extemporaneously, from brief notes, he naturally felt somewhat nervous; not, however, so much on his own account, as lest he might not be able to do justice to his subject, and carry the interest of his auditors. nora watched with sympathetic anxiety the evident effort, in the beginning of his lecture, to keep down his own nervousness, and fix the attention of his hearers on the points which he desired to make, in giving a brief survey of the marvellous achievements of science since the present century began. but soon she saw, with pleasure, that it was no longer an effort; that, as he warmed up to his subject, thought and expression seemed to flow more freely; till, when he reached the second part of his lecture, it seemed to carry him on, like a rapid stream, without conscious exertion. he had lost all thought, it seemed, of himself; and was conscious only of the enthusiasm of his subject. at the end of this first division of the lecture, he sat down for a brief rest to himself and the audience, while waldberg, who had come in late, played a pretty _fantasia_, introducing a number of characteristic national airs, which greatly pleased the audience, and helped roland to a little inspiration for the rest of the lecture. the second part of the lecture was devoted to pointing out the reality of that great truth of the brotherhood of man, which underlies all human history. this principle, he said, was but another name for the inter-dependence, coöperation, mutual trust, which had been the root of all real human progress--without which human beings must have remained a race of selfish and warring savages, little better than beasts of prey. he showed how it had originated and bound together the community; how it had been the basis of commerce; how it had led up to all the discoveries and inventions which had, in turn, supplied it with the means of wider development; how it had practically transformed the whole globe into one great market--glut or famine in one quarter of it meaning low or high prices in another. the market was not yet as open as would be for the true interests of mankind, but he believed the day was not far distant, when protection-fences and custom-houses, with all their expensive machinery, would be things of the past. then he traced the working of the same great principle in the field of labor, in the long line of progress,--from the first rude work of the solitary artisan, making even his own tools, through the gradual evolution of machinery and division of labor, through the immense impulse given to this by the application of steam, and, latterly, of electricity; then through the massing of joint-stock capital for the use of this new power on a far grander scale; and, finally, to those gigantic profit-sharing combinations, or so-called "trusts," which to-day seriously threaten the public interest, but which are only the abuse, by the few, in favor of monopoly, of the great and true principle of brotherly trust and coöperation. for the abuse, he went on to say, there was only one radical remedy, and that was a fuller extension and wider use of the principle of brotherly trust or coöperation. it must govern all through. it must be extended to the laborer, as well as to the capitalist. the main secret of the success of the latter was his use of this principle. the laborer must learn the lesson, as well as the capitalist. even at the beginning of the present century, the rich returns awaiting coöperation had been easily seen. how was it that men, generally, had largely failed to enter into coöperative labor? was it not evident that moral as well as material progress was needed? that the mass of men must more and more learn the value and enter into the spirit of brotherhood, of brotherly trust? having, by means of careful simplifying and appropriate illustration, endeavored to make this position clear to the minds of his audience, roland went on to the practical application of his text. their organization, as knights of labor, was, he said, founded on this principle of brotherly trust and coöperation, in order to protect their rights and interests from the encroachments of selfish organizations. he thought they _had_ rights to protect, but their success in protecting them would be mainly dependent on the spirit in which they should defend them. they had a right to insist on the shorter hours of work, which their own welfare, under the increased pressure of working to unresting machinery, imperatively demanded. they had a right, too, he thought, to insist that productive labor should receive a larger share of the wealth it produced. but, to make good their claims, they must act, not in a factious, selfish spirit, but in that of brotherly fairness and generous trust. they must be true to themselves, true to their employers, true also to the great outside body of unorganized labor. if they acted selfishly toward these, they would show themselves unworthy of the benefits of coöperation. one of their motives in seeking shorter hours should be the greater chances for employment which would thereby open up to the great army of the unemployed. they must cultivate a spirit of brotherly faithfulness to all men, and of regard for each other's interest. they must teach this to their children, for whom they must secure the best education within their power. they must think not only of rights, but of _duty_, of helping others as well as themselves. with thrift, steadiness, mutual confidence and the franchise, the workingmen of america could be masters of the position. if they would refuse to sell their votes to partisan politicians, their intelligence to liquor-sellers, their children to those who would set them to premature drudgery;--if they would be true to the interests of coöperative labor generally, true to the grand ideal of human brotherhood and faith in its realization, they need despair of nothing they could reasonably desire. for this life of ours was not ruled by mere chance, or blind force--whatever some may say. it was under the guidance of a power of which one of their own poets had said "who counts his brother's welfare as sacred as his own;-- who loves, forgives, and pities;-- he serveth me alone." but he would give them the picture of what might yet be, when classes and churches had ceased to waste their strength in war, and men had truly learned to help each other,--in the stirring words of henry george, words that he could not improve upon: "it is not the almighty, but we, who are responsible for the vice and misery that fester amid our civilization. the creator showers upon us his gifts--more than enough for all. but like swine scrambling for food, we tread them in the mire--tread them in the mire, while we tear and rend each other! "the fiat has gone forth! with steam and electricity, and the new powers born of progress, forces have entered the world that will either compel us to a higher plane or overwhelm us, as nation after nation, as civilization after civilization, have been overwhelmed before. it is the delusion which precedes destruction, that sees in the popular unrest with which the civilized world is feverishly pulsing, only the passing effect of ephemeral causes. even now, in old bottles, the new wine begins to ferment, and elemental forces gather for the strife! "but if, while there is yet time, we turn to justice and obey her, if we trust liberty and follow her, the changes that now threaten must disappear, the forces that now menace will turn to agencies of elevation. think of the powers now wasted; of the infinite fields of knowledge yet to be explored; of the possibilities of which the wonderful inventions of this century give us but a hint. with want destroyed, with greed changed to a noble passion, with the fraternity that is born of equality taking the place of jealousy and fear that now array men against each other, with mental power loosed by conditions that give to the humblest comfort and leisure--who shall measure the heights to which our civilization may soar? words fail the thought! it is the golden age of which poets have sung, and high-raised seers have told in metaphor! it is the glorious vision which has always haunted man with gleams of fitful splendor. it is the reign of the prince of peace!" as roland ended his concluding quotation with all the enthusiasm that it stirred in himself, a burst of applause rose from the audience, which had followed his lecture with riveted attention--only two or three men having gone out during its earlier portion. he had arranged with waldberg to follow the close of the lecture with another "piano recital," and the young musician immediately broke in with a spirited rendering of the "_marseillaise_," followed by the "_wacht am rhein_." nora could not help being secretly amused at the choice with which waldberg, in his desire to make his music cosmopolitan, had followed the peaceful peroration; but of course few of the audience recognized what the airs were, and roland was far too much absorbed by his interest in his subject, even to notice what his friend was playing. mr. archer, evidently, however, was, like herself, amused by the little inappropriateness, as she could see by the slight curl of his moustache. roland's good intention of shutting off conventional votes of thanks was, however, baffled by his friend, mr. alden, who rose at once to express the thanks of the audience to mr. graeme for his clear and forcible lecture. people might and did differ as to the practical solution of the great problems of the day, but there could be no doubt that the spirit of brotherhood advocated by the lecturer was the only one in which they could ever be solved, the only line in which real progress, material, moral or spiritual, could ever be made. he hoped that every one of the audience would carry away with him the inference of the lecturer's plea for the spirit of brotherhood and would try to work it out in the details of daily life. mr. archer listened to mr. alden with evident interest, and, with a scarcely perceptible hesitation, was just rising to his feet to second the vote of thanks, when he was forestalled by the slender, pale-faced man with the earnest eyes, whom nora had observed at the christmas festival. he, briefly, but in well-chosen words, seconded the vote of thanks, expressing, on behalf of the knights of labor, much gratitude to mr. graeme for the present lecture, and for his many other services in their behalf. the motion was briefly put by mr. burnet, and of course carried with another burst of applause. as the party in the reserved seats waited for the crowd to pass out, roland graeme was warmly congratulated on his forcible address. mr. alden shook his hand heartily, and mr. archer exclaimed: "well, graeme, i think you'd better take to lecturing, instead of law. you'd make your fortune quicker. but who would have thought that a lecture on 'modern miracles' was going to turn out a plea for coöperation! you ought to throw that lecture into the form of an article for the _forum_. mr. wharton here will give you a wrinkle." "thanks," said roland, "for your good opinion; but my lecture wasn't meant for such an enlightened public. mr. jeffrey is going to lecture here soon, however, on 'capital and labor.' that, i have no doubt, will be fit for any audience. i hope it will draw a good one." mr. wharton looked surprised. mr. jeffrey was a well-known writer on the labor question, and he had no idea that roland graeme could have been in correspondence with him. as a matter of fact, the correspondence had originated through some articles of roland's in _the brotherhood_, which mr. jeffrey had seen, and which led to the arrangements for this lecture. mr. dunlop had turned to miss blanchard, whom he recognized as having been his _vis-à-vis_ at the dinner-party. he had been much taken with her appearance, and seemed pleased to meet her again; and nora, on her part, was glad to exchange a few words with the honest old scot. he asked her how she liked his friend graeme's "new-fangled notions," and nodded approvingly at her warm commendation of the lecture. "ay! ay!" he said, "he's going to be a credit to us yet! i believe he's a sort o' scotch cousin o' mine. come, roland, give me your arm home." roland had been exchanging a few words with grace alden, who was looking charming, nora thought; but he turned at once to assist the old man. as he bade miss blanchard good-night, she exclaimed--"thank you so much for showing us that the world isn't built upon selfishness, after all!" waldberg managed to take kitty in charge, and nora and miss pomeroy walked on together with mr. archer. miss pomeroy had been one of the most attentive listeners to the lecture, which had suggested many new ideas to a mind that was craving some new and strong interest. miss pomeroy was decidedly clever--had had every advantage of education that wealth could supply--had been abroad, "everywhere," and could talk french and german, as well as browning. but she wanted _purpose_ in her life, and was discontented, and a little _blasée_ for lack of it. "self-culture," for no definite end, had palled upon her, as generally happens. but this lecture had set her thinking, and nora found a ready response to her proposal to fit up the room she wanted to furnish for a cosy meeting-place for working-girls, especially for those of her father's works. "indeed, i'll do all i can to help!" she said, emphatically, when nora had unfolded her plans. "i'm just _sick_ of having nothing useful to do! i don't care for the meetings mother likes. there seems too much _talk_ for all they _do_. but if i could do something to make any _one_ person a little better or happier, i really should be glad to do it." "well," said nora, "let you and kitty and any other girls you like to bring, come over to-morrow morning, and we'll talk it over and see what is to be done. or perhaps we'd better go to the room itself--the day after to-morrow. i'll see mr. alden and arrange with him just when we can go and make our plans." and so it was settled, mr. archer declaring that they could call on him for any services they needed in the way of picture-hanging or putting up curtains, these things having been already discussed during the homeward walk. "only i'm afraid you're going to be quite too æsthetic for your constituency," he said, laughing, to miss pomeroy, as he listened to her suggestions for the little library they were going to include among the furnishings. "if you'll only get any sort of piano," he said, "and sing them songs, miss blanchard, they'll like that better than anything else!" chapter xx. breakers ahead. the proposed meeting speedily took place. miss pomeroy mustered six or seven other young ladies who had not very much to do, and were glad to hit on some new occupation; and, after much animated discussion, the furnishing of the room went on in earnest. a pretty rug for the floor, a few bright pictures on the walls, some cosy easy-chairs and a wide sofa, bright curtains for the windows, a neat bookcase filled, for the most part, with story-books for which their former owners had no further use, were contributed by the young ladies, and soon transformed the bare little apartment into a comfortable and pleasant sitting-room. a little parlor-organ, to complete its outfit, was contributed by an unexpected donor, mr. archer. "there, now," said kitty, triumphantly, when this gift arrived, "i told you he wasn't half as bad as he makes himself out!" and miss pomeroy, who had, by natural selection, taken the place of head of their little committee, was deputed to write a note of cordial thanks for the gift. it was proposed to inaugurate the new use of the room by a little tea-party, given to as many of the mill-girls as should care to accompany lizzie and nellie, who were to be asked to act as envoys. nora went to see lizzie on the following sunday, and explained the plan. she listened without brightening very perceptibly. "it's very kind indeed, miss blanchard," said lizzie, "and i'm sure we'll be glad to come. but i'm afraid you'll be disappointed if you expect the girls to go there a great deal. you see, we're so tired out, often, we don't care to go anywheres, and them as do, likes to go to something lively. but maybe they'll get into the way of going, after a while." "oh well, we're going to have it there, so they can use it if they like. we only want to make sure of their having one pleasant, quiet place where they _can_ go, when they please." "and have you been to see mrs. travers lately?" asked lizzie, before miss blanchard took leave. "not very lately," she replied, "i suppose she's continuing to grow stronger." "she didn't seem very well, yesterday, miss. i think it would be a good thing for you to see her soon." lizzie spoke as if more was meant than met the ear, and miss blanchard at once said she would go next day. the invalid had been recovering very slowly. the month that she was to remain in the hospital had been extended to two, partly owing to her weakness, partly to the impossibility of her having care or comfort if she left it. when nora went next day, she met miss spencer at the door of the room. "come with me," she said. "mrs. travers is asleep, and we can talk better in the sitting-room." they went into the little sitting-room, and sat down. "i am sorry to say," said miss spencer, in a voice of grave concern, "that mrs. travers got at some brandy one day when i was asleep, and another nurse was on duty. she had just gone out for a few minutes, leaving it, meantime, in an adjoining room, and mrs. travers must have seized the moment to satisfy her craving. she was quite overcome by it, when lizzie mason came to see her. but lizzie did not seem at all surprised at it. and the poor thing has been in a restless fit ever since." "oh," said nora, "there was something in lizzie's manner that made me so uneasy when she spoke to me yesterday, that i felt anxious to come at once. but what a dreadful thing it is!" "it makes it so much harder to know what to do for her," said miss spencer. "of course we must keep her here as long as we can. i think she is one of the cases that really are uncontrollable by the sufferers themselves,--their will-power being almost gone. for such unfortunates an inebriate asylum is the only hope. i see she is very nervous and excitable. of course she will be treated here as much as possible for _this_, now that we know it." when nora related the circumstances to her brother, he was not at all surprised. he had known other cases of the kind, and regarded the pathological state of such people as a kind of semi-lunacy produced by physical causes, and curable only by constant watchfulness and unremitting medical treatment. "half the world doesn't understand it, and the other half doesn't realize it, or there would be more sympathy for such unhappy sufferers. we're in a great measure brutal, still, in our treatment of them." nora was somewhat consoled by this view of the subject, and tried to make pity for the misfortune overcome her repugnance to the results. more than ever, she felt what a terrible thing it was for the poor child, whose peculiarities she could so much better understand. dr. blanchard, too, looked very grave over poor little cecilia. the tea-party at the new "girls' club," as its founders styled it, took place in due time, and was a fair success. the room was filled with as many young girls as it could comfortably accommodate. there was tea, cake and fruit in abundance, to which full justice was done. nora and kitty each sang some simple songs; miss pomeroy, who was something of an elocutionist, read "the may queen;" some others played and read; and one or two of the guests, on being invited to do so, gave recitations of their own, learned at school, in the usual school-elocution style. on the whole, notwithstanding a little awkwardness in the attempts of entertainers and entertained to be friendly and sociable, the evening passed off very pleasantly; even nelly, for once, seeming a little subdued, but evidently very well entertained. at the close, miss pomeroy, to whom this task had been assigned, told the girls they were cordially welcome to use the room whenever they pleased. it would be open on several evenings each week, and they could read, write or talk as they liked. "and may we use the organ?" eagerly asked one, as they were leaving. "certainly, if you will use it carefully," nora replied at once, an answer that evidently gave general satisfaction. miss pomeroy was rather discouraged, when nora repeated to her what lizzie had said during her visit of invitation. the difficulty she had expressed was one that had never occurred to a young lady so differently situated, and she was genuinely surprised, when she at last realized their long hours of steady, monotonous work. she had never before thought about it, or inquired into such matters. and her own life had always been such an easy, self-indulgent one, that this unremitting toil seemed the more formidable to her, in comparison. "dear, dear!" she said. "i don't know what papa can be thinking of to permit it! i know he lets willett do just as he likes. he's so valuable, papa says. perhaps he doesn't know about it. why, mamma and he are forever fidgetting about me--so afraid of my over-walking myself or over-exerting myself in any way! and i'm sure _i'm_ strong enough. i must talk to him about it." mr. pomeroy was rather surprised when his daughter challenged him on the subject. he had never, so to speak, thought of his daughter and his _employés_, "on the same day." he laughed a little at her earnestness, told her somewhat irrelevantly that she was growing fanciful, that she didn't understand these matters, or comprehend differing conditions of life. however, seeing that this matter was a real trouble to her, he promised her that he would see what he could do about it. and it was not very long before nora heard from lizzie, with great pleasure, that half an hour had been taken off their time, without any further reduction in their pay. so now, she said, she did not mind the lower wages so much, "that one half-hour did make such a difference!" nora was full of this news when roland called to bring her tickets for mr. jeffrey's lecture. "i'm delighted to hear it," he said. "i believe the young women of america could do more in this matter than any other agency, if they were only thoroughly waked up about it. but," he added, gravely, "i wish mr. pomeroy would do something for his men as well as for his girls, and save us the worry and odium of a 'strike' there! i don't want to see one started, if we can possibly help it." "oh, i hope it won't come to that," said nora; "especially when mr. pomeroy has done this for the girls!" "if he would only go a little farther, it would be all right. the mistake is in half-measures. oh, well, we needn't borrow trouble. it may not come; only--i am somewhat afraid!" chapter xxi. work and wages. the lecture mr. jeffrey was to deliver was well advertised, and excited a great deal of interest in minton. the name and character of the lecturer were so well known that people were anxious to hear him, on the score of his personality, apart from the special interest of his lecture. that, however, was interesting in different ways to many, and those who took the side of capital, as well as those who took the side of labor, were, from their different points of view, equally desirous of hearing what a man regarded as an authority on the subject would say about it. and a still greater interest was excited when it was announced in the _minerva_ that mr. jeffrey, in the course of his lecture, would discuss and meet some opinions which mr. wharton had lately expressed in that paper, in opposition to positions roland graeme had advanced in _the brotherhood_. now that so redoubtable a champion had entered the lists, the contest appeared a more respectable one. even mr. pomeroy would scarcely have ventured to call mr. jeffrey a "crank," and mr. wharton went to the lecture, expecting some intellectual pleasure, at least, despite the promised criticism of his own views. the pomeroy family was, this time, represented by two members. harold pomeroy had actually braced himself to the exertion of sitting through it, which, with kitty for company, "would not be so bad after all." his father would not go, but wished that his son should, for decency's sake. miss pomeroy was naturally eager to hear more of a subject that had begun to interest her very strongly. the blanchards were there, of course, and so was philip archer. and mr. chillingworth, on this occasion departing from his usual indifferent attitude, condescended to show some interest in one of the most important questions of the day. the hall was crowded, for the most part, with a very different audience from that which had been collected to hear roland's lecture; but a part of it had, by roland's care, been specially reserved for the workingmen, of the more intelligent of whom there was a good representation; so that "capital" and "labor" might have been said pretty fairly to divide the audience between them. mr. jeffrey was a tall, spare man, of striking and manly presence, with a slight stoop. his fine broad forehead was shaded by waves of iron-gray hair. his dark eyes and firm mouth carried out an impression of earnestness and decision. he entered the hall, accompanied by roland graeme, who briefly introduced him, and listened to his lecture with the combined earnestness of a reporter and a sympathetic auditor. the lecturer began by expressing the pleasure it had given him to come to minton, to reinforce the good work begun by his esteemed friend, mr. roland graeme; the pleasure of whose acquaintance he owed to their common interest in the grand movement, in favor of which he had the honor to speak to-night. this prologue caused a distinct sensation in some quarters. harold pomeroy opened his eyes, and glanced at mr. archer, whose moustache curled as usual, though with what expression, it would have been hard to define. nora gave a slightly triumphant look at both, and kitty stole a mischievous glance at mr. chillingworth's somewhat contracted brow. as for roland himself, however, though naturally gratified by the recognition, which he did not report, he was quite unconscious of any implied compliment; regarding it quite as a matter of course, that community of interest in any great movement should draw together those who were engaged in it. mr. jeffrey, in entering on his subject, remarked that he could not possibly prevent his subject from appearing somewhat dry; but that, notwithstanding its dryness, it was fraught with the deepest interest and importance to human welfare. he began by referring to the unquestionable fact, that "the laboring classes of all civilized nations have been and still are, as a body, _poor_," while another fact, "that nearly all wealth is the production of labor," would seem to make it natural that all should have possessed some of it, had not something intervened to prevent this result. what that was--that "something," that cause or causes--and whether this seemingly unnatural result could be changed, or modified, he now proposed to inquire. he then explained the nature of property, as being almost entirely in some way the product of labor. as this, then, was the means of procuring property, and in a healthy state of society the only means of doing so, it followed that "to obtain labor without rendering a fair equivalent, is a violation of the rights of property." no one could deny this. the only difference of opinion would be as to what was a fair equivalent. do the workingmen of america, for instance, receive for their labor a fair proportion of the wealth they produce? following somewhat in the line of roland's lecture, mr. jeffrey then traced the causes that led to more and more unequal distribution of wealth, the great discoveries that have made expensive machinery, division of labor and production on a large scale, essential features of our complex civilization. he sketched the processes by which large concerns have gradually swallowed small ones, by which small mechanics and traders have been gradually driven from the field; while "the master-workmen and journeymen of a hundred years ago are to be found at the bench or lathe of the mammoth workshops of the day, not as independent workmen but as mere _automata_, to pull the levers which release the cranks, gears and pulleys of the machinery that performs the former labor of their hands." this state of things, however, was an inevitable accompaniment of scientific and material progress. if it had this unquestionable disadvantage, we have to take the evil with the good. we could not enjoy our railways and telegraphs, our cheap papers and books, and a thousand other comforts and luxuries of life, without such drawbacks. and while there was truth in the contention of mr. ruskin that the minute subdivision of labor tended to destroy the artistic feeling of pride and pleasure in finished work, still this might be more than counterbalanced by the growth of the spirit of coöperation, of brotherhood, in labor. men might learn to take pride in combined work as well as in individual work, as the soldiers of a regiment take pride in gallant achievements of the whole body. the artistic spirit in work might be called forth, and men might cease to work as _automata_, if they felt that they were sharers in an enterprise, not mere "_hands_." but the increasing inequality of the distribution of wealth utterly prevented this feeling of proprietorship in work, and placed employer and employed in a position of selfish antagonism. how could this be remedied? at this point the lecturer took up a clipping from the _minerva_, containing one of mr. wharton's articles. that gentleman moved uneasily, and settled himself into an attitude of critical attention. "look at wharton!" whispered mr. archer to miss blanchard. "he knows he's going to catch it, now!" it was maintained, he said, by the writer of this article--published in one of their leading journals--that the poor were _not_ growing poorer, that the average laborer of to-day was not more poorly but better paid than the average laborer of the past. the able writer of this article had submitted a formidable array of statistics to prove his position. well, he was not going to question the accuracy of the statistics. but there is much force in the saying, notwithstanding all that we hear of "mathematical truth," that "nothing lies like figures," that is, when they are called in to prove more than _sums_. aside from the great difference in the value of money, which was somewhat set off by the greater cheapness of many articles to-day, there were many other considerations that must not be left out of sight in determining whether the laborer was even _as well_ paid now, as, for instance, in england, two or three hundred years ago. for it must be remembered that comfort, after all, was largely a relative term, depending on our ideas and requirements. a savage would find comfort in a life which to a civilized man would be intolerable. our growing complex civilization had developed many artificial needs, many of them an integral part of progress, the non-gratification of which involved real privation. he would ask them to hear the description of the interior of an english manor-house, about the time of queen elizabeth. they had all heard about the old english manor-houses, with the mention of which they were always ready to associate the most refined and graceful life of the day--the manor-houses of trollope, for instance, through whom most of us know them. well, this is what they were like in those days; he quoted from thorold rogers:-- "as might be expected, the furniture of the manor-house was scanty. glass, though by no means excessively dear, appears to have been rarely used. a table, put on tressels, and laid aside when out of use; a few forms and stools, a long bench stuffed with straw or wool covered with a straw cushion worked like a bee-hive, with one or two chairs of wood or straw, and a chest or two for linen, formed the hall furniture. a brass pot or two for boiling, and two or three brass dishes; a few wooden platters and trenchers, or, more rarely, of pewter; an iron or latten candlestick, a kitchen knife or two, a box or barrel for salt, a brass ewer and basin, formed the movables of the ordinary house. the walls were garnished with mattocks, scythes, reaping-hooks, buckets, corn-measures and empty sacks. the dormitory contained a rude bed, and but rarely sheets or blankets; for the gown of the day was generally the coverlet at night." "now, then," he said, [ ]"compare this 'interior,' with what we see to-day in the home of the average manufacturer, the beauty and luxury, the thousand costly superfluities;--and would any one say that the condition of the laborer had improved in anything like the same ratio? it might even be gravely questioned, in many cases, whether it had improved absolutely. for, although there were many additional comforts within the reach of all but the poorest, still, the unhealthy conditions of life resulting from massing families together, in close and unwholesome houses, more than neutralized the advantages. but if any one wanted to know more of the actual state of things in this free and independent america, let him read in henry george's 'social problems,' certain statements by commissioners of labor statistics. let him read of the intelligent workingmen of illinois, that 'the one half are not even able to earn enough for their daily bread, and have to depend upon the labor of women and children to eke out their miserable existence.' let him read that, in cultured massachusetts, the earnings of adult laborers are generally less than the cost of living; that--in the majority of cases--workingmen do not support their families on their individual earnings alone, and that fathers are forced to depend upon their children for from one-quarter to one-third of the family earnings--children under fifteen supplying from one-eighth to one-sixth of the whole earnings. was it any wonder if such children died prematurely, worn out by unnatural labor?" and here he quoted, with telling effect, carlyle's famous description of the sad fate of the murdered little dauphin of france, ending with the strong, touching words--"as only poor factory children, and the like, are wont to perish, _and not be lamented_!" and, to quote henry george again, let them think of "the thousands who swelter all summer in swarming tenement houses and dirty streets teeming with squalid life! draggled women will be striving to soothe pining babies, sobbing and wailing away their little lives for the want of wholesome nourishment and fresh air; and degradation and misery that hide through the winter will be seen on every hand." it was pictures like these, he said, that brought home the facts of the case, whether the position of the workers was better or worse. even minton, he doubted not, could supply them with some such scenes. [footnote : for several passages in quotation marks in this chapter, the author is indebted to henry george's works, to "labor and capital" by edward kellogg, and to articles in the "_popular science monthly_," by george iles, and benjamin reece.] at this point mr. wharton took his note-book and pencilled an entry. "wharton's getting ready for a reply!" whispered mr. archer. "he thinks he's got a point for his answer." but nora scarcely heard him, so riveted was she in painful interest on the lecturer's words. he went on to another point. "he knew," he said, "that the laborer was said to be extravagant. doubtless neither laborers nor their wives were always economical, judged by the standard of the new england housewife. but that required special training--ages of training--and what chance had they to acquire it? but, after all, what opportunity had the laborer to be extravagant, when the price of the day's work would hardly pay the day's board and lodging in a comfortable house in our cities? do the factory operatives in most countries live extravagantly, or the seamstresses in london or new york? yet they earn three, four or five times more products than they actually consume, and these go into the possession of the class of persons who live comfortably or luxuriously, without performing much, if any, productive labor, or advancing the moral and intellectual well-being of society. might not the laborer, on his side, in such circumstances, say that his earnings are swallowed up by the extravagance of employers?" he next touched the question of "over-production." "there were periods," he said, "when one house is filled with families, one to each room, from cellar to garret, and the adjoining house stands empty for want of tenants able to pay the rent. goods are piled up in store without sale, while great numbers of the laboring community are ragged, and are begging from door to door for old clothes to shield themselves and their families from the piercing cold; and for the crumbs that fall from the tables of the rich, to keep them from starving! was such a state of things really the result of over-production? if this be indeed the case, public measures should be taken to avert such disasters by preventing the excess of labor. is it not strange that, at the time when the amount of surplus production is the subject of national lamentation, the people who produce by their labor the very things which they need for their own use and comfort, are the ones that are often destitute of them, while a few capitalists who do little or nothing toward the production or distribution, are supplied with all the comforts and luxuries of life, at half or less than half their usual price? but a surplus of cotton has never remained because no one needed it! the evil," he went on to say, "does not arise from over-production, but from _under-consumption_ by the great masses, the natural result of the unequal, and, i would add, frequently unjust distribution of wealth, keeping, from the toiling multitudes, what they needed for health and comfort, while the wealthy minority could not possibly use their surplus for their own needs. and so the underpayment of labor reacted on the profits of capital." he would not, he said, dwell on the other causes that aggravated the discomforts of the workingman's lot--the unduly long hours of toil that wore him out prematurely, and made him almost a stranger to his children, the long and close confinement of the week; what wonder if, exhausted and weary, he kept out of their churches on the one day of rest! would not most of his hearers, in similar circumstances, do the same? mr. chillingworth, who had been listening attentively, began to pull his long dark beard thoughtfully, a habit of his, when thinking about a perplexing subject. "but now," the lecturer said, "having explained the evils, i am going to turn to a possible remedy. would it not add, _should_ it not add to the happiness of every one," he asked, "if we could secure the removal of the grinding poverty and wretchedness, that was not caused by pure misfortune or misconduct? the residuum would be very easily grappled with. if," as he fully believed, "the produce of labor constitutes the natural recompense of labor, why then do not laborers get all they are justly entitled to receive? the laboring classes make their own bargains with capitalists, and one another, and all are equally protected in the property which they lawfully acquire. undoubtedly, both parties are governed by their own interests, in making their agreements; but the circumstances under which contracts are made often render them very unjust toward laborers. suppose one of the contracting parties to be in deep water, where he must drown, unless he receive assistance from the other party who is on the land. although the drowning man might be well aware that his friend on the shore was practising a very grievous extortion, yet, under the circumstances, he would be glad to make any possible agreement to be rescued." now, as governments are established to protect the just rights of the governed, he believed that legislation was needed to regulate both the minimum of wages and the maximum of hours. he had faith enough to believe in the ultimate triumph of righteous principles of action, and in the future general fulfilment of the command to every man to "love his neighbor as himself." but, in the meantime, we need legislation in many ways, to protect society from the injustice of those who love their neighbor not at all; and he believed such legislation was needed in this direction, otherwise the selfish and unscrupulous employer would frequently crowd out the humane and just one. railway companies and joint-stock companies especially require regulation, since corporations, as we all know, have no souls! he thought that joint-stock companies should be prohibited from contracting liabilities beyond their actual capital, since the power of doing so immensely exaggerated their already too great advantages. he believed that the government should, by all possible precautions, preserve unappropriated land for the use of the community, as opposed to selfish schemes of individual aggrandizement. and he was glad that the knights of labor took the attitude of opposition to all further grants of land for speculative purposes. in conclusion, the lecturer hoped that the knights of labor would be true to the principles laid down by their public spirited founder. he trusted that they would maintain an unselfish policy. they were committed by their constitution to demand for women equal wages for equal work, and that was well. but they must be generous to unorganized labor also. their cause must be the cause of labor as a whole. if they were to discriminate selfishly between the organized men and the unorganized, to try to crowd out the tramp or even the criminal who needs the remedial influences of work, they would simply be repeating and perpetuating the injustice against which they desired to protect themselves. mercy, as well as justice, must be their watchword. for, "there is no justice without mercy, _it is just to be merciful_!". in such a combination they would find their true policy, their true success. the lecture closed with a peroration similar to roland's quotation, describing the ideal possibilities of a state of society in which justice and mercy should prevail, and, in the words of the old hebrew poet, "righteousness and peace should kiss each other." the charm of the lecturer's voice and manner, combined with his clear presentation of his subject, had held the close attention of almost the whole audience, with a few such exceptions as kitty farrell chiefly occupied in watching her friend waldberg, who as usual came in late, and whose services were not, this time, called into requisition. neither did he approach kitty after the lecture, leaving her to the sole attendance of harold pomeroy. it was dr. blanchard who moved the vote of thanks to the lecturer, saying, that in opposition to the interests of his profession, he was, nevertheless, moved, by the spirit of the lecture, to thank mr. jeffrey for his clear exposition of evils which included in their result the production of more disease than any other cause. mr. archer, this time, was equal to the occasion, and gracefully seconded the motion. while dr. blanchard, mr. alden, mr. chillingworth and mr. wharton were engaged in conversation with mr. jeffrey after the conclusion of the lecture, roland graeme accosted nora, with an expression of half-amused concern. "i am sorry to say," he said, in a low tone, "that strike we have been dreading seems inevitable, after all! and, the worst of it is, they will be crediting this lecture with it, though it really had nothing to do with it. turner, that man over there," he explained, pointing out the man who had seconded the vote of thanks at his own lecture, "tells me the men have determined to interview mr. pomeroy to-morrow, and if he won't make the concessions they want, to strike at once. i suspect your friend, jim mason, has had a good deal to do with it. he's very bitter and obstinate. i only hope it will be all quietly done and that the rough element won't be guilty of any violence." "oh," said nora, in dismay, "what a pity! a strike is such a dreadful sort of thing, isn't it?" "well, there are strikes and strikes," said roland, smiling a little. "i rather think this won't last long. and you know there's nothing in a strike contrary to the laws of god or man, however inconvenient it may sometimes be for an employer. a workman has just the same right to demand a just price for his labor, that a merchant has for his goods; and what he has the right to do singly, he has the right to do in combination with others. when there is combination to oppress, there must sometimes be combination to resist oppression. and i think the men ask only what is right." "i suppose so," said nora, thoughtfully. "but i do hope there won't be any trouble, if it's only for lizzie's sake." "i trust so too," replied roland, as he bade her good-night. chapter xxii. nora's strategy. roland graeme's full report of mr. jeffrey's lecture appeared the following evening in the _minerva_. it was not strange, all things considered, that mr. pomeroy threw down the paper with disgust, declaring that if such stuff was scattered broadcast among the men, it was no wonder that he had so much trouble. "what's the matter?" asked his daughter, looking up anxiously. he did not answer at once, and her brother, who was examining the contents of his gold-mounted cigar-case, replied nonchalantly: "oh, only what might have been expected, after last night! the men have been making another row about higher pay, and when father told them that he proposed to run his works himself, they had the impudence to tell him that he could run them by himself. so i suppose that means that they won't put in an appearance to-morrow; and just when there's a lot of work on hand to finish, too!" "oh," exclaimed mrs. pomeroy, "how disgraceful! and after what you did for them a little while ago!" "that wasn't for the men, mamma!" said miss pomeroy. "oh, i knew no good would come of doing anything to please them!" said the young man. "i consider you're responsible for it, clara, for coaxing father into it." "well," said miss pomeroy, "i wonder, harold, after all you heard last night, you can talk like that! why should we have so much _more_ than we need, and all these people so much less?" young pomeroy whistled. "well, i declare!" he exclaimed. "do you hear that, father! here's clara out on the 'rights of labor'! the reason we have so much more, is because father had so much more to begin with,--the money to buy the machinery, and the head to use it!" "but that's no reason why the men who help him to use it mightn't be better paid! _you_ like a good salary for what you do to help, and i don't suppose that's worth a great deal!" she retorted, coolly. "much you know about it! but if all these people get only a little more every week, it would make a big difference to father, don't you see? and, you know, even mr. jeffrey said that single firms couldn't afford to raise the wages, or they'd be crowded out. and you like as well as anybody to have your trips to europe and newport, and all the rest of it." "i am sick of newport," she replied. "and i'd rather never see europe again, than think i was going at the expense of keeping other people drudging for a pittance! but you know very well father can afford a good deal of extra pay, end never feel it. you know you can--papa?" mr. pomeroy had been listening to the discussion in silence. it rather amused him that his daughter should come out in such distinct opposition to her own interests; and, as she was decidedly his favorite, he did not care to take sides with harold against her. moreover, it always gratified his purse-pride to have his wealth put at a high estimate. so he only stretched himself out in his easy-chair, remarking, drily: "it's well you haven't the business to manage, my dear. however, i am going to have a long talk with willett to-morrow, and if it seems to me that the concern can stand it, i don't mind a little extra pay. only don't complain if you can't get quite so many new dresses." "i don't care for that," she said. "i've always had more than i could wear, and lots of people have to go without enough to keep them warm. it makes one feel mean, just to think of it." mrs. pomeroy looked annoyed. she always wore grave colors, having some vague idea that these were more "consistent" than bright ones, but she loved rich and handsome materials, and as she "took an interest" in the clothing club, she did not see any reason for "feeling mean." and was she not at that moment embroidering an expensive cushion for a charitable bazaar--intended to coax a few dollars out of some one who had no idea of "_giving_, hoping for nothing again"? "i wish you wouldn't take up these socialistic ideas, clara," she said. "i do hope you haven't been talking to that young graeme that philip talks about! why, harold tells me nora blanchard actually bows to him, and that he's been at the house. i think it's very queer! i told philip he mustn't think of bringing him _here_." "oh, you needn't be alarmed, mamma," the young lady replied. "i haven't the honor of even a bowing acquaintance with mr. graeme, and i don't suppose he's in the least anxious to visit here!" miss pomeroy knew very well, from roland's lecture, that he was better bred, better read, more thoughtful, and better worth knowing than half the people who did visit them; but where would be the use of trying to convey this impression to her mother, in whose eyes roland was little better than a "communist" and therefore "worse than an infidel"? "if you're going out, harold," said miss pomeroy, "will you call a cab for me?" "where are you going to-night, then?" asked her mother. "oh, only to the girls' club," she replied, carelessly. "we're having a little informal sort of concert for them to-night, and i promised to go." "well," said mrs. pomeroy, "i wonder what we shall have next. when i was young, girls thought tract distribution and collecting for missions good enough for them. now, they must have all sorts of new-fangled ideas! where's the use of taking these girls out of their homes at night, when they've been out all day?" "if you saw some of their homes!" miss pomeroy replied. "and some of them have _none_!" "i say, clara," said her brother, lingering a little, "suppose you take me with you to help! i don't mind sacrificing myself to that extent. i'll read them the "bad little boy," or anything else you like." "thank you for nothing! we don't have _any_ boys there," she replied, severely. "well, that's gratitude, i must say. but still, i'll come for you if you like. what time? ten? or half-past nine?" "half-past nine will do," she replied. "really, harold is in a wonderfully obliging mood, to-night!" she remarked, as she left the room to get ready. "you don't half do your brother justice," said the fond mother. at the concert, the girls were whispering among themselves about the rumored strike, but of course nothing reached miss pomeroy's ears. neither did she observe a little stolen talk between her brother, as he waited for her at the door, and nellie grove, as she went out alone, avoiding lizzie, who looked very sad and downcast. "may i come to see you to-morrow, miss blanchard?" said lizzie, watching her opportunity. "you know there isn't going to be any work at the mill, and there's something i want to speak to you about." "why, are _you_ all going to strike too?" asked nora, who had heard that the crisis was imminent. "oh no, miss! but there's no use our going when there's no one to work the machinery. so we'll have a whole holiday, and that is splendid!" "oh, i see," said nora. "well, come whenever you like. i shall be in all the morning." the next day was one of those exquisite winter days that are most apt to come in february, when the sun rises softly through a light haze that idealizes the commonest objects. even pomeroy & company's mill looked almost poetical in the early morning sunshine; but it stood still and silent, no whirr of machinery breaking the morning stillness, no troops of workers hastening toward it from their hurried breakfast. a few girls who had not heard of the strike arrived; but turned away again, as they knew, by the unwonted stillness, that there was no work going on. willett, the manager, himself once a workingman, now turned into a petty tyrant, very willing to mete to others the measure he had himself received, walked about grumbling, or scolding the little message-boys, who lingered about the place. he read the letters that came in, and then grumbled again, because some of them contained large orders for a particular kind of mixed silk and woolen goods, of which a large quantity was wanted immediately. finally, on receipt of a note from mr. pomeroy, he settled down with a frown to a series of elaborate calculations, made from the pages of the great folios of accounts that lay on the office table. meantime, the men at their homes enjoyed their unusual holiday, slept in, or lounged about aimlessly, discussing the prospects of speedy success, while they wondered wistfully, at times, how long this unproductive idleness was likely to last. lizzie, however, did not arrive till pretty late in the afternoon; just as nora, despairing of her coming, was going out for a long walk, to enjoy the unusual beauty of the exquisite winter day. "i'm so sorry, miss," she said, "that i couldn't come sooner. but i've been awful worried all day--about jim! he's been out drinkin' with some roughs; an' they've been puttin' him up to all sorts of mischief. an' he's been hearin' about nelly bein' out walkin' the other night--with young mr. pomeroy--and it's just set him crazy; he's vowin' he'll do him a mischief _sure_!" "was it mr. pomeroy, then, that you told me about before?" asked nora, dismayed at this proof of what she had hoped was mere talk. "yes. but indeed i wouldn't have told you now, only i'm dreadful 'fraid there'll be a row! my little brother's an errand-boy in the mill, an' he happened to tell jim that young mr. pomeroy was in the office, goin' over accounts with mr. willett; an' now jim has got a plan in his head of goin' with two or three of his comrades, to wait for him, when he goes home at dusk, and give him an awful thrashin', you know there's one place that's pretty lonely on the road. an' there's no knowin' what jim will do when his blood's up--an' the drink in his head! i seen him, lately, foolin' with a revolver, though where he got it, i don't know." "and why can't you go and warn the police to look out?" asked nora, hastily, too much shocked at this unexpected turn of things to consider it calmly. "oh, miss blanchard! how could i do that, an' have jim 'run in' again the first thing? if he knew i came an' told _you_, even, he'd half kill me, the way he's in now! i've been thinkin' an' thinkin', an' there's only one way i can see to stop mischief, and that is, if you could only manage to walk home with mr. pomeroy this evenin'." "i?" asked nora, much startled at such a proposition. "yes, miss, if you were there, i _know_ jim wouldn't lay a hand on him. he thinks an awful lot of you mostly for the notice you've took of nelly--for all he's so mad at her just now. if you were walkin' with mr. pomeroy he'd never think of makin' any row. you could keep talkin' with him all the way, so they'd know you were there. and then no one need ever know anything about it. and when jim's sober to-morrow, you might come and talk to him a bit. but if you could only get mr. pomeroy to stop hangin' round nelly, it would be best of all. that was what i wanted to ask you, any way. for i do think he would, if you spoke to him." nora had been rapidly thinking the matter over, as lizzie spoke. at least, she thought, she could _try_. and the crisis, such as it was, appealed to a natural, chivalrous love of adventure, that she doubtless inherited from her brave pioneer ancestors. "well, lizzie," she said, "i'll do what you ask, and i only hope it will prove effectual." and then she stopped lizzie's torrent of warm gratitude by making some inquiries about mrs. travers. lizzie was evidently unwilling to say anything about her friend's weakness, but nora drew from her enough to show that the poor young woman was subject to fits of restless excitability, when it seemed as if she _must_ have the stimulus she craved. "she's told me she could jump over a ten-barred gate to get it, at such times," lizzie said, sorrowfully. "and then she'd be down in the depths of misery afterwards. an' the poor little thing would look so scared, when her mother took these turns! she wouldn't know what to make of it, though she did get kind of used to it, too." nora had not, just then, much time to think of mrs. travers, however. as soon as lizzie left her, she began to arrange her plan of operation. she would have to do something that would surprise mr. harold pomeroy a little, but that could not be helped. had her brother been there, she would have solved the problem by asking _him_ to call for mr. pomeroy and drive him home, giving him a hint of her reason; but he was out on his rounds, and there was no knowing how long he might be away. and nora knew that it would not do to risk anything; for, independently of the consequences to those chiefly concerned, any lawless act of violence of this kind would seriously complicate matters, and, moreover, bring additional odium on mr. graeme and on the cause in which she had become so strongly interested. she took a long walk alone, in the dreamy slanting sunshine of the mild winter afternoon, the genial balmy air, and the soft purplish haze seeming like a presage of the coming spring. the calm beauty of the approaching evening, the rose and amber tints of the western sky as the sun set red through the haze, soothed the slight nervous excitement that her errand naturally produced. she walked a long way past the pomeroy mill, noting, in her walk, how many wretched-looking houses there were, just like lizzie's, in its close vicinity; and thinking that these were, doubtless, the places where her brother apprehended an outbreak of some epidemic, as soon as the warm weather of spring should have set in. she took good care, however, to be back at the mill, before harold pomeroy should be likely to think of returning. it was getting near dusk, and the office windows alone were lighted, the rest of the building looming up, dark and blank--a contrast to its usual effect at this hour. nora walked up, unhesitatingly, and knocked at the office door. "i should like to speak to mr. harold pomeroy, if he is here," she said to the manager, who opened the door and looked much surprised at seeing his visitor. "miss blanchard!" exclaimed young pomeroy, as he recognized her? "why, what----" nora did not give him time to go on. "i've been taking a long walk," she said, "and am rather late in getting home. i was told you were here, and thought i would ask for your escort back." "i shall be only too happy," he said, though not without some natural surprise at the direction she had chosen for her walk. but miss blanchard was evidently a young lady of peculiar fancies, and, no doubt, she had been looking up some of her queer acquaintances. "we'll do the rest of these to-morrow, willett, and i'll report progress, so far," he said, with an air of satisfaction. "now, miss blanchard, i'm at your service. will you take my arm?" nora accepted it, a thing she had never done before, and they walked on together through the still, clear twilight, while bells were chiming and lights gleaming out through the winter dusk. "what a lovely evening, and how it makes one begin to think of spring!" said miss blanchard, as they came out. and then she went on talking in a somewhat louder tone than usual, about everything she could think of, making young pomeroy wonder no less at her very unusual loquacity, than he had done at her unexpected appearance. he never knew the reason of either, nor did he notice the strained attention of his companion during the whole walk; how she scrutinized every corner and archway they passed, till she began to be afraid lest her companion should notice her anxiety and hear the loud beating of her heart. they had come about a third of the way, when nora's quick eye caught sight of some dark figures hovering in the shadow of a line of warehouses with open gateways, and her strained ear caught something like a muttered consultation. she talked on in a still louder tone, not allowing her companion time to put in a word, lest he might, by any chance, say something that might aggravate or enrage the men. as they drew near, she saw that they seemed to move back a little, then edged off to a corner near; and, as nora and her companion reached it, they saw them clattering heavily away, growling out oaths, all but _one_, who stood still in the shadow, and whom nora's quick ear could hear, as he hissed out, between his teeth: "you ---- white-livered coward! you must get a woman to take care of you!" "there go some of graeme's amiable 'knights'!" sneered harold pomeroy, who had not caught the words, but knew that something abusive had been said. "that's what comes of strikes. the men loaf about and get drunk and then they get into rows and riots! that's making things better, i suppose!" nora had suddenly collapsed into silence in the middle of a sentence. the nervous strain had been too much for her, and she could not think of anything more to say, just at that moment. she only replied to her companion's remark, in a dreamy way--"yes, it's a pity when such things have to be." harold pomeroy went on talking, but she scarcely listened to him. she was bracing herself for the latter part of her task, not less difficult than the first. if her companion was puzzled by her sudden change of manner, he was still more surprised at her next speech. "mr. pomeroy," she began, in a voice low, and somewhat tremulous, from the effort it cost her to speak at all; "do you remember an old bible story about a rich man who had great flocks and herds, yet sent and took away a poor man's lamb that he prized very much; and what was said about him?" "yes, i believe i have some such vague recollection," he replied. "well, then," she continued, "suppose that you were a poor young man who had to work at some steady, monotonous, uninteresting labor from early morning till late at night. and suppose kitty were a poor girl slaving away for so many long hours a day----" "what a horrible supposition!" he broke in; but she went on without noticing the interruption. "and, suppose that some rich young man, like _you_, for instance, who was engaged to a rich and beautiful young lady, were to try to come between you and kitty, and flatter her into thinking she was too good for you----" "perhaps she'd be about right!" he muttered. "and break up, perhaps, her and your happiness for life. how do you think you'd like it?" "oh, i see what you're hinting at," he replied, having by this time got over his momentary discomposure. "i see some one's been gossiping, making much ado about nothing! what harm is there in a little fun and nonsense with a pretty girl, even if she _is_ silly?" "mr. pomeroy," exclaimed nora, in a voice unsteady with indignation, "did you ever read the fable of the boys and the frogs?" "miss blanchard," he replied, now in a tone half apologetic, "you high-strung young ladies are always making mistakes, when you try to judge about other people who don't feel like you. that girl hasn't any heart at all; all she cares about is to have a good time; so what amuses me doesn't hurt her; and if it did set her against marrying a lout like that surly young mason, so much the better for her, and for him, too! she can do better for herself if she likes, and if she ever marries him she'll lead him a dance, i can tell you!" "mr. pomeroy," said nora, severely, "you know in your heart better than that. i want you to promise me to have nothing more to do with nelly grove." he began to whistle, then checked himself. "and what if i don't?" he asked. "then i shall have to tell kitty," she said, decidedly. "and if i do promise, you'll promise to say nothing about it, will you? i suppose _some_ women can keep a secret!" "yes, i am quite willing to promise that," she said. "well then--honor bright--i hereby promise to renounce nelly and all her works; will that satisfy you?" "yes," said nora, shortly. "and kitty is never to hear a word about it! i don't want to give her a good excuse, or what she might think a good excuse, for her flirtation with waldberg. you might reverse your story on my behalf; for it seems to me that a poor young man is trying to poach on my preserves. you'd better give him and kitty a little of the admonition you've been good enough to bestow on me!" through nora's mind there had been running, since lizzie's visit, that afternoon, some lines she had long ago learned by heart, in one of macaulay's lays. they were from "virginia," and she just remembered snatches of them. "our very hearts that were so high sank down beneath your will; riches, and lands and power and state--ye have them;--keep them still; but leave the poor plebeian his single tie to life-- the sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife. spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame, that turns the coward's heart to steel--the sluggard's blood to flame lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair, and learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!" but her cheek burned a little as she felt that it would be "casting pearls before swine" to appeal further to harold pomeroy's sensibilities, hardened--almost atrophied--as these were, by a life of unrestrained self-indulgence. a young man, who had never learned to consider the feelings of an animal, but regarded it merely as an instrument for his own amusement, who "went in" for pigeon-matches when he had the chance, and docked his horse's tail, and tortured him with a cruel check rein, without an atom of compunction for the creature's suffering, was not likely to be over-particular when he came to deal with human beings whom he also looked upon as an inferior order of beings at that. to nora, he was a puzzle, and she gave him up in despair. yet the young man was, after all, a little impressed by her earnest appeal. "she really does seem to take an awful lot of trouble about other people!" he thought, wonderingly, as he walked homeward, after leaving miss blanchard at her brother's door. "i really believe she walked out all that way to-night, just to have the chance of giving me that lecture. too bad i can't tell kitty about it!" and he laughed a little over the adventure. he never knew the real meaning of miss blanchard's unusual procedure. it had the effect, however, of preventing an act of violence which would have seriously imperilled the success of the strike and even of the labor movement in minton, as well as what mr. harold pomeroy would have thought of much more consequence,--his own preservation of a whole skin. chapter xxiii. unexpected denouements. that night, it happened that roland graeme, harassed by a natural anxiety as to the results of the strike, with which he well knew public opinion would be sure to connect his efforts after reform, felt unusually wakeful, and, fearing a sleepless night unless he took some means to quiet his nervous excitement, set out for a long walk after his evening's work had been completed. this was a favorite expedient of his for securing sleep when wakeful, and sometimes it succeeded. by a natural sort of fascination, he involuntarily took the direction of mr. pomeroy's mill, which at present occupied so much of his thoughts, and walked some distance past it, into the open country, till he felt as if the physical exercise had sufficiently quieted his nerves, and turned to retrace his steps under the light of a late, waning moon, which seemed, as such moons are apt to do, to give a sombre and ghostly aspect to the familiar features of the scene. as he approached the mill, in doing which he had to pass a long alley that led to a rear entrance close to a small canal, he heard the thick voices of men, evidently intoxicated, who seemed engaged in a noisy altercation. he was almost sure, even in the distance, that one of the voices was jim mason's, which he had often noticed as somewhat peculiar. "i suppose they have been making a night of it at 'the haven,' and are going home 'full,' as they call it," he thought to himself in disgust. "the haven" was a drinking saloon, close to the alley which ran to the rear of the works, and was also a part of mr. pomeroy's property; and, at a distance, he could not be sure whether they had come out of the saloon, or out of the alley. just as he reached the alley, however, he stopped short, as the penetrating odor of burning wood made itself distinctly perceptible. with a flash, a possibility that had often occurred to him rushed to his mind, and he turned down the alley in order to find out its cause. as he proceeded, it grew more and more distinct. he came at last to a gate leading into the courtyard, and found that it yielded at once to his strong push, but whether this was due to its having been previously forced open, or to the unconscious force he had himself exerted, he did not stop to think, and could never afterwards be sure. but, once inside, he saw what made his heart stand still with dismay. an already strong jet of flame was licking its greedy way along the base of an out-building used for the deposit of rubbish from the mill, and, as he could see, evidently full of inflammable material. just beyond it was a storehouse, which he felt sure must in all probability contain oil and other combustibles used in the works. there was not a moment to be lost, and he, single-handed, could do nothing. he rushed up the alley at full speed--shouting "_fire!_" as he ran; smashed in the office windows, till he had fully roused the sleepy watchman, and sent him off to give the alarm, and then made his way, breathless, to a street in the near vicinity, in which lived his friend turner and many more of the operatives. in less time than he could have believed possible, he was making his way back, at the head of a half-clad band of men who flocked after him, more from the irresistible impulse which draws men to a scene of excitement and danger, than from any definite purpose of saving mr. pomeroy's mill. there must still intervene some minutes, at least, before the fire-engines could reach the spot; and they were fateful minutes, for the fire was making rapid headway, and its lurid glare now overpowered the pallid moonlight. "now, turner, you know all the ropes. tell us what's best to do," said roland. "that storehouse is full of oil-barrels," said the man, gasping with breathless excitement. "if the boys would turn to and get them out into the water,--and there are axes here to tear up the roof and other connections!" "come on, boys!" roland shouted, tearing off his coat. "let's get at it at once! some of you go and help turner with the barrels, and i'll help with the chopping!" but the men sullenly held back; and roland, looking round, saw, in the bright glare of the leaping flames, that jim and his friends, who must have heard the alarm and hurried back, were already there, and were evidently rousing the worst passions of their comrades, by their oaths and invectives against the owners of the mill. roland fairly rushed at the surly, irresolute group of men who stood divided between the instinctive impulse to save their workshops, and the grudge they had so long silently nourished against the proprietor, and the "boss." why should they toil to save a place in which they might never do another day's work? for there had been already floating rumors, spread by the manager, that mr. pomeroy intended to send away for non-union men. but roland felt the gravity of the crisis, and felt that he _must_ get them to work, for he could easily see the disastrous consequences that would result, if it should be represented and believed--as it would certainly be--that the strike had resulted in an incendiary fire. for the next few moments, it seemed to him rather as if he were listening to some one else, than speaking in his own proper person,--that the strong, burning words, the voice of stern authority, came from some other personality, so little seemed his conscious volition to be concerned in it. in ringing tones he commanded them to follow. were they going to sacrifice their very livelihood to a childish impulse of vindictive malice? had they no concern for the valuable machines they had tended so long? would they let the mill become a mass of ruin, ruin to _themselves_, not to the owner, who, of course, would have his insurance, and could easily bear any trifling loss? his tone even more than his words had a prompt effect, and the reference to the machinery touched a chord of feeling of which they had been previously unconscious. roland's words called up a picture of the wrecked and twisted bars and coils which they had seen, some months before, in the ruins of a burned mill. should the familiar machinery, which had so long been like a part of their daily life, be wrecked like that? no! they must try to save it! and so the scale turned. that incalculable element, on which the action of a crowd depends, was swayed round to roland's side, as he shouldered his axe, calling the men again to follow either turner or himself. and presently, he had the satisfaction of seeing at work a sufficient force to hack and tear away the roof of the burning building, so as to prevent the fire from spreading to the main part of the factory on the one side or to the store house on the other. "don't go at it so hard," he heard one and another exclaim, "you'll hurt yourself, mr. graeme!" as he wielded his axe with the unnatural force of a white-heat of excitement. and, though he could feel the hot breath of the flames as they rolled up their red tongues, amid the dense clouds of smoke that now began to rise from the oil-soaked ruins below that fed the conflagration, roland felt himself thrilled with a keener, more passionate sense of delight than he remembered ever feeling in his whole life before, in the sensation of encounter with some deadly monster, calling forth all the reserve force of his being into a hand-to-hand struggle with the fiery foe. meantime turner, with his following, was equally hard at work, rolling out the oil-barrels, till they were all safely turned over, out of harm's way, into the little canal in the rear, where roland could see them bobbing about, as he came down from the roof with his improvised body of sappers, to give place to the play of the fire-engine, which had by this time arrived. scarcely a moment had been lost from the time when the fire had been discovered, and, thanks to the preventive efforts of roland and the men, the fire was confined to the building in which it had begun, and was speedily under control. as roland stood, at length, relieved from his self-imposed task, and, panting with unaccustomed toil, watched the hissing stream of water which seemed to meet in mortal combat the cruel flames that turned, under its charge, into white clouds of harmless steam, he felt a fierce exultation that surprised himself, as if in watching the death-throes of some ruthless destroyer. he could, ever after, better understand the fascination which draws the brave firemen to their arduous task, or even--what it had previously been difficult for him to take in--the fierce joy of victory in battle. "it's well you went for them as you did, mr. graeme," said the voice of turner, startling him out of his absorption. "if they hadn't set to work to fight the fire, it would have been all over town by morning that the strikers had started it!" "of course, turner, i felt that!" replied roland, who did not feel at all sure himself, however, that some of them had _not_ done it. "did you see jim mason helping at all?" "oh, yes," he rejoined, "he took a hand at the barrels, in his surly way, muttering oaths all the time. but he couldn't keep still, if he wanted to, when there's anything going on--for all his sulkiness." roland said nothing more, but thought a good deal, as at last, tired, and smoked and grimy, he made his way homeward, after all further danger was over. he could not divest himself of the idea that jim, in his present vindictive temper, had had a hand in the business. still he had no positive evidence, and it would be most unjust to associate the young man's name with a grave crime, without any proof. he was heartily glad that he had none, and that his conscience relieved him of the burden of what, had he felt it a duty, he would have done so reluctantly. he talked the matter over with miss blanchard, one day when he met her at mr. alden's and walked home with her, after receiving warm congratulations on his action at the fire. he knew that she could be trusted to keep as rigid a silence as himself; and it was some relief to himself to unburden his mind of suspicions, though he carefully pointed out that they were no more. "but how do you suppose the fire could have originated, if it was not an incendiary one?" asked nora, anxiously. "oh, that is not difficult to imagine," he replied. "it might easily have started from spontaneous combustion. turner tells me it is by no means uncommon for fire to originate spontaneously from rubbish of that kind, soaked with oil and dust, especially when the sun begins to have more power. he says that there had been gross carelessness on willett's part, in not having had that accumulation disposed of long ago." "well, i'm glad to know it can be accounted for without jim's intervention!" she said. "so, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt." "certainly," said roland; but in his own mind he could not get over the painful impression, nor, to say truth, could nora herself. of course there was a rumor that the fire had had an incendiary origin;--favored by willett, to cover his own carelessness. but there was no shadow of proof, and the fact that the men had worked so well to save the property had great weight in preventing the rumor from gaining any general credence. mr. pomeroy had tranquilly slept through that night, knowing nothing of the fire till next morning; for willett, who had not arrived on the scene till the fire was almost subdued, did not think it worth while to disturb him about what seemed so trifling an affair, particularly as even the small damage sustained was covered by insurance. and as the firemen gave full publicity to the prompt turn-out of _employés_, and their successful efforts, with roland at their head, to arrest the spread of the fire, mr. pomeroy could not avoid a certain grudging recognition of the fact that he owed to their promptness, in all probability, the prevention of a great deal more inconvenience than any that the strike itself could have caused. this consideration had, of course, its effect in bringing the contest to a speedy termination. it turned out, after all, that the examination of the books, and a consultation thereupon, satisfied mr. pomeroy that the firm could, without any real inconvenience, afford to pay its operatives at a higher rate. no doubt his daughter's remarks, taken in connection with mr. jeffrey's lecture, had their effect in bringing him to act on this knowledge. and another very weighty consideration, of course, had been the reception of the large orders, already referred to, and the difficulty and inconvenience of having, on short notice, to import a sufficient number of skilled workmen from a distance. and thus it came about that, two or three days after the fire, the leader of the strike received notice that, if the men would return to work at once, they should receive both the increase of wages and the saturday half-holiday they had asked for. the girls, also, through miss pomeroy's urgent intercession, received a small increase of pay. and the fact that the firm could well afford to do this, without embarrassment, proved that the strike had justice on its side. but, for all that, "public opinion," that is, the opinion of the upper stratum of minton intelligence, was decidedly "down" on roland graeme and his troublesome organ. he was generally considered as the arch-conspirator against the peace and profits of the wealthy manufacturer, against the "good old ways," in which things had run so long without any of this tiresome fuss and friction, that over-zealous champions, false friends of the laborer, were so busy in creating. the minton _eagle_, the most formidable rival of the _minerva_, began to see a chance of making capital out of the evident sympathy of the latter paper with many of the views ascribed to roland graeme; and dick burnet soon received strong hints from the other joint-proprietors of the _minerva_, that he had better take in sail in that direction, and steer a safer course, for, naturally, to the proprietors, it was a _sine quâ non_ that the paper should _pay_. dick burnet had much more of the professional journalist than of the pure philanthropist in his composition, and though interested in labor-reform, he was by no means prepared to become a martyr in its cause. he told roland, therefore, with regret, that he must not only discontinue the noticing and reprinting of articles from _the brotherhood_, but that he feared it would be necessary to make arrangements for having it printed elsewhere, as the reputed connection was considered damaging to the _minerva's_ interests. this was, of course, a cause of no little worry and anxiety to roland, as he had enough on his hands, without the charge of the mechanical arrangements; but it was a still greater pain to him to see his friend burnet, as it seemed to him, deserting the cause of principle for that of expediency. however, his genial spirit of charity made allowances for his friend that he would not have made for himself, could such a descent on his own part have been conceivable. he talked the matter over with mr. dunlop, and the old scotchman's practical shrewdness as well as his purse came to roland's aid, in devising new arrangements. this was not, however, the only matter pressing on roland's mind, as february passed into march, and the first mild spring-like days came with their physically relaxing influence. he was sharing the fate of every idealist in reform, meeting with unlooked for discouragements and perplexities, pained by frequently encountering precisely the same spirit of selfishness in the employed that had so disgusted him in the employers; and when, occasionally, his friends, the "knights," had a social entertainment of their own, his taste was jarred by the tone of the comic songs and recitations which seemed most to tickle the audience. the material enjoyed by audiences of greater pretension to "culture" might not, in general, be much more elevated, but at least the humor was not quite so broad, the wit not quite so coarse; and yet, while roland felt jarred and dissatisfied, he admitted that he was unreasonable, that it was useless to expect fine fruit from ungrafted trees, and that the low tone of taste which he regretted was a natural result of lack of opportunity for true cultivation. it only intensified his desire for a better state of things; but, at the same time, these experiences often tended to depress and dishearten him. and the long strain of high pressure was telling on him, also. he was uneasy, too, about waldberg, who had of late developed a feverish anxiety to "make a fortune," quite alien to his former happy, easy-going, romantic disposition. roland rightly guessed that a growing attachment to miss farrell was at the root of it, combined with the too evident fact that she greatly preferred him to her much less interesting _fiancé_; and that, if he only had money enough, he might easily carry the day, yet. mr. farrell was a broker, who had made his large fortune mainly by speculation; and young waldberg had heard from him stories of "lucky ventures," till he had been inspired with a strong desire to try the experiment himself. this desire was encouraged and promoted by one of mr. farrell's clerks, and with him for counselor, waldberg had begun to gamble in stocks and "margins" to such small extent as he was able, notwithstanding roland's strong disapproval and remonstrances. roland would, however, seek some respite from these various subjects of disquietude by a visit to mr. alden's house, or by a long walk, in the bright, lengthening afternoons. one charming and unusually mild afternoon, the day before the public performance of the oratorio which had been in preparation so long, he had prolonged his walk by the river, past even the suburbs of the city, and was returning about sunset. he had reached the gateway leading to mr. pomeroy's handsome residence, which stood at a little distance from the street, when he noticed, just inside it, a sight that always made him sick at heart, and seemed like a dark blot on the brightness of the day. it was the sight of a woman, apparently young, who had been seated on the ground in the shelter of a cluster of trees, and whom two policemen were endeavoring to raise to her feet. mr. pomeroy, returning home a few minutes before, had discovered her sitting there, evidently in a state of intoxication, and, in his usual bland manner, had handed her over to the first policeman he espied. as she came out, assisted by the policemen, roland got a glimpse of her face, and heard a word or two, in a soft english voice. he was horrified, as the conviction flashed on him that it was the woman he had gone to succor, on the december evening when we first made his acquaintance,--miss blanchard's _protégée_, mrs. travers. he hastened up to the policemen, and begged them to let him call a cab and take her to the hospital. but the men only looked at him sneeringly, as they remarked: "oh, yes, no doubt you'd like to get her off! expect she's an old friend. but she's got to go with _us_, now." roland drew back, disgusted and shocked, seeing the futility of further interference. but how could he tell miss blanchard of such a catastrophe! as he stood watching their departure, something bright on the ground, glittering in the yellow, slanting sunlight, caught his eye. he picked it up. it was a small locket, apparently gold, though worn and dim, with a monogram on one side. it must, he thought, have been dropped by the poor woman as she came out. he put it into his pocket, to keep it safe for her, and went home to dinner, considering, as he walked on slowly, for once, which it would be better to do, to tell miss blanchard or to send word to the hospital. at any rate he would go to the police-station next day, and endeavor to procure her release. but, after dinner, as he sat in his room, still undecided, he chanced to think again of the locket, and, taking it out, examined it more closely. it opened easily, disclosing two miniature photographs, and a lock of dark hair enclosed with one of them. he saw that one of the portraits was that of a lovely girl in whom he easily recognized "mrs. travers." but when he looked at the other he nearly dropped the locket in his amazement. for, despite the changes that ten years will make in a man's appearance, he could not doubt that the original of the portrait was--_mr. chillingworth_! chapter xxiv. a revelation. nora had been, that afternoon, practising industriously, with a view to having her part in the coming oratorio as perfect as possible; when she was interrupted by a very unexpected visitor, miss spencer. "i'm so glad to see you," she said, warmly. "so you've actually come to see me at last!" "i _had_ to come, unfortunately;" said miss spencer, her usually serene face looking anxious and distressed. "i am sorry to say, i have some bad news for you." "about mrs. travers?" asked nora, with prompt divination. "yes. she has had one of her restless fits lately. you know i've been giving her some light work to do about the wards, just to keep her employed, and i hoped the fit would wear off. but to-day, she slipped out, and has never come back. we've sent in various directions, but have got no news of her. lizzie mason's people have seen nothing of her. i knew she didn't know your address, but still i thought it was just possible she might have found her way here." "no," replied nora. "but what can have happened to her?" "i suppose it's the old story," said miss spencer, with a sigh; then, lowering her voice, she said: "i know a good deal about her now, and i think i ought to tell you her story, as she told it to me a few days ago. i meant to tell you about it, the first time i had a good opportunity. but it is rather private. she wanted me to promise not to tell any one, but, i didn't promise, absolutely. "there's no one else in," said nora. "sophy's out, and will's away attending some medical convention, and cecilia's gone out for a walk with the other children." "then, i'll try to tell it to you, as she told it to _me_--by snatches. part of it, of course, i had to guess at, putting things together as i best could." "yes, i understand," replied nora. "well, as you know already, she's english, and only came out a few years ago, under very distressing circumstances. it's a very long story, but i'll tell it as briefly as i can. "it seems that her father died from the effects of drinking;--probably _he_ was a 'dipsomaniac,' too; and--her own mother having died during her infancy--she had to live with a step-mother who was by no means kind to her. she got a situation when only sixteen, as a nursery-governess with a lady who pitied her, and treated her most kindly. about a year after she went there, a young clergyman came to stay at the house. she must have been a most lovely girl, and he seems at once to have fallen desperately in love. she was, evidently, easily won. she says he was very handsome, and, i suppose, otherwise attractive. the lady she was with, must, i think, have promoted the match. i suppose she thought it was an excellent thing for her. so, after a very short engagement, they were married from the house of this lady, who wouldn't let her go back to her step-mother. she had only one aunt, the wife of her father's brother, a good and kind woman; who, however, was in straitened circumstances, and lived in a distant village. and i suppose her husband didn't care to have much to do with her relations. "his curacy--for he was only a curate--was in a small town not far from london. at first she seems to have been very happy, but, by and by she began to feel lonely. i fancy her husband began to find that she wasn't much of a companion for him, for she hadn't had the chance of much education, though she has quite a taste for painting flowers. so, i suppose, when his affection began to cool down a little, he began to tire a little of her constant society and of the quiet life they led. he was passionately fond of music, and used to go up to london frequently, for concerts and lectures, leaving her often alone for a day or two at a time. she must always have been excitable, and she began to have fits of crying when she was alone, and by and by she was attacked by neuralgia, to which she had previously been subject. the doctor unhappily recommended stimulants, and her hereditary taste for them rapidly developed. the habit grew stronger and stronger, and at last her husband discovered that she was sometimes not quite herself. she seems to have had false friends, too, who tempted her. he, of course, was terribly shocked and angry when he found it out. probably it broke the spell that her beauty had exerted to hold his affection. he declared that if she continued the practice, he would not keep her with him. but when the fit came upon her, she seemed to have no power to resist it, so she passed some miserable weeks, trying to keep from it, and, when she could not resist, in terror lest he should find it out. "at last the crisis came. one warm day she went to visit one of these 'friends'--drank to excess--tried to get home--but, between the heat and the effect of the stimulant, sank down, unable to walk, and was brought home in that condition, insensible. her husband left the house half frantic, i suppose, leaving a note for her to read when she came to herself, in which he told her they must part, at least until she was thoroughly reformed; that he could not risk the consequences to his usefulness in his profession, of having such a scandal in his house, and that he would pay for her maintenance in her aunt's house, if she would receive her; but, for the present, he would see her no more." "oh, how cruel!" exclaimed nora, who had listened in silent dismay to the tragic tale. "well, i'm afraid nine out of ten men of his temperament would have done the same," replied miss spencer. "but, the poor thing was stunned when she realized it all. she had no choice, however, except to do what he directed. she went to live with her aunt in the country village, while her husband, too miserable, probably, to go on with his work, got leave of absence and came for a trip to america. "a few months later, her child was born; but she was so terrified lest the husband should take the little one from her, that she would not let him be told of its existence. he did not write to her, directly, only sending the remittances to her aunt. and he did not return from america, but resigned his charge in england, and accepted one out here, glad, doubtless, not to be exposed to meet the curious or pitying looks of old acquaintances. "when her child was a few months old, her aunt died, and her only cousin, a woman some years older than herself, received an invitation to come out here, to take a sort of housekeeper's place with a friend of hers who had settled on a western farm, and was in bad health. this poor girl, who still loved her husband devotedly, was seized with a great desire to come out with her, thinking that she too, could get a situation, and then she would no longer need his money, which it hurt her to receive, thinking that he could regard her only as a burden. she of the sea, she would see him sometimes, and she would be near him in case he were ill. unhappily she could not subdue the fatal craving, and she had no hope of her husband's taking her back; indeed, she seems to have believed that his affection for her was utterly dead. "so she set out, with her cousin and her child, for new york. they had nearly reached land, when a collision occurred at night, and their steamer was so injured that it speedily sank. in the hurry and confusion, mrs. travers and her cousin were put into different boats, and the one the cousin was in, was lost. she and her baby were saved, but she lay in a half-unconscious condition for days afterwards, from the fright and exposure. it happened that her cousin and she had accidentally exchanged handkerchiefs, and hers, marked with her name, was found on the body, when it was picked up, next day. and so, in the newspaper accounts of the accident, her name was given in the list of the lost. her cousin's name was travers, which had been her own maiden name. when she recovered and saw her own name in the list of the lost passengers, a strange idea took hold of her. she would leave it so, she thought, and if her husband should see the name, he would cease to think of her as a burden, and perhaps come to think more kindly of her, as we generally do of the dead. and she felt that, with a different name, she could make a new beginning in the new land. she went on to the destination for which they were bound, and, having explained the death of her cousin, she was accepted in her place, notwithstanding the drawback of her child. as her cousin's name was travers, _she_ was naturally called mrs. travers, and she encouraged the mistake. "what was her real name?" asked nora, very quietly. a strange idea had occurred to her, which she would not entertain, yet could not quite reject. "i don't know, i can only guess," replied janet. "well," she continued, "she seems to have been tolerably comfortable there for three or four years. her cousin's friend knew her weakness, and was most careful not to let her be exposed to temptation; and when, at times, she did, notwithstanding, go wrong--it was overlooked, partly for her own sake and partly for that of her dead cousin, and also of the little child, whom every one was fond of. "at last, this good friend died, and then she had to look for a new home, the husband's mother coming to take charge. she kept track of her husband's movements, and, as he had left his first parish for a large city charge, she thought she would try to get a situation somewhere near him, so that she might see him occasionally, taking care to do so unobserved by him. her old enemy still kept its hold on her; and again and again deprived her of a home. she had been very much embittered against religion, through her husband's throwing her off, for she thought that had something to do with it; and had absolutely nothing to hold by except her affection for her child, for whose sake she would have kept straight, if she could. when she couldn't get a place, she tried to maintain herself by taking in sewing, or by selling her little paintings of flowers on cards, which i suppose people bought more out of charity than anything else, in these days of chromos. she says she doesn't know what she would have done, for some time past, but for poor lizzie mason, who was always ready to share with her what little she had." "and all this time her husband thought her dead! is he still alive?" asked nora, in a scarcely audible tone. she had grown very pale. "yes, he is alive, and he still thinks her dead." "and suppose he were to have married again?" "i think she never thought of that, till lately. if that had been likely, i suppose she would have spoken. she did try to send for him, when she thought herself dying, on the child's account; but the attempt failed." both were silent for a few minutes. nora, with a throbbing heart, and bewildered mind, was going back in thought to the story, trying to piece things together; remembering, with a pang, miss harley's remarks, and trying to fight down a conviction that was too strong to resist. miss spencer, who had divined the truth without being actually told by "mrs. travers," sat full of silent sympathy for the shock she feared it would be to miss blanchard,--yet not venturing to say a word. she had purposely left the conclusion of her story somewhat vague, so as not to let the disclosure come too suddenly. "well," said nora, after a short silence, in the same low tone, "you suspect something--what is it?" "everything points to one conclusion only--i am afraid," she replied. "yes, but it seems incredible. if one could only _know_, for sure!" they heard the children coming and the sound of their merry voices--cecilia's lower tones mingling with the others. nora rang the bell, and told the maid not to let them come to the drawing-room, and to bring some tea there for miss spencer and herself. "sophy is not coming back till late," she said, "and i had dinner with the children, so i don't want anything but a cup of tea; and you will stay, won't you? there are so many things i want to ask, yet. but i couldn't talk to poor little cecilia, just after hearing all this!" they sat together in low-toned consultation, with long silences between; till the evening light had faded out, and only the firelight shed its fitful gleams about them. at last, however, miss spencer declared she must go, as her turn for duty would come on before long. "and they may have heard some news of her by this time," she said. just then there was a ring at the door. nora started up with nervous dread lest the visitor might, by any chance, prove to be one whom, just then, she felt she could hardly bear to meet. as she listened to catch the voice at the door, she heard roland graeme's clear, low tones, asking whether miss blanchard were at home, as he wished particularly to see her. instantly it flashed upon her mind that he brought some news of the lost one, for it must be something very special that brought him at this unusual hour. as he entered, nora saw that he looked much agitated, and, as she introduced him to miss spencer, she said: "i believe, mr. graeme, you have come to tell us where mrs. travers is!" he looked surprised at her guess; then, recollecting that miss spencer had been the poor woman's nurse, he replied: "you know, then, that she is out of the hospital?" nora assented, and miss spencer explained the anxiety her departure had caused; and then roland, as briefly and gently as possible, told what he had seen. the two girls listened in silence, inexpressibly shocked; tears of pain and pity starting to nora's eyes, as she fixed them on the firelight and called up the mental image of the poor young woman, dragged away, and locked into a police-cell. miss spencer, with her nurse's practical instinct, was thinking what could be done next. "we must try to get her out as soon as possible, mr. graeme," she said. "yes," he said, "i will go round in the morning and do what i can. i suppose they'll let her off with a fine--at worst." "oh, i should hope so!" exclaimed nora. "only do get her out and send her back to the hospital! we must keep her there, till something definite can be done for her." "there's something else," he said, with an effort. "i found _this_ lying on the road after she was gone, and i think it must be hers. will you take charge of it, miss spencer?" he hoped she would not think of examining it then, but both girls looked at it with eager scrutiny. "oh, i've often noticed it!" said miss spencer. "she always wore it round her neck, and seemed afraid of any one's touching it." as they examined it, they noticed the peculiar monogram, three "c's" intertwined together on one side, and the word, "_celia_," engraved on the other. nora took it and pressed the spring. one look at the two portraits was enough to settle the question they had been discussing, beyond a doubt. no one spoke mr. chillingworth's name, but all felt that they knew his sad secret; and knew, too, that of which he himself had not the slightest idea. chapter xxv. bewilderment. when her visitors were gone, nora sat for a long time gazing into the flickering firelight, thankful that she could be alone and undisturbed. she wanted to try to think quietly; to calm, if possible, the tumult of conflicting feelings that contended for the mastery, intense pity for the poor woman, in whose lot she had been led to feel so strong an interest; bitter disappointment and indignation with the man of whom she had thought so highly, who had so heartlessly thrown aside the duties he owed, as a man and a minister of christ, to the woman whom he had taken "for better or worse," in her weakness and misery; and yet, also, mingled with a sorrowful sense of "the pity of it" all, and with something of that divine quality of compassionate charity, which is always ready to believe that, "_tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner_." to nora, indeed, with her own simple directness, staunch loyalty, and passionate impulse to help and sympathize, it was almost impossible to understand the workings of a self-centred, coldly fastidious nature like mr. chillingworth's. yet she dimly felt that he, too, must have suffered, and must suffer much more; and suffering always, to some extent, enlisted her sympathy. but he had shattered her ideal, and that was indeed hard to get over and forgive. his eloquent expositions and high standard of moral duty, his glowing appeals to live the nobler life, had so captivated her imagination, as to attract her irresistibly to the _man_, whom she in her inexperience identified with the ideals he preached. if he himself had so failed, how could he teach others? and bitter tears rose to her eyes as she thought of the contrast between the mental image she had cherished and the poor and pitiable reality. and as, moreover, there rose before her the picture of mr. pomeroy, a man mr. chillingworth treated with special consideration, handing over this poor woman to the police with bland unconcern, she could not refrain from one of those sweeping conclusions in which an enthusiastic nature is so apt to indulge, in a moment of bitter disappointment. was it all mere talk, then? did no one try to live out the spirit of the master they all professed to honor? was there no one who aimed at being really christ-like, at "loving his neighbor as himself"? was there _no one_? but almost at once--with a sharp pang of self-reproach--came the recollection of mr. alden's earnest life of love and labor, of grace's sweet loving nature, of her own brother, never talking about grand ideals, but living and working from hour to hour; of miss spencer's happy and tender ministry in the laborious service of suffering humanity; of poor lizzie mason's life of humble self-sacrifice; and, last but not least, of roland graeme, with his self-forgetful enthusiasm and his passion for helping and raising the down-trodden and oppressed. yes, she was glad to think of such examples. and yet, as far as she knew, lizzie mason was not a "professing christian;" and roland graeme--did they not call him an "unbeliever"? it was a bewildering puzzle to her, with her _a priori_ conceptions. might it then be true that, while some people--so-called believers--only "_believed_ they believed," others, so-called unbelievers, only believed that they did _not_ believe? and she remembered the master's own grieved expostulation:-- "why call ye me lord! lord! and do not the things which i say?" but, beneath all the heart-sickness produced by this miserable story, she was dimly conscious of an involuntary relief from a conflict which had been going on in her mind, for some time, between what she wished to think about mr. chillingworth, and the disappointing conviction that was being forced in upon that underlying consciousness which will not be hoodwinked even by strong inclination. of whatever kind had been the attraction that had biassed her in mr. chillingworth's favor, it was broken now, forever; and her present temptation was, perhaps, in her youthful intolerance, to think too hardly of him, to forget what most people would call the "extenuating circumstances," and his blindness and limitations. but, in a nature like nora's, a long-cherished ideal dies hard. and at last, retreating to the seclusion of her own room, she threw herself on her knees--the natural instinct of an oppressed heart--the pain soon finding expression in irresistible tears, which at least brought some relief. next morning, roland was in attendance at the police court, and succeeded in procuring the release of the so-called "mrs. travers," by the payment of a fine, thereby saving the poor victim of a hereditary craving from a period of humiliating confinement in gaol, among criminals of the lowest class. his interference called forth sneering and ill-natured comments from some of the low bystanders, of a type whose natural tendency is to put the worst possible construction on every action. but for this he cared little, putting the unhappy young woman into a cab, and sending her to the hospital, while he himself hurried back to his office-work, satisfied with having rescued one sufferer from further degradation. miss spencer was ready to receive her without a reference to this miserable episode. but when, exhausted and miserable, her beauty quite obscured by the effects of the intoxication and of her wretched night, the poor girl, as she still seemed, was led back into the peaceful retreat she had so insanely left, she threw one look around her, and then cast herself at the nurse's feet in a passion of tears and sobs. and in the same spirit in which the man of sorrows had comforted and encouraged the repentant magdalen, did the tender-hearted christian nurse comfort and encourage this poor penitent. this, at least, was the thought that passed through the mind of nora, who, having come early to the hospital to inquire whether the wanderer had returned, was an unnoticed but deeply interested spectator of the scene. nora never knew how she got through the performance of the oratorio that evening. the brilliancy of the scene, the dress-display, the crowded audience, distasteful as they were in her present mood, were powerless to banish oppressive thoughts, and that scene in the hospital, which stood before her, as the touching chorus rose in all the tender beauty of the music:-- "surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; he was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed." as she stood singing these words with her heart in her voice, and that sad scene before her, she caught roland's earnest absorbed eyes, lighted with a softened emotion that made her for the moment wonder whether he, too, had the same thought in his mind. but she carefully avoided looking at mr. chillingworth, who, with an unusually bright and animated expression, was enjoying to the full both the music and the "success" which every one declared the oratorio to be. the soloists were admirable both in voice and manner, the choruses had been carefully practised and were remarkably well rendered, the "halellujah chorus" in particular, bursting forth with great effect, and, as the minton _minerva_ expressed it, "taking the house by storm." it seemed to thrill through every nerve of roland graeme, as he caught the grand old words: "the kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our lord and of his christ; and he shall reign for ever and ever!" in his own sense he could profoundly sympathize with the glorious hope. mr. chillingworth sang in this and some other choruses, though he preferred to be a listener and spectator through the greater part of it. he naturally sought miss blanchard at the close, to exchange congratulations on the result of the long preparation. but her response was not the natural, enthusiastic one he expected, and he noticed her unusual paleness, attributing it to over-fatigue, a plea she was very ready to adopt, as an excuse for getting off to her cab, with her sister-in-law, as soon as possible. it often happens, when we are thinking with dread and anxiety how some particular crisis is to be passed, that the "logic of events" settles it for us in a totally unexpected manner. while nora was perplexing herself as to what was to be done with this secret, of which mr. chillingworth ought to be told, circumstances arose that gave her thoughts a new direction, and took matters for the present entirely out of her hands. chapter xxvi. an empty place. nora did not feel inclined to tell, even to her brother, had he been at home, the sad story she had heard; yet she felt she must take some one into her confidence, as to what ought to be done. mr. alden seemed to be her only resource. so, after much thought, she went to his house on the morning after the oratorio, intending to see him alone, and tell him the whole story. but, as often happens, she found her intentions completely and unexpectedly thwarted. mr. alden had been called away from home, on some ministerial duty, and mrs. alden and grace were nursing two sick children through what seemed to be feverish colds. "i wish doctor blanchard were at home again," said mrs. alden, who looked much exhausted. "i should like very much to have him come to see these children!" nora saw how much both she and grace needed rest, and, with her usual impulse to help, she volunteered to stay all night and relieve them as far as possible. it was just what she wanted, too, to take her mind off more painful thoughts. and if it had been more of a sacrifice than it was, she would have been more than rewarded by the gratitude with which her offer was accepted, and by the soothing influence of grace's society and innocent childlike talk about matters completely dissociated from the things which had been oppressing her like a nightmare. dr. blanchard returned next day; and, apprised by nora's message, of the illness of the children, came, as soon as possible, to see them. but he looked very grave, as he scrutinized them with his keen professional eye. he called nora aside, and told her that they were undoubtedly sickening with scarlet fever. nora was startled, but immediately replied: "well, you know i've had that, so i'm pretty safe; and i think the best thing i can do is to stay to help to nurse them." dr. blanchard felt that it was the only thing to be done, under the circumstances. it would scarcely do for nora to return to his own house, as, even if there were no real danger of infection just then, his wife could scarcely have been persuaded of this, on the children's account. "i knew we should have an unhealthy spring," he said, "if people _wouldn't_ take precautions to have the sources of disease removed. it's disgraceful for men like mr. pomeroy to own such hovels as that in which you found mrs. travers. i hear there's one case of diphtheria in that region already, and there are sure to be more. if it spreads to their own houses, perhaps they'll wake up." "mr. pomeroy's! are those _his_ houses?" asked nora, and then she thought of his own luxurious mansion, his magnificent dinner, and the five-thousand-dollar-subscription--all in one rapid flash. next moment, her mind was recalled to present considerations, as her brother observed, very seriously: "i wish you could manage to keep grace, as well as the other children, as much as possible out of the sick-room. hers isn't a constitution to stand an attack of fever, and she would have it more severely than they." nora's heart sank. she was depressed at any rate, and she remembered the old, too true proverb that "misfortunes never come single." mr. alden returned that day, to her great relief; and he at once undertook a large share of the nursing, which the strong, tender-hearted man could so well perform. anxious as he naturally was, as to the result of this inroad of dangerous disease among his happy little flock, his faith would not allow him to indulge in useless worry; and the influence of his cheerful spirit cheered not only the little patients, in the natural fretfulness of sick children, but also the nurses themselves. the other children were sent away to the house of a relative, but grace would not be persuaded to leave her post as eldest daughter, though kept, as the doctor had directed, as much as possible out of the sick-room. the little patients' cases proved light, and it was not long before dr. blanchard pronounced them out of danger. but, just as they seemed fairly convalescent, grace was prostrated by the same disease, in a much severer form. dr. blanchard's fears were only too soon verified. the fever ran its course very rapidly--exhausting her small strength in a few days. there was a short period of delirium in which all her talk was of fair and pleasant things,--woodland wanderings,--spring flowers,--intermingled with snatches of childish fairy-tales, and christian hymns. nora could always soothe the delirium a little, by singing grace's favorite, "he leadeth me," or her own, "lead kindly light." but when the delirium passed away, it was evident that the quiet which followed was the quiet of approaching death; and, before they could realize the impending calamity, the _real_ grace was gone. only the fair form that had enshrined her happy spirit lay there, cold and inanimate as a beautiful statue. the blow was to them all a stunning one. nora could scarcely bring herself to believe that their bright little grace was really _dead_! she had hoped to the last, doing everything that love and anxiety could suggest. even when she stood by the still and rigid form in the "white raiment" that loving hands had covered with flowers, she could not get rid of the feeling that the living grace was somewhere at hand, or cease expecting every moment to hear her familiar voice. it was almost the first time that death had come very near to her, and opened its unfathomable mystery at her feet. and, apart from her deep sorrow for her little friend, the new experience stirred in her heart the haunting questionings that come to us all, at such times of irretrievable loss. mrs. alden was, very naturally, prostrated with grief and watching, and mr. alden had been shut up, either with his wife, or alone in his study, most of the time since grace had quietly drawn her last breath; so that nora had much to do and to think of, though one or two other friends came in to help. to her, however, was assigned the sad duty of taking in the two or three old friends who, notwithstanding the circumstances, desired to take a last look at the fair unconscious face. nora meantime had comparatively little time to think of the subject that had been so engrossing a few days before. it did recur to her again and again, in intervals of quiet;--but of course she had never ventured to intrude the matter on mr. alden at such a time. and she had been thinking, now, of roland graeme, with profound sympathy. she could easily divine the sorrow that the death of grace must have brought to him. and she was not surprised, when, on the eve of the funeral, he appeared, looking sad and haggard, with the request that he might look on the sweet face once more. "are you sure it's safe for you?" she asked. "i've had the disease," he replied, "but if i had not, i should still want to do this." nora took him to the door of the room, and, with true respect for his sorrow, left him to enter it alone. he stood by the coffin, silently, controlling his emotion, so that he might fix in his memory forever the fair angel-face with its aureole of golden hair, and the happy smile that the last sleep had brought. he could not think it _death_. after a time, the door opened, and mr. alden, looking ten years older, came softly in. he grasped roland's hand in silence, then stood, like him, looking tenderly down on the marble face. at last he spoke in a broken voice: "she is not dead, but sleepeth." there was another silence, till both turned to go. then the father spoke again in a low, half-audible tone: "my lamb--my own sweet, gentle lamb! if i did not know you were safe with the good shepherd, how could i bear it!" roland graeme left the house without a word; but nora, who caught a passing glimpse of him--his usually happy eyes filled with tears--felt a stronger personal interest in him than she had ever done before. somehow, he had always seemed to have so little personal stake in life, to live so completely for others and for the cause he had at heart, that he almost conveyed the idea of a transparency,--of a personality without much color of its own. after all, it is perhaps the faults and weaknesses of others that excite most interest in us; and roland had seemed almost "faultily faultless." but this personal sorrow of his seemed to have emphasized his personality at last; and nora, for the first time, began to think of him as an individuality, rather than as simply the champion of a worthy cause. of course roland attended the funeral, walking behind mr. alden and frank, with one of the younger boys. it was a warm and lovely day at the end of march, when the first robin's liquid notes were promising the coming spring, and the swelling buds were just beginning to diffuse a subtle fragrance. the grass in the cemetery was growing green, and nature herself seemed to breathe a soothing balm over the sorrowful hearts. after all was over, mr. alden remained a while behind the rest; and roland, sharing his feeling, lingered too, not far off, unwilling to leave him--unwilling too, in his heart, to leave _her_! at last, the stricken father raised his head, and, after a gesture that looked like a benediction over the new-made grave, turned slowly and reluctantly away. roland silently approached him and the two set out on their homeward walk. "'_i am the resurrection and the life_,'" said mr. alden; "if i did not remember that, i think my heart would break, to go and leave her there. but she's not _there_!" and then, as he looked back at the cemetery, lying peaceful in the sunset light, he murmured, half to himself, those beautiful lines of whittier's, that have expressed the feeling of so many sorrowing hearts:-- "yet love will dream, and faith will trust, (since he who knows our need is just,) that somehow, somewhere--meet we must; alas for him who never sees the stars shine through his cypress-trees! who, hopeless, lays his dead away, nor looks to see the breaking day, across the mournful marbles play! who hath not learned, in hours of faith, the truth to flesh and sense unknown, that life is ever lord of death, and love can never lose its own!" roland was silent for a while. he did not share mr. alden's firm faith; yet, just then, he could not bear to think otherwise. at last, he ventured to say, in his gentlest tone: "i like the way in which it has been put by a country-man of my own--a young canadian poet, who has since gone to verify his 'faith': "'i have a faith--that life and death are one; that each depends upon the self-same thread; and that the seen and unseen rivers run to one calm sea, from one dear fountain-head.'"[ ] [footnote : george cameron.] "yes," said mr. alden, his sad eye lighting up; "i like that thought. life _is_ continuous, i'm sure. it is sweet to think of my little gracie's purified life going on, under fairer, purer conditions. there seems to me a touch of truth in the old greek saying, that 'whom the gods love die young.' she was a little christian from her infancy; but i used sometimes to fear for her happiness in this rude life of ours. she had such a tender and gentle spirit; with the moral sensitiveness of generations of puritans so exquisitely keen in her, that a comparatively small wrong would give her great pain. we always tried to keep the knowledge of evil as far from her as possible. when she was a very little child, she would cry if she fancied that her mother and i had even a trifling disagreement. she was always our little peacemaker. but what she was, she was by the grace of god." "would you mind," said roland, presently,--partly to give mr. alden's mind a little diversion, partly to satisfy a wish he had felt for some time,--"would you mind telling me what you think about some things that seem to me to stand in the way of my ever being what most people mean by a 'believer'?" "certainly, not!" said mr. alden, looking interested at once. "well, then," said roland, "i never could believe that 'god is love,' and that he could create millions of people to be lost forever because they lived and died where they could never hear the story of christ's life and death, never hear what people call the 'gospel,' or even because they could not receive it as literal truth. so i have felt as if i would rather trust to a vague, indefinite love, of which my own heart tells me, than to any such narrow gospel as that." "certainly, my dear fellow, i think you are perfectly right. i couldn't believe any such narrow gospel. it would be no 'good news' to me." "then you don't--" began the young man, with a puzzled air. "but i'm sure i've heard you, sir, in the pulpit, emphasize the scripture declaration, that 'there is no other name given whereby man can be saved'!" "certainly! i could emphasize that truth everywhere--die for it, i trust, if need were. to me it is as precious as the love and fatherhood of god." "then if there _is_ 'no other name,' what becomes of those who never heard of it, but who are doing all they can--living up to the light they have? what can man do more?" "i'm afraid most of us do a great deal less!" said mr. alden. "but i wish people would only read their bibles with the intelligent common-sense with which they read other books;--history, for example. we americans are always talking of our declaration of independence, just as englishmen do of their magna charta. it affects the position, the freedom of every man, woman and child in this great country. we talk of george washington as the deliverer of his country, of his heroism as affecting the destinies of every one in it, even the infant in arms! so we may speak of lincoln's proclamation as freeing the black race in america. but does any one suppose that no one can benefit by these, except those who know the whole story of these deliverances, of the pain and struggle that led up to them, or of their complex relation with our whole social life and constitutional history?" "but then it seems to be presupposed that people are saved _through_ hearing and believing the gospel, and you know paul says that 'faith cometh by hearing.'" "yes, but we are not told that it comes by the mere hearing of the ear! st. paul was pleading with people whose business and duty it was to tell others what they knew. he was not talking didactic philosophy. and have we no sense of hearing but the outward one? how did abraham know that he was to go out from the land he knew, to one of which he knew nothing? just as you and i know that we are bound to help our suffering brothers! don't we _hear_ the voice, in the plea of misery! and don't you suppose that abraham, of whom we have no reason to believe that he knew anything definite as to the great redeemer of the world, was just as much saved by him as paul was? people don't let themselves think enough to put two and two together here, as they do in any other matter whatsoever!" "then what is your theory of the atonement?" he asked. "my dear fellow, i don't attempt a theory. a theory, to my mind, is an attempt to force into a rigid mould of human formulæ, mysteries which, because they belong to the workings of infinite wisdom and love, are quite beyond the compass of human thought. every theory i know fails miserably somewhere. the central doctrine of christianity is far greater than any human theory, or all of them together;--one proof to me that it never was of human origin! i hold that its essence is greater, even, than the story of christ's life and death and human character, great as these were, and all-powerful as they are to uplift and strengthen. for it is as old as life itself. _in the beginning_ was the 'word'--the expression of the divine will to man! 'that was the true light, that lighteth every man that cometh into the world.' the christ-light and the christ-life have, i believe, always brooded over poor humanity, to raise it out of the abyss of sin and death. but for that end there had to be, i can only faintly imagine _why_, divine suffering. 'i believe in the forgiveness of sins'--believe in it as much for my sweet grace, as for the poor despised outcast. for all that we are learning to-day in the direction of heredity, tends to make us realize the immense natural differences of original constitution. but what is our best, compared with infinite purity, infinite love, which _is_ goodness?-- 'as this poor taper's earthly spark to yonder argent round'! and divine purity could not pass by moral evil lightly. i feel, as james hinton said, that 'when i am most a christian, i am the best man,' but i also feel that when i am the best man, i am most a christian!" "but then, the historical and literary arguments! don't you find any difficulties there?" "i have never had too much time to think of them," he replied. "i was thoroughly satisfied, on other grounds, before they came much in my way, and i've had my own work to do. i think, however, from what i have read on the subject, that they have been met, in a manner satisfactory to _me_, at least. but to my mind, religion is not a literary or historical question. neither is it to be founded, as some tell us, on the witness of the intellect, which has neither compass nor rudder on that sea; nor, as others tell us, on emotion, which is variable and evanescent as these sunset hues." "on what, then?" asked roland, as he instinctively followed the direction of his eye. "on something deeper than either; on the sense of _righteousness_, the deepest, truest consciousness of humanity. speaking for myself, _i want god_--want the divine perfection, which is the same thing. i look for him in nature, but i cannot find him there, except in hints and hieroglyphs. nor can i find in humanity the perfection i long for. i see imperfection and limitation in all, even the best! but what i want, i find in jesus of nazareth; nothing else satisfies me; _that does_. if i cannot see god there, i can see him nowhere. i find in him, as i see him in the gospels, a moral beauty such as i could never of myself have imagined, but which, the more i know of men--even the best--the more i must appreciate and adore! it sometimes seems to me, that this age of ours is saying, like pilate, and very much in his spirit, 'behold the man!' well, the more it learns to truly behold the _man_, the more it will be compelled to recognize that manhood as divine. i should have to become a different moral being, before i could cease to worship in him the christ, the only manifestation of the divine that we are able to comprehend and grasp." mr. alden had grown deeply moved as he continued to speak. when he ended, there was a thoughtful silence. after a little time he added: "it is here i find my only rest in all perplexity, in all trouble--even in this one. but it is only he who is in deep and humble earnest for the right, who can understand. only he 'who will do his will' can know this doctrine. but that is a 'salvation' each must work out _for himself_." there was little more said during the rest of the walk. mr. alden's thoughts had gone back to his own sorrow. as they reached the familiar door, a thousand tender memories and associations rushed over him, and, for the first time in his life, he leaned heavily on his cane, as the father's heart found utterance in the scarcely audible exclamation--"oh, my gentle child! my tender, loving little grace!" chapter xxvii. a thunder-bolt. miss blanchard felt she must remain with mr. and mrs. alden till the two younger children were quite recovered, and the house had been disinfected. then, after due precautions, she returned to her brother's house, the children, including cecilia, being sent away, for a day or two, to one of mrs. blanchard's relatives. nora had seized a favorable opportunity to tell mr. alden, in confidence, the painful story that was burdening her mind. he was, of course, deeply interested, the more so that he knew, as nora did not, the story of the child's rejected appeal. he was, though surprised, not so much shocked as nora had been; for he had formed, from his own observation, a tolerably correct appreciation of mr. chillingworth's limitations. he thought, most decidedly, that the man chiefly concerned should know the circumstances, as soon as possible, but he felt that the task of telling him was one which he himself was not the best person to undertake. "then who could?" nora anxiously inquired. "i think, my dear girl," he said, "that no one can do it so well as yourself!" "oh! but i _couldn't_!" she exclaimed. "i think you could. i am sure you could if you made up your mind to do it. and, if it is right, you will make up your mind." "but how? i could never begin!" "wait for your opportunity," he said. "you will surely get it, and i believe you will find the way, too, when the opportunity comes. there's no fear of _your_ doing it cruelly." nora did not feel so sure. she feared that the very effort would make the disclosure come out harshly, whatever she might desire. but she accepted mr. alden's counsel, without further opposition. one of her first cares was a visit to the hospital, where she found that "mrs. travers" had been in a very quiet and subdued mood, ever since the painful scene of her return. miss spencer expressed relief and approval when nora told her of her determination. "only," she said, "unless he means to acknowledge her, it will be best that she should never know that he knows." nora assented. but how, she thought, would it ever be possible for _him_, of all men, to "acknowledge" a wife in such circumstances? she was very sad and thoughtful as she walked home. that evening, it so happened that mr. chillingworth called at his usual hour--mrs. blanchard being out at a large afternoon reception, to which nora naturally did not care to accompany her. possibly mr. chillingworth had guessed as much, and hoped to find her alone. it was the first time he had been able to see her since the evening of the oratorio, and he was more effusive in his greeting, more genuinely sympathetic, than she had ever seen him. she found it almost impossible to command her thoughts, so as to keep up conversation. she could not keep them from darting off to the task that lay before her, and, all the time she was trying to reply to him, she was wondering when the "opportunity" would come, and whether she could be equal to it. they talked of many indifferent things, of the financial success of the oratorio, of the beauty of the spring evenings, of the hyacinths and violets that were filling the room with fragrance, delighting mr. chillingworth's sensitive organization. he himself was in an unusually genial and happy mood, utterly unconscious, of course, of the abyss that was yawning at his feet. he had of late been indulging much in a day-dream that was ever taking more tangible shape. he was growing very tired of his solitary life, and he had been dreaming of the sweet companionship of a graceful and cultivated woman, which should refresh and rejuvenate his heart and life. the dream was uppermost in his heart, and very near his lips. by and by, in spite of nora's best efforts, the conversation flagged perceptibly. mr. chillingworth himself seemed indisposed to talk much. after a short pause he began, however, in a tone that was low, and more tenderly modulated than usual. "it is curious how this spring weather seems to wake up all sorts of associations and longings in us; just as it wakes the stirring life in the flowers! years ago, a blight--the result of a great trouble--seemed to come over my life. but it has gradually worn off, and of late i have been cherishing a hope that my life might yet blossom anew." nora's heart beat fast with affright. her instinct warned her of what was coming. it must not come! _that_ would be too horrible! she had no time to delay, so she rushed into the subject without daring to pause to think. "do you know," she said, surprising him by what seemed the utter irrelevancy of her remark,--"we have always been much interested in the history of little cecilia's mother. and now it turns out that she is the wife of a man who still supposes her to have been lost at sea!" the pallor of her face, the suppressed agitation of her manner in forcing in this interruption, must of themselves have explained much more than her words. well--she had dealt the blow, she hardly knew how; but she would not look to see its effect. she was conscious of a deadly stillness in the room. the faint ticking of the marble clock on the mantel, the occasional fall of a cinder from the fire in the grate, the distant note of a robin, were the only sounds, unless the beating of her heart were audible, as she fancied it must be. the only other sensation she was conscious of was the floating fragrance of the hyacinths, which she ever afterwards associated with this scene. he spoke at last--but it was only to ask, in a scarcely audible tone: "what was her name?" "her maiden name was--_celia travers_," she replied, in a tone as low as his own. it seemed a long time--it could not have been many minutes--before mr. chillingworth rose, and in a hoarse, low tone that he vainly tried to steady, said 'he must go now, as he had many things to think of.' she gave him her hand timidly, without raising her eyes to his face. he held it for a moment, with a pressure that hurt it,--raised it for a moment to his lips--and was gone. she knew it was a silent farewell. chapter xxviii. conscience-stricken. for two or three days after that startling revelation, mr. chillingworth remained almost entirely shut up in his own study. he had truly, as he said, "many things to think of"--past, present and future. miss blanchard's few and simple words had been enough to reveal to him, with a lightning flash, the whole situation. the child's name, the likeness that had always vaguely troubled him, the associations and memories it suggested, her uncommon delight in music, all pointed too distinctly in one direction. yet he had never even heard that he had a child! and he had been so sure that the "celia chillingworth," whose name he had himself seen among the "lost" in that great steamship disaster which had caused such a widespread sensation, must have been his unfortunate wife, that he had had no more doubt on the subject than if he had seen her laid in her coffin. he had written to his english agent, and had ascertained through his inquiries, that she had taken passage with her cousin, in the ill-fated steamer. what further certainty could he need? undoubtedly the intelligence of her death had been, in some sense, a relief to him. yet another curious result had followed. this tragic event seemed to have obliterated the impatient disgust which had led to his harsh decision. for mr. chillingworth's character possessed none of the passionate impulse to _save_--the tender sympathy with the wrong-doer--the infinite patience and compassion that mark the human saviour of his fellows, as they do the divine one, and that are most frequently found in the feminine nature; though mr. alden was a conspicuous proof that they are by no means exclusively found there. but death seemed to have passed a softening and idealizing touch over the harsh lines of the past, and his early romance, by degrees, lost its painful aspect, and retained only the romantic one. he had not been conscious of being harsh, and the sorrow he felt was only the natural ruth that any mind of sensibility must feel at the tragic severance of a life, the premature fate that had overtaken one so young and so beautiful. and he had gradually begun to think only of his "bereavement," not of what had gone before. he had never thought of remarriage till he had met nora blanchard. but now, in the light of the peculiar nemesis that had overtaken him, he could not feel so sure that he had done right! his own moral perceptions, at least, had grown within the last ten years. originally, they had been very limited. he had been brought up, a much indulged only child, by a widowed mother, who plumed herself on her "evangelical views" and attached infinite importance to what she called the "saving of the soul," meaning by that much abused term, however, little more than a claim to a fair prospect of safety and happiness in another life. she was especially strong on the "deadliness of doing," the worthlessness of "good works." accordingly, cecil chillingworth, though brought up, of course, to avoid open transgression and hate vice, had never in those early days that do so much to mould a man's mind, taken in the idea of the gospel as a great moral cure and spiritual power, the very essence of which must be love to god and man. he bad never been taught that salvation meant becoming christ-like, and that to follow christ was to care for others, to deny himself for his brother's good. he had no gross impulses to resist, and, having a natural devotional tendency, he had drifted on in a refined self-indulgence, of which he was quite unconscious. notwithstanding his evident musical talent, his mother discouraged his becoming a professional musician, from a vague idea that it was "worldly"--a reason quite sufficient to deter himself. the clerical profession was the next most congenial, and he went through his preparation for it in due course, being, however, much more deeply interested in music than in theology, and never having passed through any crisis that could wake him up to spiritual reality. soon after his taking orders and settling down in a curacy, he had met celia travers, and had fallen passionately in love. his mother had died two or three years before, and, as he had only himself to please, and as miss travers' employer encouraged a speedy marriage, it had taken place while the spell of her beauty still blinded him to all other considerations. after a time came disillusion to a great extent, a sense of lack of congenial companionship, and then the shock of the last discovery, the shame, and dread, and final separation, which he justified to himself as the "cutting off of the right hand;" although the consequences it was to avert were temporal, not spiritual. after he came to america, a gradual change and widening of intellectual and spiritual horizon grew with maturing years. he at least learned to _see_ christianity differently. he caught up the current note of self-sacrifice, self-surrender. he was fascinated with an ideal spiritual beauty which called forth all his natural eloquence, and made him a popular preacher. but he had lived so completely in his ideals, that he had learned to worship _these_, instead of the realities that inspired them. and his own failure to grasp the practical side of christianity reacted on his teaching. the beauty of the christian religion, as he saw it, enchanted his idealistic nature, much as the glory of a distant mountain-top might fascinate the wayfarer, who as yet had but little conception of the long and toilsome journey that lies between. he could, therefore, discourse glowingly on the divine ideal of christian love, without saying one word which could penetrate the conscience of the most consistently selfish hearer--who will stand calmly a vast amount of generalities, provided, only, that you do not "condescend upon particulars." moreover, mr. chillingworth had lived so completely in a world of his own, so apart from the ordinary human life about him, that he himself did not know the needs of his own people, the points at which their selfishness was strongest, the absolute blank that lay between what they professed to believe and its natural development in the practice of daily life,--a gap, that, as we have seen, unhappily existed in his own life. in these days of solitary self-communing, conscience, however, began to assert its claims. the fact that other hands had cared for and tended the woman whose chief claim was on _him_, and the knowledge, from all he had seen of miss blanchard, in what light the whole affair and his action in it must appear to her who of late had been so much in his thoughts and hopes--all tended to open his eyes. in looking over some old sermons, in order to select a substitute for the one he could not write, he happened to come upon the one he had been writing on the day when roland graeme first made his acquaintance, and his eye chanced to fall on the paragraph in which he had been interrupted. conscience, newly awakened, drove the shaft home. that "battle" he spoke of--how had he fought it? he could see, though dimly as yet, that the "battle with self" had never been fought at all--and, if so, what of the others? heartsick and depressed, he felt, for the first time in his life, that he was a moral failure. the consciousness almost drowned the other pang--of a cherished hope shattered forever! what he should do, he could not yet see. the future seemed all dark before him. to do anything, and to do nothing, seemed to him equally impossible. he could not even bring himself to ask questions, to put into tangible shape the nightmare that haunted him. while still in this miserable state of indecision, a stronger hand solved the question for him. on the evening on which he heard the startling tidings, his trim maid, when she brought in his tea, asked if she might go to spend the night at her own home, on account of the illness of one of her little brothers. he assented,--mechanically--and she did not think it necessary to tell him that it was a case of diphtheria. two or three days later, he felt sufficiently indisposed to send for dr. blanchard; when he found, to his surprise, that what he had thought an ordinary though severe sore throat was an incipient attack of that dreaded malady. dr. blanchard urgently recommended the hospital, as the only place where he could be properly and safely treated; and he passively assented. nothing seemed to matter much to him, just then. a cab was called, and the move was made without delay. and so, without any prearrangement, the husband and wife, so long and strangely separated, were once more brought together beneath the same roof. chapter xxix. reconciliation. a few days before mr. chillingworth's removal to the hospital, a very different patient had been taken thither, also sent in by dr. blanchard. this was poor lizzie mason, who had been taken ill during nora's absence, and of whose illness nora first heard from miss pomeroy, who had been specially active in looking after the "girls' club" while miss blanchard was on duty elsewhere. the story of lizzie's illness was a sad one. the needs of the family had made her very anxious to earn a little more, if possible, and she had undertaken a kind of work that commanded higher wages on account of its inconvenience. it was that of spinning silk which had to be kept constantly wet by a spray of water, which, of course, kept the garments of the spinner more or less wet also. the obvious precaution of providing a water-proof suit, for this work, had not been deemed necessary by mr. willett; and lizzie could not think of affording the outlay. so she worked on all day in damp clothes, running home afterwards, as quickly as she could, to exchange them. while the mild spring weather continued, no great harm resulted; but, as often happens in spring, it had suddenly become extremely raw and cold. lizzie, leaving the overheated room in her damp clothing, had taken a chill, which in her weakened constitution had brought on a attack of pneumonia. miss pomeroy had been told of her illness, had gone to see her, and, by dint of cross-examination, had ascertained its origin. she went home in a white-heat of indignation, and told her mother the whole story, which, at first, mrs. pomeroy refused to believe. yet when she was compelled to realize it, she suddenly burst into tears, for she was, after all, a good and well-meaning woman; and intermingled self-reproaches and self-defence in a most incoherent manner. she wouldn't have believed willett would have permitted such a thing--but how could she know anything about it? only to think that such things should happen at her own door! she had been pitying the poor women on the other side of the globe, and here were girls in their own mill sacrificed like this! if she had only thought of looking into things a little more! well, such a thing would never happen again, if she could help it! "and, in the meantime, clara," she said, "you will go to doctor blanchard, and ask him, for me, to see this poor girl at once, and to do the very best he can for her. and she must get everything she needs, or fancies, to set her up again." the result of which was, that lizzie, after much persuasion, consented to go to the hospital for care and treatment, one inducement being the promise that she should be placed in the room of her friend, mrs. travers, who had been doing her best to assist the tired nurses in the busy time that the great increase of sickness had brought upon them. it need scarcely be said that she at once became lizzie's devoted attendant--scarcely relaxing her watch for a moment, till lizzie was pronounced somewhat better, with a tolerable possibility of recovery. it was well that she had improved before mr. chillingworth's arrival. when miss spencer had learned that his case was pronounced an extremely severe and dangerous one, she thought it only right to tell his wife, who, from that moment, seemed to have no thought but for him. indeed, she begged so hard to be allowed to take a share in the constant attendance he required, that miss spencer arranged for her doing so, on the express condition that she should keep well out of his sight, till the issue of the attack should be determined. mr. chillingworth, indeed, was not likely to notice any one just then. he was very ill, indeed, and lay most of the time with closed eyes, in a state of great suffering and prostration. his wife's whole being seemed absorbed in watching him with intense anxiety, doing everything for him that it was possible for her to do without being observed by him, and evidently availing herself greedily of the opportunity of once more gazing on his face--so changed, in some respects, yet so familiar, and still to her so dear. "that poor thing is a heroine in her way," said dr. blanchard, on his return from one of his visits. "i never knew greater devotion, and after such an experience!" he was of the three or four people who had heard the sad story, and nora had to depend on him for all her information about the invalids; for mrs. blanchard, nervously afraid of infection, would not hear of her going near the hospital, even to see lizzie mason. "poor thing," exclaimed mrs. blanchard, sympathetically; "well, she has her turn now! how oddly things seem to come round!" "she took me by surprise to-day," dr. blanchard continued, "when i found him so ill that i thought there was no hope for him but in the last resort--trying to suck out the membraneous stuff with an instrument." "oh, will," exclaimed his wife, "i can't bear to have you do such things! you have no right to risk your life in that way--and all our lives!" "if i had done it, i should not have told you now. i've done it before. don't you know, we doctors are all under orders to risk life when it's necessary? we couldn't do much, if we weren't ready for that. and i should be a degenerate descendant of the brave blanchards who fought for freedom, if i couldn't face death as readily to save life, as they did to destroy it. however, i haven't told you yet what surprised me. just as i was going to do it, this poor woman pressed forward, whispering--"oh, let _me_! it's _my_ place!"--in such an agonized way, that i had not the heart to refuse her. i saw it was a real comfort to her. i hardly know whether i was right or not, but i let her do it." "of course you were right!" mrs. blanchard said, much relieved. "it _was_ her place, as she said. i should have felt just so!" nora said nothing; but as she silently listened, the tears started to her eyes, at the thought of the words, "_her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much!_" whether or not it was this "last resort" that saved the clergyman's life, he began from that time slightly to improve. the violence of the attack abated, leaving it possible for him to secure the soothing and strengthening rest he so much needed. and, at last, miss spencer, who had been watching with deep interest the course of events, told the poor shy watcher that she need not continue to practise such caution in avoiding recognition. it would not hurt him, now, she thought, and it might as well come soon as late. but it happened, after all, in a way entirely accidental and unpremeditated. with the first light of morning, mr. chillingworth awoke, at length, from a long, restful sleep. he had no idea that his wife was in the hospital, for he had not, of course, felt sufficiently interested in miss blanchard's _protégée_, to keep track of her history. and, since the disclosure, he had not yet dared to ask any questions. but very probably, some chance token of a once familiar presence may have stolen into his mind, even through the prostration of disease. it is curious, what slight touches will start the springs of old associations. mr. chillingworth, at any rate, had been dreaming a long pleasant dream of the old happy days of his youthful love and marriage, of wanderings in english lanes and saunterings in leafy garden-walks, always with one fair face and graceful figure by his side, that had then seemed to hold the whole charm of life for him. as he awoke, he had been, in his dream, looking down at the familiar upturned face, with its gaze of happy, trustful love. it seemed to him, when he opened his eyes in the bare hospital room, that he must be dreaming still. for, in a low chair beside the bed, sat, with her head resting on it, in a quiet sleep that had stolen irresistibly over her--the very original of his dreams. in the soft light that penetrated through the drawn blinds, the traces left by years and suffering on the still lovely face were almost unperceived; the soft rings of dark hair curled low on the forehead just as he so well remembered them--lovely even in their slight disorder. and, even as he looked, the long lashes were raised, and the beautiful gray eyes were opened, in a shy, half-frightened, but fascinated gaze. mr. chillingworth was just in that weak and helpless state, when--if ever in his life--a man yearns for the tender ministrations of a loving woman. suffering and prostration had broken down the hard coldness of his nature, and it seemed as if he had become like a dependent child. the old love of the former days, stirred up by his vivid dream, seemed to thrill once more through his whole being, sweeping away all the barriers that years and circumstances had interposed. he feebly stretched out his arms, and by the irresistible impulse--strange influence that love can exert over the hardest will!--the long severed husband and wife were reunited in a close, instinctive, passionate embrace. chapter xxx. an easter morning. if life is to be measured by happiness, the days that followed should have been reckoned by years for the poor young woman, so long defrauded of the rightful love of her life. to mr. chillingworth, they were days of strangely mingled happiness and pain. as, little by little, he learned most of her story, in the long, quiet days when husband and wife were left alone together, he felt, with deep humiliation, how great a wrong his impatient harshness bad done to her, and to himself. when she, poor thing, timidly spoke of "forgiveness," he passionately responded that it was _he_, not she, who needed to be forgiven. but, as yet, he could not, weak and prostrate as he still was, face the problem of the future. that problem, too, was solved for him in a way he had little dreamed of. as he rapidly recovered, his devoted nurse could no longer conceal the fact that the dangerous malady had attacked herself. this was not, of course, surprising, since, she was as yet by no means strong, and had been so constantly shut up in the infected atmosphere. it did not take long for the disease to work its fatal way in her enfeebled constitution. indeed, it seemed as if she had not the vitality left for any resistance. she had, evidently, but little desire for life, and she had learned to think of death without fear, much as a tired child thinks of its evening rest. as she lay, prostrated by weakness, scarcely speaking, but watching her husband's face and movements, the expression of the pale but satisfied and peaceful countenance seemed to say, "now, let me depart in peace." mr. chillingworth tried to speak to her of the hope that it is the minister's privilege to set before dying eyes, but his attempts seemed to himself weak and impotent. he had lived so long in a world of ideals and abstractions, that he had, in a great measure, lost the realizing sense of the simple gospel truths, so familiar to him from infancy. reality seemed to have gone out of the things he had so long believed, and he sometimes wondered whether he had believed at all--whether he were not himself drifting into the position of an agnostic. he remembered a sermon he had once preached, about the rich young man who had come to the master, but who, tried by too severe a test, had shrunk back from the required sacrifice, and had "gone away sorrowful." so, he thought, had he shrunk back from the cross laid on him, and, what right had he to call himself a follower of the master? but, what was impossible to him, had been long ago done by others. other guidance than his had led the poor wanderer to the divine and forgiving helper, in whom alone rests the hope of the true penitent; and she, who had "loved much," felt herself forgiven. the end came very soon. her constitution made so little resistance that the suffering seemed the less severe. as the fair spring morning of easter sunday dawned, it was clear to the solitary watcher that all was nearly over. he tenderly held his wife supported by his encircling arm, watching her as she looked at him wistfully, with a faint smile of recognition, scarcely able to speak. "it--is--far--the best thing,--cecil!" she said, in words disjointed and scarcely audible; "you'll take care of cecilia--she'll be a comfort to you--by and by!" then the eyelids drooped, and her husband, bending low, could only catch faintly the words, "forgive us our trespasses, as we----" he repeated the words with her, and finished the sentence. as he did so, he found that he was alone with the dead. gently he laid back the lifeless form, kissed the cold brow, and sat for a little while, reluctant to break the spell of the solemn stillness, and absorbed in the thought of the remote past which had now swallowed up the present, and of that unseen future which he vainly tried to grasp, and which seemed to him so shadowy. but, as he knelt in prayer, he registered a silent, passionate vow, that, henceforward, his life should be lived, to the utmost of his power, in the spirit of that unselfish love which he had preached so long and practised so little. the sharpest conflicts are often those which take place in silence and solitude, without any outward sign; and human lives are shaped and moulded to higher uses as silently as were the temple stones of old. as he slowly turned at last, to leave the room, the golden light of the new day broke in upon him from without, and he heard the silvery chimes of the easter bells ushering in the morning that commemorates the resurrection. chapter xxxi. an unexpected proposal. nora blanchard had remained in minton longer than she had originally intended, delayed partly by her interest in the events that had been taking place, partly because she would not go till she had made some arrangements for the future of little cecilia. of course, it had been impossible that the child could see her mother in those last days, and the task of breaking to her the truth that she should see that mother no more had been to nora a terribly trying one. she soothed the child's passionate grief, as she best could; but she could not venture, as yet, to intrude upon it what she felt would be the unwelcome intelligence of her relationship to mr. chillingworth. when the latter, by dr. blanchard's advice, went away for a time to recruit at a noted health-resort, he gladly accepted miss blanchard's offer to take cecilia with her to her home at rockland for the summer, until he should be able to make up his mind as to his future arrangements. the secret of his sad story was known to very few, and those few were not likely to make it more generally known. meantime lizzie mason had made a tolerably satisfactory recovery, and had been sent back to her home, but she still had a cough which neither nora nor dr. blanchard liked to hear. miss blanchard had formed one of her impulsive plans for transplanting the whole family to rockland. if she could get employment for lizzie and jim under mr. foster, the benevolent mill-owner there, they would all be so much better off in the healthy, pleasant country place, and jim would be away from his bad companions, and, by and by, he and nelly might settle down. lizzie's eyes sparkled with pleasure as miss blanchard unfolded this project. "oh, if it could only all happen, miss blanchard, it would be just lovely!" she said. and nora made up her mind to try to accomplish it. she was, herself, thinking longingly of the green fields and budding woods of rockland in these early days of may; and she was growing impatient for the sight of the wild flowers that she knew were blooming fresh and fair in her favorite woodland nooks. and yet, she felt very unwilling to leave her friends in minton, her little nephews and nieces, the "girls' club," and all the other interests that had engaged her thoughts daring the winter. but as the married sister, who had been staying with her family in the old homestead at rockland was soon to take her departure, nora's return could not be long delayed. she bad seen a good deal of roland graeme of late. he had called repeatedly to bear the latest report of the progress of the invalids, in whom they were both so deeply interested. his own saddened expression, so different from the bright, eager look natural to him, and what nora had said about his attachment to grace, had enlisted mrs. blanchard's kindly feeling, and she hospitably urged the young man to come to see them often. with nora he had always many common objects of interest, but the chief bond of sympathy, now, was the sweet memory of grace, about whom roland liked to talk freely when alone with miss blanchard, sure of her full comprehension. and he, in turn, felt for her more sympathy than was perhaps needed, on the score of the disappointment he thought she had experienced in mr. chillingworth. she, happily, was thoroughly cured of the incipient fancy, which had not been strong enough to seriously affect her happiness, though the moral shock could not but leave its mark--a mark which, but for the solemn experiences she had passed through, immediately after, would have been much deeper. roland had need of all the comfort and sympathy she could give him, for he had various troubles just then. the people who delight in inventing or propagating malicious gossip had been making such mischief as they could. nora's indignation had been roused more than once, lately, by hearing the incident of his appearance at the police-court on behalf of their unfortunate _protégée_, distorted into a story discreditable to roland on the score of such an acquaintance. and, as she could not possibly give the true history of the affair, her indignant defence was received with somewhat incredulous and significant smiles, excessively annoying to her chivalrous nature. many people, indeed, were only too glad to catch at a substantial reason for looking askance at roland graeme. but personal annoyances did not, after all, trouble him so much as did his growing anxiety about waldberg, which also, to some extent, he confided to miss blanchard. the "boy" had got fairly into the vortex of speculation, so far as his very limited means would permit. some fatal successes had greatly intensified his ambition. he was dreaming wild dreams of "making his pile," and carrying off kitty in triumph; for he had no doubt that "old farrell" would "come round" if he could only satisfy him financially. and he knew, too well, that kitty was thoroughly tired of her engagement, and that, but for her father's strong opposition, it would have been broken long ago. the truth was, mr. farrell had lost heavily of late through various causes, and his own affairs were not in nearly such a flourishing condition as was generally supposed. mr. archer had also become a frequent visitor at dr. blanchard's, and had been, as mrs. blanchard observed, "very polite and attentive." he was fond of riding in the fine spring afternoons, and, as miss blanchard was a good horsewoman, he had urged that, since she was looking rather pale and languid, she should have a ride or two with him, miss pomeroy's horse and habit being readily placed at her disposal. her brother warmly seconded the proposal. it was, he said, just the sort of tonic she needed, after all she had been through. accordingly, they had two delightful rides into the country, during which mr. archer exerted himself to be more agreeable than she had ever known him, for he knew by this time what nora liked, and he could throw off his half-assumed tone of cynicism when it pleased him. he led the way to the prettiest spots in the neighborhood, where they alighted to pick wild flowers. as they were returning from the last of these excursions--miss blanchard with a knot of hepaticas on her breast--they met roland graeme, who had been giving himself the refreshment of a country walk. he looked somewhat wistfully at the two riders. he was, himself, very fond of the exercise, and miss blanchard was looking remarkably well, the rapid exercise having brought the color to her cheek and the sparkle to her eyes. he could not help feeling a pang of envy--a wish, that just then he could be in the place of the prosperous-looking, well-appointed philip archer. "graeme's looking fagged out, these days!" remarked mr. archer. "his philanthropy seems to be too much for him." nora made no reply; for she could not talk over roland's troubles with mr. archer, who always patronized "graeme." "it's too bad of you, miss blanchard," he continued, "to go off and leave all your friends here, just when they've got to depend on you. the girls' club will be left desolate. miss pomeroy and miss farrell will never be able to keep it up without you." "i think they will do very well," she said, laughing. "and mr. graeme will miss one of his warmest sympathizers," he added, looking at her scrutinizingly. he saw no trace of any consciousness and went on, lightly: "and what will you do with yourself in rockland? by your account there are no wrongs to right in that happy arcadia." "rest, and be thankful," she retorted, in the same tone. when he spoke again, there was an undercurrent of real feeling struggling through the lightness of his tone. "now, miss blanchard, you know philanthropy is decidedly your vocation; you ought to have a subject always at hand. couldn't you now--" he hesitated, and she looked at him inquiringly, "couldn't you now--take a fellow like _me_ in hand, and try what you could do with him? i assure you--you wouldn't find me a bad subject!" his tone made her begin to comprehend his meaning, but she was too much surprised to have words ready. he spoke again, more pleadingly, "won't you try, miss blanchard? i do think you could make something of me, if you cared enough to try?" his manner had forced nora to understand him at last. she was divided between surprise at the unexpected proposal, and involuntary annoyance that it should have been made without the slightest reason to suppose that it would be accepted. however, she managed, she hardly knew how, to convey to him, in a few rather curt words, the fact that such a thing was utterly impossible, that she was sorry he should have thought of it. she regretted, afterwards, that she had been so abrupt in her refusal. but she had no need to trouble herself. mr. archer's self-satisfaction was not likely to be permanently disturbed by any such experience; and it is even possible that, on cooler reflection, he did not altogether regret that his rather impulsive offer had been declined; for it would have been, he felt, rather a strain for him to try, for any length of time, to "live up to" such a girl as nora blanchard! in order to break the somewhat awkward silence that followed during the last part of their ride, mr. archer remarked that he was afraid "old farrell" would be in financial trouble, now. "why?" asked nora, interested on her friend's account, and glad of a diversion from the former subject. "oh, i suspect he's been playing high, lately, in stocks. there's been a rapid rise for some days, in b. & b., and i believe he stood fair to make a big score. every one thought a further rise was sure. but i believe they've come down with a run to-day, and i'm afraid he and a lot of the smaller fry that follow his lead, will get pretty well caught." "oh, i hope not--for kitty's sake!" "oh, miss kitty's all right, you know! i imagine the old fellow was very glad to get pomeroy secured for her; for i rather think he's been feeling a little shaky of late." nora was very silent during the short remainder of her ride. she was thinking, not only of kitty, but of waldberg and roland graeme. chapter xxxii. a narrow escape. when roland sat down to dinner that evening with mr. dunlop, who generally preferred to dine with the two young men, waldberg did not make his appearance as usual. after dinner, roland went up to his room, ostensibly to write. but he did not write much; he was too much concerned about his friend. mr. dunlop, who kept himself well informed as to financial matters, had told him of the rumored collapse in certain stocks, the rapid rise of which had been exciting great general interest. roland knew that waldberg had been watching them with a feverish; though sanguine eagerness, which it pained him to see. and now he feared for a crushing disappointment. two or three hours had passed, and still no waldberg appeared. roland was just thinking that he must go out to look for him, little as he knew where to look, when he heard the door below open and close much more softly than usual, and what he recognized as waldberg's familiar step--though it was strangely soft and slow--mounting the stair, and passing into his own room. then all was silence for a time. roland listened,--more anxious than ever, since waldberg did not, as usual, come in to tell him his news. after a time, he heard him moving about in his room, opening drawers, as if searching for something. unable any longer to resist the strong impulse of anxiety, he rose, walked softly to waldberg's room, and entered without knocking. his misgivings were only too well justified. the young german was standing in front of the mirror, with something in his up-lifted hand. roland made a dash at his hand, not a moment too soon. the next instant, he was conscious of a strange sensation in his own shoulder, which made him stagger back, caught by the bewildered waldberg. "roland! mein roland! why did you that? now i am done for!" roland sat down, feeling somewhat faint, as he tried to pull off his coat, exclaiming, as he did so, "waldberg! how could you think of such a senseless, cowardly thing?" "ah, you know nothing! i am in despair! but first i must see about this. did the thing go through?" an examination showed that the bullet had but grazed his shoulder, leaving a somewhat severe flesh-wound which roland declared a mere trifle. waldberg, who had had some experience in german students' duels, had set to work to bandage it, when a step in the passage without made roland rouse himself and go out to see who it was. it turned out to be mr. dunlop, who had been awakened by the report, and had come, in some alarm, to discover what was the matter. roland told him that an accident had happened, which had given him a mere scratch; and he went back to bed, growling a little and only half-satisfied. when he had gone down, roland was glad to sink down in an easy-chair, while waldberg completed a temporary dressing, that would serve till morning, as roland insisted that there must be no fuss made about it that night. when it was done, he insisted on knowing what had tempted waldberg to such a mad and reckless step, adding: "i'm only too glad the lead went across my shoulder instead of into your brain!" "oh, well, you see, mein roland, i was desperate! it was mad, i know, but indeed i knew not what to do! however, you shall know all, if you must." he told the story in german, partly for the sake of privacy, partly because when agitated he generally relapsed into his mother tongue. it was a sad and too common tale. he had been desperately anxious to make all he could, in the venture to which he had been encouraged by the opinion of such an "expert" as mr. farrell and one of his clerks--that it was a "sure thing." he had embarked in it all his own little resources, only regretting that these were not greater, as he had the expectation of at least a ten-fold return. "pity you couldn't put in another five hundred!" his adviser had said; "couldn't you borrow it?" "no," waldberg had said. he couldn't ask graeme, and mr. dunlop would never lend his money for speculation. "get him to sign a note--you needn't say what for," said his tempter; "you'll be able to pay twice over before a month's past." just when he was most anxious for this additional stake, chance threw a temptation in his way. he found, in a book of mr. dunlop's an envelope on which he had written his own name, "alexander c. dunlop," with "_minton_" below, evidently intended to be enclosed in a letter to some stranger, for the purpose of containing a reply. the sight of this put into his mind the idea of writing, above the signature, a joint note with his own signature above mr. dunlop's, the word, "minton" coming in for the date. he cherished the thought, till it proved irresistible. it would only, he thought, be borrowing mr. dunlop's endorsement for a loan he would soon be able to repay. without letting himself realize the wrong of it, the thing was done. and he had been counting on making an additional five thousand out of the five hundred he was now borrowing. but now, contrary to the most confident expectations, the tide had suddenly turned--quotations had come down with a rush, and waldberg, with many others, had lost his whole venture. and how was he, thus left penniless for the present, to face mr. dunlop when the note should fall due? he had drunk enough to "prime himself," and had come home to seek a rash release from his troubles. roland was terribly shocked. he could not understand how waldberg could have done such a thing as this. but he saw that he was utterly wretched, and he would not add a straw, by reproach, to the burden he bore. "i shall be disgraced for ever," he said, "and it's all up now, about kitty!" "you shall not be disgraced, hermann!" he said. "i know you will never do such a thing again. i think i can manage it so that no one will know, not even mr. dunlop; and _he_ wouldn't be hard on you if he did; he's really fond of you!" "but how, then?" asked waldberg, bewildered in his turn. "i can let you have a hundred dollars now, or when the note falls due. and i shall ask mr. dunlop to lend me the other four hundred for a time on my own note and yours. he'll do it if i ask him. and you can make it up by degrees." "oh, roland, you're the best friend any fellow ever had! indeed, you may be sure i'll never try such a thing again! my heart's been like lead, ever since i did it. but _you're_ hurt now--and i know it's all up with kitty!" he groaned. "and, hermann, whatever happens, never again try that cowardly plan of shirking the consequences of your own actions. it was only making bad ten times worse. think of the stain it would have left on your name; and how your friends would have felt!" happily no one else slept near, and no one but mr. dunlop had been alarmed by the noise. roland quietly retired to his own apartment, where waldberg would not leave him, until he had seen him settled for the night as comfortably as possible; and then went to try to sleep off his own excitement: while roland, now suffering a good deal, lay awake--satisfied, however, with having, in a double sense, saved the life of his friend. he got up and dressed next morning, though unable to move his arm, and, in reply to all inquiries, would vouchsafe no further explanation than that he had given to mr. dunlop. and, somehow, the story got about that he had discovered a burglar who was intending to rob the rich old scotchman, had wrested his pistol from his grasp and frightened him away. mr. dunlop, whose shrewdness suspected more than he knew, said nothing, and asked no questions, even when the loan was asked for without explanation. he had learned to trust roland, absolutely, and he at once granted his request. but he insisted that roland should have medical treatment for his shoulder, which was now giving him a good deal of trouble, and himself sent for dr. blanchard. "i don't much care whether ye pay me or not, lad," he said, as he handed roland his cheque for the sum asked for. "i don't expect to need this world's goods very long. i've always thought i should go off suddenly, like the snuff of a candle; or what's happened to farrell may happen to me, too." for, on the evening of the "crash," mr. farrell had had a paralytic, stroke, evidently the result of his anxiety and disappointment. it did not, however, seem likely to be fatal; but he was completely helpless, and no hope was given of his ever being less so. his losses had been, very heavy, and, as his business would now have to be wound up, he would be left with only a small proportion of the fortune he had been supposed to possess. nora, before she left town, paid a visit of condolence to kitty, whom, to her surprise, she found by no means overwhelmed by the sudden reverse of fortune. except for her natural sorrow for her father's helpless condition, indeed, nora would have thought her rather brighter than when she had last seen her. and, by and by, she learned the secret. "it's all over between harold pomeroy and me, nora. i think he was very glad to get out of it, when i told him he could have his freedom and his rings back. hermann can't give me a _diamond_ ring," she said, holding up her finger, "but this is a signet ring his mother gave him, and i'm to keep it till he can give me a plain gold one." "why, kitty!" exclaimed nora. "is that how it is?" "yes," said kitty, "when hermann heard of papa's misfortune he came to sympathize. and, of course, we've known we've loved each other this long time, only i didn't know how i could break with harold; it would vex father so, though i knew _he_ didn't care very much. but since poor papa's been ill, he doesn't seem to mind about anything.--and so it's all settled. hermann and i are to be married just as soon as he's able to take a little cottage by the river, and papa and mamma are to live with us. and i'm to sweep and dust, and make my own dresses, and be as happy as the day is long. i'm sick of doing nothing!" nora could not help laughing outright at the idea of the petted kitty, whose forefinger had hardly ever been pricked by a needle, making her own dresses, and finding it delightful. however, she kissed her, and said she hoped she would be as happy as she expected;--forgetting altogether the slighted affections of mr. harold pomeroy. "and mind," said kitty, "you're to come to the wedding, whenever it is! i want you for my bridesmaid, and roland graeme is to be groomsman." "very well!" said nora, laughing, and so they parted. roland graeme, chafing under the temporary imprisonment enforced by his wound and its effects, which had been both painful and tedious, regretted very much, when he heard of miss blanchard's approaching departure, that he should not be able to see her before she went. something of this regret he had expressed to dr. blanchard, who still visited him occasionally. he was sitting by his open window, one warm may morning, thinking longingly of woods just bursting into leaf, and all the country sights and sounds to which he had been accustomed, long ago, when a note was brought to him. he knew that the handwriting was miss blanchard's and opened it eagerly. it did not take long to read the few cordial lines: "dear mr. graeme, "i am so sorry i cannot see you before i go, to say good-bye, and wish you god-speed. i was very sorry, too, to hear of your accident, but i trust you will soon be quite restored. i hope you will come by and by, to visit us at rockland, which is always lovely in _june_. the change of air will do you so much good, my brother says, and my father bids me say that he will be delighted to make your acquaintance, and i shall be happy to show you all our sights, including mr. foster's model mills. "meantime, with kindest regards, believe me "your sincere friend, "nora blanchard." roland read this note several times over, before he folded it up and put it carefully away. and the somewhat languid and wistful expression that his face had worn before, was brightened, now, with the pleasure caused by the kindly words and the still more pleasant vista it called up before him. the enforced _rôle_ of an invalid had been to him a new and unwelcome experience, and the temporary prostration left by the injury, at a time when his naturally vigorous _physique_ had been a good deal run down by overwork, was particularly trying to his energetic spirit. but the mental picture that the note had conjured up, of june and woods and flowers, added to the grateful sense of miss blanchard's kind consideration, appealed to the underlying, inextinguishable poetry of his nature, and sent his thoughts off on a refreshing day-dream, far away from the smoky factories, the feverish competitions, the exasperating wrongs, and all the tangles and worries of life in minton. chapter xxxiii. in arcady. "and what is so rare as a day in june? then, if ever, come perfect days; then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, and over it softly her warm ear lays." the familiar lines rose to roland's lips, as he came out of the quiet little country inn at rockland, on a charming sunday morning in that fairest of months. he had arrived late the evening before; and had put up, in the first instance, at the little hotel. as he took a stroll that morning about the outskirts of the pretty village, nestling under the shelter of wooded hills, beside a placid little inland lake reflecting in its liquid mirror the weeds and hills in their first summer verdure, he thought of thoreau's "walden," and wished that he could set up a little hermitage of his own, somewhere amid these green recesses. but a hermitage would never have contented roland graeme. he was, first and essentially, a lover of man. even now, his eye rested with strongest interest on the large group of buildings, surrounded by neat white cottages, which he knew by instinct was mr. foster's "model mills." but, this morning, as be whiled away an hour or two before church-time, in leisurely lingering through the "vernal wood," the balmy odors and the birds carolling among the trees seemed of themselves to breathe a refreshing influence--smoothing out, as if by magic, the creases of the winter's toil and worry, and inspiring with new life his somewhat jaded spirits and overtaxed nervous system. and a stranger thing than this happened to him. with the new, marvellous beauty of the summer landscape, that burst on his gladdened eyes like a revelation, there seemed interfused a higher, more subtle influence. how, he knew not--such things pass our knowing--and doubtless many things led up to it; but there and then, it seemed to him that the chilling mists of doubt had almost passed away from his soul he felt that once more the beliefs of his childhood were realities to him, though in an infinitely grander and more spiritual conception of them. he felt the divine father and saviour, the brooding spirit of love and strength, closer and more real than the lovely vision around him. and he felt that he should never lose them more. after that moment of exaltation, it was pleasant to go into the pretty little church, and sit there, in a remote corner, while the people passed in silently, in little groups. he soon saw miss blanchard and cecilia, the latter, in a pretty white dress and broad straw hat, grown much taller than when he had first seen her, and showing now; he thought, traces of resemblance to her father, as well as to her mother. with them, he easily recognized the tall, portly, white-haired old gentleman to be "squire blanchard," as the people called him; and the lady with the silver curls clustered on a broad forehead, and the calm, loving, earnest eyes, as the "aunt margaret" of whom nora had so often spoken. only cecilia, however, looking about her as children do, espied him, with a grave look of recognition, but without drawing the attention of any one else to his presence. it was pleasant too, after the service, and the simple, earnest sermon, to wait at the church door for nora's bright, glad look of recognition, as she warmly greeted him and introduced him to her father and aunt. mr. blanchard pressed him to return with them at once, but he declined this, promising to come over in the afternoon and take up his quarters for a few days in the hospitable old-fashioned house, which could always accommodate half a dozen guests, if need were. accordingly, after the early dinner at the hotel, roland made arrangements to have his traps sent to mr. blanchard's next morning, and set out with his satchel for the large white house which had been pointed out to him, on a gentle slope beside the lake. he passed the little rapid, stream that rushed into the lake at the outskirts of the village, affording water-power to the busy mills, and, after a pleasant walk by the lake shore, reached the large old house with its pillared portico and side piazza, standing at some distance from the road, and approached by a pretty drive, winding through a clump of pines and varied shrubbery. as he approached the house, he saw a graceful, white-robed figure, with a white-trimmed garden hat, rise from a shady corner of the lawn and come toward him, book in hand. "this is our out-door drawing-room," nora said, as she conducted him to a wide-spreading beech, under whose shade stood some garden-seats, where were seated her father and aunt. cecilia, hovering about in the distance with a fine mastiff, came up and met his kindly greeting with evident pleasure. mr. blanchard, who thoroughly justified mr. alden's description, as "a worthy representative of an old puritan family," entered at once into a conversation with roland on his favorite subjects, in which the elder miss blanchard joined, with a clear insight and breadth of thought that surprised and impressed the guest, who speedily felt thoroughly at home. the lovely june afternoon passed only too quickly under the beech, till they were called in to the hospitable tea-table, tempting in its dainty simplicity, in the large dining-room, where the fragrant evening air came in through open windows which framed charming pictures of the lawn without, and the trees waving in the slanting sunlight. "you, who have this all the time, can scarcely appreciate the beauty of it," remarked roland, enthusiastically. "it takes eyes tired of the sights and sounds of a busy city, to enjoy these pictures as they deserve." "yes," said mr. blanchard; "i suspect contrast is an element that enters into all our enjoyment at present. yet, i suppose the contrast need not always be between the fair and the ugly, but may be between different kinds of beauty." "i hope so!" said nora, eagerly. "i don't want contrasts like those wretched houses of mr. pomeroy's to help me to enjoy this. by the way, mr. graeme, i must show you to-morrow the cottage i hope to get in a week or two for the masons. and mr. foster will take jim in, if he will come. lizzie of course can't work now." "i think jim will be glad to come, now," replied roland. "one of the men told me that nelly had thrown him over altogether. and i fancy he'll be glad to get out of minton." "well, perhaps it's the best thing for _him_!" said nora. "but what of nelly?" "that i don't know," replied roland, while aunt margaret asked nora if she couldn't get hold of this poor girl, too; for she had already heard the history of all of nora's friends. "you will be glad to hear," said roland, "that willett has parted company with the mill. he gave warning because he said he couldn't keep things straight, if mrs. and miss pomeroy _would_ come about interfering. and mr. pomeroy had the good sense to accept his warning. so, now, my friend turner has the place. and a very good manager he will make." "oh, i am glad of that!" said nora. "and so mrs. pomeroy really does take an interest in the girls generally?" "oh, yes! she has quite waked up about it, i hear through mr. archer. she has begun to take quite a motherly charge of them. she is very anxious that lizzie mason should recover; indeed she feels most unhappy about it." "poor lizzie!" said nora, with a sigh. "and how is mr. farrell?" "much the same, i believe. he is very much like a child, and seems to take no interest in money matters now. the smallest things are sufficient to amuse him. mr. dunlop goes to see him sometimes. he's got an idea that he may have a similar experience, and he says it's a lesson on the vanity of human things to see farrell now, after his long struggle for riches which would be nothing to him now if he had them." "ah," exclaimed aunt margaret, "how true it is, that, as a quaint old poet says, 'we dig in dross, with mattocks made of gold'!" "and how is kitty?" asked nora. "oh, i am always hearing her praises sung," said roland, smiling. "according to waldberg, there never was such a girl. she is so bright, so contented, so helpful, such a support to her poor, weak mother, in the necessary retrenchments, the going to a small house, and all that! but i am sure that her own real happiness has a good deal to do with it." "dear little kitty!" said nora. "i am glad she has come out so well. she is a good-hearted little thing, though she used to seem to me a little frivolous." "she would have been, i'm afraid," roland remarked, "if adversity hadn't come in time to save her." "ah, i see that you're something of a philosopher," remarked mr. blanchard. "you believe that 'sweet are the uses of adversity.'" "i've found them so, myself," he replied, simply; "if it were only in enabling me to sympathize more with the troubles of others." nora amply fulfilled her promise of showing roland everything that she thought would interest him about rockland. he went, with much interest, over mr. foster's well-managed establishment, saw with pleasure its well-ventilated work-rooms, its well-stocked reading-rooms, the neat cottages of the _employés_, each with its little garden, and all the arrangements by which economy and convenience were combined. he had some long talks with the public-spirited proprietor, and found that that gentleman fully agreed with him, in all his ideas about hours, remuneration, etc., and put them in practice as far as it was possible to do under the present system. "but, of course," he said, "there must be either concerted or legislative action, before they can be fully carried out." then there were pleasant country expeditions with miss blanchard and cecilia; walks and drives, or rides, and some delightful rows on the beautiful little lake, exploring its rocky shores and picturesque woodland nooks. and in these happy loiterings, the dreamy and poetical side of roland's nature came out more prominently than nora had ever seen it, kept down, as it had been, by his philanthropic cares. he was full of little poetical fancies, and many a favorite quotation rose readily to his lips, as they slowly rowed or walked home in the sunset light. nor did he enjoy less their musical evenings, when nora sang to him the songs he asked for, and little cecilia was delighted to exhibit her own attainments, which were certainly very remarkable, considering her age, and the short period of training she had enjoyed. the days passed all too swiftly for roland; perhaps for nora, too. they stood out through the hot busy weeks that followed, like arcadian days, or rather like an interlude of inexpressible happiness, or flowing streams in a thirsty land. such similes, at least, roland's fancy easily found for them in abundance. one evening, shortly before the too early close of roland's visit, mrs. blanchard arrived with the children, for a lengthened stay. she was expected, but she brought with her an unexpected visitor--mr. chillingworth. both roland and nora felt as if the unalloyed pleasure of the preceding days was somewhat shadowed now, but they were sincerely sorry for the pale and altered man. cecilia, too, shrank shyly away from his awkward efforts to be affectionate to her. "mr. graeme," said mrs. blanchard, "my husband wants you to take mr. chillingworth in hand, while you're here--to take him out to walk or fish, or anything you can get him to do. he's sunk into such a state of nervous depression, the doctor's quite afraid for him." and roland did his best, though at the cost of some self-sacrifice, for this, of course, put an end to the pleasant wanderings with nora. the evening before roland was obliged regretfully to take his departure for minton, as they all sat enjoying the pleasant summer twilight without--just passing into a glorious moonlight, mr. chillingworth was asked to give them a poetical reading, and, at nora's request, made choice of lowell's "vision of sir launfal." he read it with heartfelt expression, especially in the stanzas that described the experiences of the returned and awakened sir launfal: "sir launfal turned from his own hard gate, for another heir in his earldom sate; an old, bent man, worn out and frail, he came back from seeking the holy grail; little he recked of his earldom's loss, no more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, but deep in his soul the sign he wore, the badge of the suffering and the poor. * * * * * the leper no longer crouched at his side, but stood before him glorified, shining and tall and fair and straight as the pillar that stood by the beautiful gate,-- himself the gate, whereby men can enter the temple of god in man * * * * * and the voice that was calmer than silence said, 'lo, it is i, be not afraid in many climes, without avail, thou hast spent thy life for the holy grail; behold it is here,--this cup which thou didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; this crust is my body, broken for thee, this water his blood that died on the tree; the holy supper is kept, indeed, in whatso we share with another's need, not what we give, but what we share,-- for the gift without the giver is bare; who gives himself with his alms feeds three,-- himself, his hungering neighbor, and me' sir launfal woke as from a swound-- 'the grail in my castle here is found! hang my idle armor up on the wall, let it be the spider's banquet hall; he must be fenced with stronger mail who would seek and find the holy grail.'" as he ended, he closed the book, and went silently out to stroll in the moonlight that was flecking the lawn with silvery lights and soft shadows from the spreading trees, while nora and roland also stepped out on the piazza, to enjoy the beauty of the night. "i think chillingworth has found out _that last_ truth for himself," said roland. "and i know i've found, too, that i needed stronger mail than i once supposed. i too have been seeking for a 'grail'--a panacea which is to be found only where i had stopped looking for it! but i think, if all christian teachers were like mr. alden, i should have found it sooner." nora looked up with an eager look of pleasure. and then she turned away her eyes, glistening with a happy light and a glad emotion she could not quite conceal. chapter xxxiv. looking forward. "fetters and warder for the graeme!" scott. _lady of the lake._ the two months that followed passed very quickly for nora, more quickly than they did for roland, in the hot, dusty town. she had her visitors from minton,--mr. alden, who, came down, an ever-welcome guest, for a fortnight's rest, and told her of roland's unwearied labors and his growing influence in minton; and miss spencer, who came for a few days of refreshing change from her hospital wards. lizzie mason and her family were now settled in the cottage that nora had secured for them. and lizzie was intensely happy in the possession of a tiny flower-garden; though it was only too evident that she was in a settled decline, and would not, probably, see another summer. but, though quite aware of this, she was full of a serene peace that often recalled to nora the "story of ida," which she had lent to lizzie, in the days of their first acquaintance, and which had not been without results in a nature so fitted to receive its teaching. one warm evening, late in august, nora was slowly returning from a visit to lizzie, when she heard a rapid step behind her, and, looking back, saw to her surprise, the very person she was at that moment thinking about--roland graeme. "why," she exclaimed, with astonishment, "i had no idea _you_ were so near!" "i only came down by this evening's train," he said, in a grave tone, as he shook hands, looking earnestly at her with an expression that brought the color to her cheek; "and i was just coming to report myself. there were some things i wanted to be the first to tell you." they walked on, very slowly, up the drive, and turned aside to the seats under the beech-tree, roland saying little till then. both, indeed, seemed to have very little to say. "i suppose," he began, "you have heard of mr. dunlop's sudden death." "yes,--will wrote to us about it," she replied. "i knew it would be a great sorrow to you. you would miss him so much." "i do,--more than i could have believed," he said, warmly. "he was so honest, so true, so practical, so kind-hearted, under all the seeming roughness. he has been the kindest of friends to me." and he was silent for a little. nora was silent, too. the whippoorwill in a neighboring thicket, indefatigably piping away at his interminable refrain, had it all to himself for awhile. then roland spoke with an effort: "i almost hate to say it," he said, "for it seems heartless to speak of such things now; but mr. dunlop always said he would rather die suddenly, like that. and--i must say it some time--he has left the bulk of his property to _me_. why, i cannot tell." "oh," exclaimed nora, "i am so glad!" "it is," he said, "in some measure, a _trust_. he left it to me, he said, in his will, because he knew that i should use it as he should wish it used, and could trust me fully. and in this light i mean to regard it. i have made my plans already. but there's one thing that it makes possible for me, that was not possible before,--to ask you for something that would be better than all this world's treasure to me. can't you guess what it is,--dear?" the last words were scarcely audible, as he bent to meet her sweet upward glance. again the whippoorwill had it all to himself, and piped away more cheerily and industriously than ever, as if inspired, in his own love-making, by a human example. what he may have afterwards heard--is not to be repeated here. philanthropists and reformers are not much wiser than other people, in such circumstances, and it would not be fair to "report" them. besides, it might get into the "_minerva_"--a thing, which of course, would be most distasteful to both. they sat, for a long time, planning for the future, and trying to realize the present. it all seemed so natural, _now_. their lives had been running so long in the same current of views, feeling, hopes, aspirations, that it seemed inevitable that the two streams should become one. roland was not afraid, however, to speak of grace, whose sweet memory, he said, he could never cease to cherish. his life would be the better always, for his reverential affection for her and for the uplifting effect of her death. "and so," he said, after a long talk, "i shall keep up _the brotherhood_, of course. by and by it may have a real influence in the country. i shall not go on with law, though i am glad to have learned what i know; it will be so useful to me, hereafter. and a few of us are planning starting a factory in minton, on the coöperative plan, as an experiment in that direction. i expect to be able to give a lecture, now and then, and i hope, also to do something by writing, outside of _the brotherhood_. i have had an article accepted already by the _american review_. "oh, have you!" exclaimed nora, delighted. it was like roland not to have said this till now. "and i am to help mr. alden in his 'good-fellows' hall'--give them a sunday afternoon address, sometimes. perhaps--i don't _know_--but, some time, i might be even 'a preacher,' of mr. alden's sort. you would like that, dear, i know." nora did not speak, but the expression of her glad eyes was enough. "and how are kitty and mr. waldberg?" asked nora, by and by, with natural fellow-feeling. "oh, as happy as turtle-doves!" said roland. for lovers can always see something amusing in the devotion of another pair of lovers, serious as is their own. "waldberg is already looking out for the cottage of the future. he has steadied down, and forsworn speculation forever. mr. dunlop left _him_ a legacy, too." "and what of harold pomeroy? has he found consolation yet?" "i don't imagine he needed any. i don't know much of him. i met that poor nelly, the other day, very much overdressed. i don't think she works in the mill, now." "i wonder if he kept his promise to me," said nora thoughtfully. "oh, some men's promises are poor things!" he replied. "by the way, i haven't told you of miss pomeroy's engagement to mr. archer. it's just been announced. i asked him if i might congratulate him, and he said, in his usual way, he supposed i might if i liked,--it wouldn't do any harm." nora laughed outright. but not then, nor for long after, did roland know all the reason for her amusement. "and wharton's gone for a trip to europe," he continued. "people say he's gone to look up miss harley; _he_ says it's to inquire into the labor question over there. whether she or mr. jeffrey converted him, i don't know; but he has certainly changed his position very much." "and have you seen mr. chillingworth lately?" asked nora. "yes," he replied, "i see him, now and then. his manner is always wonderfully kind, though i'm sure he can't have the pleasantest associations with me." "oh," said nora, "i think you are wrong, there! he told aunt margaret that you had been of the greatest use to him, in helping him to realize, once more, truths that seemed to be drifting from his grasp." "i'm sure i don't know how!" said roland, simply, "but i'm glad if it is so. i hope poor little cecilia will be happy with him. she will be a wonderful comfort and interest to him, by and by." "i think," said nora, "that she really is getting to be a little fond of him. she was a great deal with him, while he was here, and he is making all sorts of plans for her education. oh, i _hope_----" roland understood the thought which she did not express. "i think," he said, quietly, "that she has enough of her father's self-contained nature to help to keep other things in check. we must hope for the best. but mr. chillingworth is certainly a greatly changed man. i heard him preach lately, and there was such a new note in him, less 'eloquence,' but much more of human sympathy! well, we've all our limitations; and i've learned to see that 'the mills of god grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small!' i can see that i've been too much in a hurry for results that _must_ take time to bring about." "yes; that's a mistake that we are all apt to make, in some way," said nora, with a sigh. "but some lines of browning that i read, the other day, were quite a comfort to me, in thinking of our mistakes. let me give them to you. "'god's gift was that man should conceive of truth, and yearn to gain it, catching at mistake, as midway help till he reach fact indeed.'" "if we ever do!" replied roland, sighing, in his turn. "but, even if it be only a 'midway help,' i can't help still hoping to see some reforms, like the 'eight-hours movement' and some other restrictive measures, carried out in my lifetime. the abolition of slavery looked much more hopeless, a generation or two ago!" "but even these won't bring perfection and happiness, alone," said nora, thoughtfully. "there must also be a higher moral ideal, and a higher strength in which to attain it." "oh, yes, i've learned that lesson," he replied, quickly. "i know that law is not love, nor the knowledge of right, alone, the power to reach it. i know, too, that, as mr. alden so often says, there's only one thing that can set this poor world really right, and that is, the growth of the _brother-love_! and that must come from the source of love. yet, we must all help on, as far as we can. i take comfort in a thought i found in my thoreau--'the universe constantly and obediently answers to our conceptions; whether we travel fast or slow, the track is laid for us. let us spend our lives in conceiving them. the poet or the artist never yet had so fair and noble a design, but some of his posterity at least could accomplish it.'" "'_and still it moves!_'" quoted nora, softly; and there was a long silence, once more. and, in the quiet dusk of the august evening, the whippoorwill piped on untiring; as the world, after all, is always singing its old songs over again, if only our ears are not too dull or too tired to hear them. the end. recent canadian literature "the young seigneur" by wilfrid chateauclair. "'the young seigneur' is more than clever--it is bold, tantalizing, often witty, always original, and not without very happy characterization.... it promises us a canadian writer of indisputable genius."--_toronto globe._ songs of the dominion a vol. of representative canadian poems. selected and edited by w. d. lighthall. _pocket atlas and gazetteer of canada_. prepared by dr. jas. harper. thoroughly accurate and arranged in convenient form for handy reference. first series plays by john galsworthy strife a drama in three acts persons of the play john anthony, chairman of the trenartha tin plate works edgar anthony, his son frederic h. wilder, | william scantlebury,| directors of the same oliver wanklin, | henry tench, secretary of the same francis underwood, c.e., manager of the same simon harness, a trades union official david roberts, | james green, | john bulgin, | the workmen's committee henry thomas, | george rous, | henry rous, | lewis, | jago, | evans, | workman at the trenartha tin plate works a blacksmith, | davies, | a red-haired youth. | brown | frost, valet to john anthony enid underwood, wife of francis underwood, daughter of john anthony annie roberts, wife of david roberts madge thomas, daughter of henry thomas mrs. rous, mother of george and henry rous mrs. bulgin, wife of john bulgin mrs. yeo, wife of a workman a parlourmaid to the underwoods jan, madge's brother, a boy of ten a crowd of men on strike act i. the dining-room of the manager's house. act ii, scene i. the kitchen of the roberts's cottage near the works. scene ii. a space outside the works. act iii. the drawing-room of the manager's house. the action takes place on february th between the hours of noon and six in the afternoon, close to the trenartha tin plate works, on the borders of england and wales, where a strike has been in progress throughout the winter. act i it is noon. in the underwoods' dining-room a bright fire is burning. on one side of the fireplace are double-doors leading to the drawing-room, on the other side a door leading to the hall. in the centre of the room a long dining-table without a cloth is set out as a board table. at the head of it, in the chairman's seat, sits john anthony, an old man, big, clean-shaven, and high-coloured, with thick white hair, and thick dark eyebrows. his movements are rather slow and feeble, but his eyes are very much alive. there is a glass of water by his side. on his right sits his son edgar, an earnest-looking man of thirty, reading a newspaper. next him wanklin, a man with jutting eyebrows, and silver-streaked light hair, is bending over transfer papers. tench, the secretary, a short and rather humble, nervous man, with side whiskers, stands helping him. on wanklin's right sits underwood, the manager, a quiet man, with along, stiff jaw, and steady eyes. back to the fire is scantlebury, a very large, pale, sleepy man, with grey hair, rather bald. between him and the chairman are two empty chairs. wilder. [who is lean, cadaverous, and complaining, with drooping grey moustaches, stands before the fire.] i say, this fire's the devil! can i have a screen, tench? scantlebury. a screen, ah! tench. certainly, mr. wilder. [he looks at underwood.] that is-- perhaps the manager--perhaps mr. underwood---- scantlebury. these fireplaces of yours, underwood---- underwood. [roused from studying some papers.] a screen? rather! i'm sorry. [he goes to the door with a little smile.] we're not accustomed to complaints of too much fire down here just now. [he speaks as though he holds a pipe between his teeth, slowly, ironically.] wilder. [in an injured voice.] you mean the men. h'm! [underwood goes out.] scantlebury. poor devils! wilder. it's their own fault, scantlebury. edgar. [holding out his paper.] there's great distress among them, according to the trenartha news. wilder. oh, that rag! give it to wanklin. suit his radical views. they call us monsters, i suppose. the editor of that rubbish ought to be shot. edgar. [reading.] "if the board of worthy gentlemen who control the trenartha tin plate works from their arm-chairs in london would condescend to come and see for themselves the conditions prevailing amongst their work-people during this strike----" wilder. well, we have come. edgar. [continuing.] "we cannot believe that even their leg-of-mutton hearts would remain untouched." [wanklin takes the paper from him.] wilder. ruffian! i remember that fellow when he had n't a penny to his name; little snivel of a chap that's made his way by black-guarding everybody who takes a different view to himself. [anthony says something that is not heard.] wilder. what does your father say? edgar. he says "the kettle and the pot." wilder. h'm! [he sits down next to scantlebury.] scantlebury. [blowing out his cheeks.] i shall boil if i don't get that screen. [underwood and enid enter with a screen, which they place before the fire. enid is tall; she has a small, decided face, and is twenty-eight years old.] enid. put it closer, frank. will that do, mr. wilder? it's the highest we've got. wilder. thanks, capitally. scantlebury. [turning, with a sigh of pleasure.] ah! merci, madame! enid. is there anything else you want, father? [anthony shakes his head.] edgar--anything? edgar. you might give me a "j" nib, old girl. enid. there are some down there by mr. scantlebury. scantlebury. [handing a little box of nibs.] ah! your brother uses "j's." what does the manager use? [with expansive politeness.] what does your husband use, mrs. underwood? underwood. a quill! scantlebury. the homely product of the goose. [he holds out quills.] underwood. [drily.] thanks, if you can spare me one. [he takes a quill.] what about lunch, enid? enid. [stopping at the double-doors and looking back.] we're going to have lunch here, in the drawing-room, so you need n't hurry with your meeting. [wanklin and wilder bow, and she goes out.] scantlebury. [rousing himself, suddenly.] ah! lunch! that hotel-- dreadful! did you try the whitebait last night? fried fat! wilder. past twelve! are n't you going to read the minutes, tench? tench. [looking for the chairman's assent, reads in a rapid and monotonous voice.] "at a board meeting held the st of january at the company's offices, , cannon street, e.c. present--mr. anthony in the chair, messrs. f. h. wilder, william scantlebury, oliver wanklin, and edgar anthony. read letters from the manager dated january th, d, th, th, relative to the strike at the company's works. read letters to the manager of january st, th, th, th. read letter from mr. simon harness, of the central union, asking for an interview with the board. read letter from the men's committee, signed david roberts, james green, john bulgin, henry thomas, george rous, desiring conference with the board; and it was resolved that a special board meeting be called for february th at the house of the manager, for the purpose of discussing the situation with mr. simon harness and the men's committee on the spot. passed twelve transfers, signed and sealed nine certificates and one balance certificate." [he pushes the book over to the chairman.] anthony. [with a heavy sigh.] if it's your pleasure, sign the same. [he signs, moving the pen with difficulty. ] wanklin. what's the union's game, tench? they have n't made up their split with the men. what does harness want this interview for? tench. hoping we shall come to a compromise, i think, sir; he's having a meeting with the men this afternoon. wilder. harness! ah! he's one of those cold-blooded, cool-headed chaps. i distrust them. i don't know that we didn't make a mistake to come down. what time'll the men be here? underwood. any time now. wilder. well, if we're not ready, they'll have to wait--won't do them any harm to cool their heels a bit. scantlebury. [slowly.] poor devils! it's snowing. what weather! underwood. [with meaning slowness.] this house'll be the warmest place they've been in this winter. wilder. well, i hope we're going to settle this business in time for me to catch the . . i've got to take my wife to spain to-morrow. [chattily.] my old father had a strike at his works in ' ; just such a february as this. they wanted to shoot him. wanklin. what! in the close season? wilder. by george, there was no close season for employers then! he used to go down to his office with a pistol in his pocket. scantlebury. [faintly alarmed.] not seriously? wilder. [with finality.] ended in his shootin' one of 'em in the legs. scantlebury. [unavoidably feeling his thigh.] no? which? anthony. [lifting the agenda paper.] to consider the policy of the board in relation to the strike. [there is a silence.] wilder. it's this infernal three-cornered duel--the union, the men, and ourselves. wanklin. we need n't consider the union. wilder. it's my experience that you've always got to, consider the union, confound them! if the union were going to withdraw their support from the men, as they've done, why did they ever allow them to strike at all? edgar. we've had that over a dozen times. wilder. well, i've never understood it! it's beyond me. they talk of the engineers' and furnace-men's demands being excessive--so they are--but that's not enough to make the union withdraw their support. what's behind it? underwood. fear of strikes at harper's and tinewell's. wilder. [with triumph.] afraid of other strikes--now, that's a reason! why could n't we have been told that before? underwood. you were. tench. you were absent from the board that day, sir. scantlebury. the men must have seen they had no chance when the union gave them up. it's madness. underwood. it's roberts! wilder. just our luck, the men finding a fanatical firebrand like roberts for leader. [a pause.] wanklin. [looking at anthony.] well? wilder. [breaking in fussily.] it's a regular mess. i don't like the position we're in; i don't like it; i've said so for a long time. [looking at wanklin.] when wanklin and i came down here before christmas it looked as if the men must collapse. you thought so too, underwood. underwood. yes. wilder. well, they haven't! here we are, going from bad to worse losing our customers--shares going down! scantlebury. [shaking his head.] m'm! m'm! wanklin. what loss have we made by this strike, tench? tench. over fifty thousand, sir! scantlebury, [pained.] you don't say! wilder. we shall never got it back. tench. no, sir. wilder. who'd have supposed the men were going to stick out like this--nobody suggested that. [looking angrily at tench.] scantlebury. [shaking his head.] i've never liked a fight--never shall. anthony. no surrender! [all look at him.] wilder. who wants to surrender? [anthony looks at him.] i--i want to act reasonably. when the men sent roberts up to the board in december--then was the time. we ought to have humoured him; instead of that the chairman--[dropping his eyes before anthony's]--er--we snapped his head off. we could have got them in then by a little tact. anthony. no compromise! wilder. there we are! this strike's been going on now since october, and as far as i can see it may last another six months. pretty mess we shall be in by then. the only comfort is, the men'll be in a worse! edgar. [to underwood.] what sort of state are they really in, frank? underwood. [without expression.] damnable! wilder. well, who on earth would have thought they'd have held on like this without support! underwood. those who know them. wilder. i defy any one to know them! and what about tin? price going up daily. when we do get started we shall have to work off our contracts at the top of the market. wanklin. what do you say to that, chairman? anthony. can't be helped! wilder. shan't pay a dividend till goodness knows when! scantlebury. [with emphasis.] we ought to think of the shareholders. [turning heavily.] chairman, i say we ought to think of the shareholders. [anthony mutters.] scantlebury. what's that? tench. the chairman says he is thinking of you, sir. scantlebury. [sinking back into torpor.] cynic! wilder. it's past a joke. i don't want to go without a dividend for years if the chairman does. we can't go on playing ducks and drakes with the company's prosperity. edgar. [rather ashamedly.] i think we ought to consider the men. [all but anthony fidget in their seats.] scantlebury. [with a sigh.] we must n't think of our private feelings, young man. that'll never do. edgar. [ironically.] i'm not thinking of our feelings. i'm thinking of the men's. wilder. as to that--we're men of business. wanklin. that is the little trouble. edgar. there's no necessity for pushing things so far in the face of all this suffering--it's--it's cruel. [no one speaks, as though edgar had uncovered something whose existence no man prizing his self-respect could afford to recognise.] wanklin. [with an ironical smile.] i'm afraid we must n't base our policy on luxuries like sentiment. edgar. i detest this state of things. anthony. we did n't seek the quarrel. edgar. i know that sir, but surely we've gone far enough. anthony. no. [all look at one another.] wanklin. luxuries apart, chairman, we must look out what we're doing. anthony. give way to the men once and there'll be no end to it. wanklin. i quite agree, but---- [anthony shakes his head] you make it a question of bedrock principle? [anthony nods.] luxuries again, chairman! the shares are below par. wilder. yes, and they'll drop to a half when we pass the next dividend. scantlebury. [with alarm.] come, come! not so bad as that. wilder. [grimly.] you'll see! [craning forward to catch anthony's speech.] i didn't catch---- tench. [hesitating.] the chairman says, sir, "fais que--que--devra." edgar. [sharply.] my father says: "do what we ought--and let things rip." wilder. tcha! scantlebury. [throwing up his hands.] the chairman's a stoic--i always said the chairman was a stoic. wilder. much good that'll do us. wanklin. [suavely.] seriously, chairman, are you going to let the ship sink under you, for the sake of--a principle? anthony. she won't sink. scantlebury. [with alarm.] not while i'm on the board i hope. anthony. [with a twinkle.] better rat, scantlebury. scantlebury. what a man! anthony. i've always fought them; i've never been beaten yet. wanklin. we're with you in theory, chairman. but we're not all made of cast-iron. anthony. we've only to hold on. wilder. [rising and going to the fire.] and go to the devil as fast as we can! anthony. better go to the devil than give in! wilder. [fretfully.] that may suit you, sir, but it does n't suit me, or any one else i should think. [anthony looks him in the face-a silence.] edgar. i don't see how we can get over it that to go on like this means starvation to the men's wives and families. [wilder turns abruptly to the fire, and scantlebury puts out a hand to push the idea away.] wanklin. i'm afraid again that sounds a little sentimental. edgar. men of business are excused from decency, you think? wilder. nobody's more sorry for the men than i am, but if they [lashing himself] choose to be such a pig-headed lot, it's nothing to do with us; we've quite enough on our hands to think of ourselves and the shareholders. edgar. [irritably.] it won't kill the shareholders to miss a dividend or two; i don't see that that's reason enough for knuckling under. scantlebury. [with grave discomfort.] you talk very lightly of your dividends, young man; i don't know where we are. wilder. there's only one sound way of looking at it. we can't go on ruining ourselves with this strike. anthony. no caving in! scantlebury. [with a gesture of despair.] look at him! [anthony's leaning back in his chair. they do look at him.] wilder. [returning to his seat.] well, all i can say is, if that's the chairman's view, i don't know what we've come down here for. anthony. to tell the men that we've got nothing for them---- [grimly.] they won't believe it till they hear it spoken in plain english. wilder. h'm! shouldn't be a bit surprised if that brute roberts had n't got us down here with the very same idea. i hate a man with a grievance. edgar. [resentfully.] we didn't pay him enough for his discovery. i always said that at the time. wilder. we paid him five hundred and a bonus of two hundred three years later. if that's not enough! what does he want, for goodness' sake? tench. [complainingly.] company made a hundred thousand out of his brains, and paid him seven hundred--that's the way he goes on, sir. wilder. the man's a rank agitator! look here, i hate the unions. but now we've got harness here let's get him to settle the whole thing. anthony. no! [again they look at him.] underwood. roberts won't let the men assent to that. scantlebury. fanatic! fanatic! wilder. [looking at anthony.] and not the only one! [frost enters from the hall.] frost. [to anthony.] mr. harness from the union, waiting, sir. the men are here too, sir. [anthony nods. underwood goes to the door, returning with harness, a pale, clean-shaven man with hollow cheeks, quick eyes, and lantern jaw--frost has retired.] underwood. [pointing to tench's chair.] sit there next the chairman, harness, won't you? [at harness's appearance, the board have drawn together, as it were, and turned a little to him, like cattle at a dog.] harness. [with a sharp look round, and a bow.] thanks! [he sits--- his accent is slightly nasal.] well, gentlemen, we're going to do business at last, i hope. wilder. depends on what you call business, harness. why don't you make the men come in? harness. [sardonically.] the men are far more in the right than you are. the question with us is whether we shan't begin to support them again. [he ignores them all, except anthony, to whom he turns in speaking.] anthony. support them if you like; we'll put in free labour and have done with it. harness. that won't do, mr. anthony. you can't get free labour, and you know it. anthony. we shall see that. harness. i'm quite frank with you. we were forced to withhold our support from your men because some of their demands are in excess of current rates. i expect to make them withdraw those demands to-day: if they do, take it straight from me, gentlemen, we shall back them again at once. now, i want to see something fixed upon before i go back to-night. can't we have done with this old-fashioned tug-of-war business? what good's it doing you? why don't you recognise once for all that these people are men like yourselves, and want what's good for them just as you want what's good for you [bitterly.] your motor-cars, and champagne, and eight-course dinners. anthony. if the men will come in, we'll do something for them. harness. [ironically.] is that your opinion too, sir--and yours-- and yours? [the directors do not answer.] well, all i can say is: it's a kind of high and mighty aristocratic tone i thought we'd grown out of--seems i was mistaken. anthony. it's the tone the men use. remains to be seen which can hold out longest--they without us, or we without them. harness. as business men, i wonder you're not ashamed of this waste of force, gentlemen. you know what it'll all end in. anthony. what? harness. compromise--it always does. scantlebury. can't you persuade the men that their interests are the same as ours? harness. [turning, ironically.] i could persuade them of that, sir, if they were. wilder. come, harness, you're a clever man, you don't believe all the socialistic claptrap that's talked nowadays. there 's no real difference between their interests and ours. harness. there's just one very simple question i'd like to put to you. will you pay your men one penny more than they force you to pay them? [wilder is silent.] wanklin. [chiming in.] i humbly thought that not to pay more than was necessary was the a b c of commerce. harness. [with irony.] yes, that seems to be the a b c of commerce, sir; and the a b c of commerce is between your interests and the men's. scantlebury. [whispering.] we ought to arrange something. harness. [drily.] am i to understand then, gentlemen, that your board is going to make no concessions? [wanklin and wilder bend forward as if to speak, but stop.] anthony. [nodding.] none. [wanklin and wilder again bend forward, and scantlebury gives an unexpected grunt.] harness. you were about to say something, i believe? [but scantlebury says nothing.] edgar. [looking up suddenly.] we're sorry for the state of the men. harness. [icily.] the men have no use for your pity, sir. what they want is justice. anthony. then let them be just. harness. for that word "just" read "humble," mr. anthony. why should they be humble? barring the accident of money, are n't they as good men as you? anthony. cant! harness. well, i've been five years in america. it colours a man's notions. scantlebury. [suddenly, as though avenging his uncompleted grunt.] let's have the men in and hear what they've got to say! [anthony nods, and underwood goes out by the single door.] harness. [drily.] as i'm to have an interview with them this afternoon, gentlemen, i 'll ask you to postpone your final decision till that's over. [again anthony nods, and taking up his glass drinks.] [underwood comes in again, followed by roberts, green, bulgin, thomas, rous. they file in, hat in hand, and stand silent in a row. roberts is lean, of middle height, with a slight stoop. he has a little rat-gnawn, brown-grey beard, moustaches, high cheek-bones, hollow cheeks, small fiery eyes. he wears an old and grease-stained blue serge suit, and carries an old bowler hat. he stands nearest the chairman. green, next to him, has a clean, worn face, with a small grey goatee beard and drooping moustaches, iron spectacles, and mild, straightforward eyes. he wears an overcoat, green with age, and a linen collar. next to him is bulgin, a tall, strong man, with a dark moustache, and fighting jaw, wearing a red muffler, who keeps changing his cap from one hand to the other. next to him is thomas, an old man with a grey moustache, full beard, and weatherbeaten, bony face, whose overcoat discloses a lean, plucked-looking neck. on his right, rous, the youngest of the five, looks like a soldier; he has a glitter in his eyes.] underwood. [pointing.] there are some chairs there against the wall, roberts; won't you draw them up and sit down? roberts. thank you, mr. underwood--we'll stand in the presence of the board. [he speaks in a biting and staccato voice, rolling his r's, pronouncing his a's like an italian a, and his consonants short and crisp.] how are you, mr. harness? did n't expect t' have the pleasure of seeing you till this afternoon. harness. [steadily.] we shall meet again then, roberts. roberts. glad to hear that; we shall have some news for you to take to your people. anthony. what do the men want? roberts. [acidly.] beg pardon, i don't quite catch the chairman's remark. tench. [from behind the chairman's chair.] the chairman wishes to know what the men have to say. roberts. it's what the board has to say we've come to hear. it's for the board to speak first. anthony. the board has nothing to say. roberts. [looking along the line of men.] in that case we're wasting the directors' time. we'll be taking our feet off this pretty carpet. [he turns, the men move slowly, as though hypnotically influenced.] wanklin: [suavely.] come, roberts, you did n't give us this long cold journey for the pleasure of saying that. thomas. [a pure welshman.] no, sir, an' what i say iss---- roberts.[bitingly.] go on, henry thomas, go on. you 're better able to speak to the--directors than me. [thomas is silent.] tench. the chairman means, roberts, that it was the men who asked for the conference, the board wish to hear what they have to say. roberts. gad! if i was to begin to tell ye all they have to say, i wouldn't be finished to-day. and there'd be some that'd wish they'd never left their london palaces. harness. what's your proposition, man? be reasonable. roberts. you want reason mr. harness? take a look round this afternoon before the meeting. [he looks at the men; no sound escapes them.] you'll see some very pretty scenery. harness. all right my friend; you won't put me off. roberts. [to the men.] we shan't put mr. harness off. have some champagne with your lunch, mr. harness; you'll want it, sir. harness. come, get to business, man! thomas. what we're asking, look you, is just simple justice. roberts. [venomously.] justice from london? what are you talking about, henry thomas? have you gone silly? [thomas is silent.] we know very well what we are--discontented dogs--never satisfied. what did the chairman tell me up in london? that i did n't know what i was talking about. i was a foolish, uneducated man, that knew nothing of the wants of the men i spoke for. edgar. do please keep to the point. anthony. [holding up his hand.] there can only be one master, roberts. roberts. then, be gad, it'll be us. [there is a silence; anthony and roberts stare at one another.] underwood. if you've nothing to say to the directors, roberts, perhaps you 'll let green or thomas speak for the men. [green and thomas look anxiously at roberts, at each other, and the other men.] green. [an englishman.] if i'd been listened to, gentlemen---- thomas. what i'fe got to say iss what we'fe all got to say---- roberts. speak for yourself, henry thomas. scantlebury. [with a gesture of deep spiritual discomfort.] let the poor men call their souls their own! roberts. aye, they shall keep their souls, for it's not much body that you've left them, mr. [with biting emphasis, as though the word were an offence] scantlebury! [to the men.] well, will you speak, or shall i speak for you? rous. [suddenly.] speak out, roberts, or leave it to others. roberts. [ironically.] thank you, george rous. [addressing himself to anthony.] the chairman and board of directors have honoured us by leaving london and coming all this way to hear what we've got to say; it would not be polite to keep them any longer waiting. wilder. well, thank god for that! roberts. ye will not dare to thank him when i have done, mr. wilder, for all your piety. may be your god up in london has no time to listen to the working man. i'm told he is a wealthy god; but if he listens to what i tell him, he will know more than ever he learned in kensington. harness. come, roberts, you have your own god. respect the god of other men. roberts. that's right, sir. we have another god down here; i doubt he is rather different to mr. wilder's. ask henry thomas; he will tell you whether his god and mr. wilder's are the same. [thomas lifts his hand, and cranes his head as though to prophesy.] wanklin. for goodness' sake, let 's keep to the point, roberts. roberts. i rather think it is the point, mr. wanklin. if you can get the god of capital to walk through the streets of labour, and pay attention to what he sees, you're a brighter man than i take you for, for all that you're a radical. anthony. attend to me, roberts! [roberts is silent.] you are here to speak for the men, as i am here to speak for the board. [he looks slowly round.] [wilder, wanklin, and scantlebury make movements of uneasiness, and edgar gazes at the floor. a faint smile comes on harness's face.] now then, what is it? roberts. right, sir! [throughout all that follows, he and anthony look fixedly upon each other. men and directors show in their various ways suppressed uneasiness, as though listening to words that they themselves would not have spoken.] the men can't afford to travel up to london; and they don't trust you to believe what they say in black and white. they know what the post is [he darts a look at underwood and tench], and what directors' meetings are: "refer it to the manager--let the manager advise us on the men's condition. can we squeeze them a little more?" underwood. [in a low voice.] don't hit below the belt, roberts! roberts. is it below the belt, mr. underwood? the men know. when i came up to london, i told you the position straight. an' what came of it? i was told i did n't know what i was talkin' about. i can't afford to travel up to london to be told that again. anthony. what have you to say for the men? roberts. i have this to say--and first as to their condition. ye shall 'ave no need to go and ask your manager. ye can't squeeze them any more. every man of us is well-nigh starving. [a surprised murmur rises from the men. roberts looks round.] ye wonder why i tell ye that? every man of us is going short. we can't be no worse off than we've been these weeks past. ye need n't think that by waiting yell drive us to come in. we'll die first, the whole lot of us. the men have sent for ye to know, once and for all, whether ye are going to grant them their demands. i see the sheet of paper in the secretary's hand. [tench moves nervously.] that's it, i think, mr. tench. it's not very large. tench. [nodding.] yes. roberts. there's not one sentence of writing on that paper that we can do without. [a movement amongst the men. roberts turns on them sharply.] isn't that so? [the men assent reluctantly. anthony takes from tench the paper and peruses it.] not one single sentence. all those demands are fair. we have not. asked anything that we are not entitled to ask. what i said up in london, i say again now: there is not anything on that piece of paper that a just man should not ask, and a just man give. [a pause.] anthony. there is not one single demand on this paper that we will grant. [in the stir that follows on these words, roberts watches the directors and anthony the men. wilder gets up abruptly and goes over to the fire.] roberts. d' ye mean that? anthony. i do. [wilder at the fire makes an emphatic movement of disgust.] roberts. [noting it, with dry intensity.] ye best know whether the condition of the company is any better than the condition of the men. [scanning the directors' faces.] ye best know whether ye can afford your tyranny--but this i tell ye: if ye think the men will give way the least part of an inch, ye're making the worst mistake ye ever made. [he fixes his eyes on scantlebury.] ye think because the union is not supporting us--more shame to it!--that we'll be coming on our knees to you one fine morning. ye think because the men have got their wives an' families to think of--that it's just a question of a week or two---- anthony. it would be better if you did not speculate so much on what we think. roberts. aye! it's not much profit to us! i will say this for you, mr. anthony--ye know your own mind! [staying at anthony.] i can reckon on ye! anthony. [ironically.] i am obliged to you! roberts. and i know mine. i tell ye this: the men will send their wives and families where the country will have to keep them; an' they will starve sooner than give way. i advise ye, mr. anthony, to prepare yourself for the worst that can happen to your company. we are not so ignorant as you might suppose. we know the way the cat is jumping. your position is not all that it might be--not exactly! anthony. be good enough to allow us to judge of our position for ourselves. go back, and reconsider your own. roberts. [stepping forward.] mr. anthony, you are not a young man now; from the time i remember anything ye have been an enemy to every man that has come into your works. i don't say that ye're a mean man, or a cruel man, but ye've grudged them the say of any word in their own fate. ye've fought them down four times. i've heard ye say ye love a fight--mark my words--ye're fighting the last fight ye'll ever fight! [tench touches roberts's sleeve.] underwood. roberts! roberts! roberts. roberts! roberts! i must n't speak my mind to the chairman, but the chairman may speak his mind to me! wilder. what are things coming to? anthony, [with a grim smile at wilder.] go on, roberts; say what you like! roberts. [after a pause.] i have no more to say. anthony. the meeting stands adjourned to five o'clock. wanklin. [in a low voice to underwood.] we shall never settle anything like this. roberts. [bitingly.] we thank the chairman and board of directors for their gracious hearing. [he moves towards the door; the men cluster together stupefied; then rous, throwing up his head, passes roberts and goes out. the others follow.] roberts. [with his hand on the door--maliciously.] good day, gentlemen! [he goes out.] harness. [ironically.] i congratulate you on the conciliatory spirit that's been displayed. with your permission, gentlemen, i'll be with you again at half-past five. good morning! [he bows slightly, rests his eyes on anthony, who returns his stare unmoved, and, followed by underwood, goes out. there is a moment of uneasy silence. underwood reappears in the doorway.] wilder. [with emphatic disgust.] well! [the double-doors are opened.] enid. [standing in the doorway.] lunch is ready. [edgar, getting up abruptly, walks out past his sister.] wilder. coming to lunch, scantlebury? scantlebury. [rising heavily.] i suppose so, i suppose so. it's the only thing we can do. [they go out through the double-doors.] wanklin. [in a low voice.] do you really mean to fight to a finish, chairman? [anthony nods.] wanklin. take care! the essence of things is to know when to stop. [anthony does not answer.] wanklin. [very gravely.] this way disaster lies. the ancient trojans were fools to your father, mrs. underwood. [he goes out through the double-doors.] enid. i want to speak to father, frank. [underwood follows wanklin out. tench, passing round the table, is restoring order to the scattered pens and papers.] enid. are n't you coming, dad? [anthony shakes his head. enid looks meaningly at tench.] enid. won't you go and have some lunch, mr. tench? tench. [with papers in his hand.] thank you, ma'am, thank you! [he goes slowly, looking back.] enid. [shutting the doors.] i do hope it's settled, father! anthony. no! enid. [very disappointed.] oh! have n't you done anything! [anthony shakes his head.] enid. frank says they all want to come to a compromise, really, except that man roberts. anthony. i don't. enid. it's such a horrid position for us. if you were the wife of the manager, and lived down here, and saw it all. you can't realise, dad! anthony. indeed? enid. we see all the distress. you remember my maid annie, who married roberts? [anthony nods.] it's so wretched, her heart's weak; since the strike began, she has n't even been getting proper food. i know it for a fact, father. anthony. give her what she wants, poor woman! enid. roberts won't let her take anything from us. anthony. [staring before him.] i can't be answerable for the men's obstinacy. enid. they're all suffering. father! do stop it, for my sake! anthony. [with a keen look at her.] you don't understand, my dear. enid. if i were on the board, i'd do something. anthony. what would you do? enid. it's because you can't bear to give way. it's so---- anthony. well? enid. so unnecessary. anthony. what do you know about necessity? read your novels, play your music, talk your talk, but don't try and tell me what's at the bottom of a struggle like this. enid. i live down here, and see it. anthony. what d' you imagine stands between you and your class and these men that you're so sorry for? enid. [coldly.] i don't know what you mean, father. anthony. in a few years you and your children would be down in the condition they're in, but for those who have the eyes to see things as they are and the backbone to stand up for themselves. enid. you don't know the state the men are in. anthony. i know it well enough. enid. you don't, father; if you did, you would n't anthony. it's you who don't know the simple facts of the position. what sort of mercy do you suppose you'd get if no one stood between you and the continual demands of labour? this sort of mercy-- [he puts his hand up to his throat and squeezes it.] first would go your sentiments, my dear; then your culture, and your comforts would be going all the time! enid. i don't believe in barriers between classes. anthony. you--don't--believe--in--barriers--between the classes? enid. [coldly.] and i don't know what that has to do with this question. anthony. it will take a generation or two for you to understand. enid. it's only you and roberts, father, and you know it! [anthony thrusts out his lower lip.] it'll ruin the company. anthony. allow me to judge of that. enid. [resentfully.] i won't stand by and let poor annie roberts suffer like this! and think of the children, father! i warn you. anthony. [with a grim smile.] what do you propose to do? enid. that's my affair. [anthony only looks at her.] enid. [in a changed voice, stroking his sleeve.] father, you know you oughtn't to have this strain on you--you know what dr. fisher said! anthony. no old man can afford to listen to old women. enid. but you have done enough, even if it really is such a matter of principle with you. anthony. you think so? enid. don't dad! [her face works.] you--you might think of us! anthony. i am. enid. it'll break you down. anthony. [slowly.] my dear, i am not going to funk; on that you may rely. [re-enter tench with papers; he glances at them, then plucking up courage.] tench. beg pardon, madam, i think i'd rather see these papers were disposed of before i get my lunch. [enid, after an impatient glance at him, looks at her father, turns suddenly, and goes into the drawing-room.] tench. [holding the papers and a pen to anthony, very nervously.] would you sign these for me, please sir? [anthony takes the pen and signs.] tench. [standing with a sheet of blotting-paper behind edgar's chair, begins speaking nervously.] i owe my position to you, sir. anthony. well? tench. i'm obliged to see everything that's going on, sir; i--i depend upon the company entirely. if anything were to happen to it, it'd be disastrous for me. [anthony nods.] and, of course, my wife's just had another; and so it makes me doubly anxious just now. and the rates are really terrible down our way. anthony. [with grim amusement.] not more terrible than they are up mine. tench. no, sir? [very nervously.] i know the company means a great deal to you, sir. anthony. it does; i founded it. tench. yes, sir. if the strike goes on it'll be very serious. i think the directors are beginning to realise that, sir. anthony. [ironically.] indeed? tench. i know you hold very strong views, sir, and it's always your habit to look things in the face; but i don't think the directors-- like it, sir, now they--they see it. anthony. [grimly.] nor you, it seems. tench. [with the ghost of a smile.] no, sir; of course i've got my children, and my wife's delicate; in my position i have to think of these things. [anthony nods.] it was n't that i was going to say, sir, if you'll excuse me---- [hesitates] anthony. out with it, then! tench. i know--from my own father, sir, that when you get on in life you do feel things dreadfully---- anthony. [almost paternally.] come, out with it, trench! tench. i don't like to say it, sir. anthony. [stonily.] you must. tench. [after a pause, desperately bolting it out.] i think the directors are going to throw you over, sir. anthony. [sits in silence.] ring the bell! [tench nervously rings the bell and stands by the fire.] tench. excuse me for saying such a thing. i was only thinking of you, sir. [frost enters from the hall, he comes to the foot of the table, and looks at anthony; tench coveys his nervousness by arranging papers.] anthony. bring me a whiskey and soda. frost. anything to eat, sir? [anthony shakes his head. frost goes to the sideboard, and prepares the drink.] tench. [in a low voice, almost supplicating.] if you could see your way, sir, it would be a great relief to my mind, it would indeed. [he looks up at anthony, who has not moved.] it does make me so very anxious. i haven't slept properly for weeks, sir, and that's a fact. [anthony looks in his face, then slowly shakes his head.] [disheartened.] no, sir? [he goes on arranging papers.] [frost places the whiskey and salver and puts it down by anthony's right hand. he stands away, looking gravely at anthony.] frost. nothing i can get you, sir? [anthony shakes his head.] you're aware, sir, of what the doctor said, sir? anthony. i am. [a pause. frost suddenly moves closer to him, and speaks in a low voice.] frost. this strike, sir; puttin' all this strain on you. excuse me, sir, is it--is it worth it, sir? [anthony mutters some words that are inaudible.] very good, sir! [he turns and goes out into the hall. tench makes two attempts to speak; but meeting his chairman's gaze he drops his eyes, and, turning dismally, he too goes out. anthony is left alone. he grips the glass, tilts it, and drinks deeply; then sets it down with a deep and rumbling sigh, and leans back in his chair.] the curtain falls. act ii scene i it is half-past three. in the kitchen of roberts's cottage a meagre little fire is burning. the room is clean and tidy, very barely furnished, with a brick floor and white-washed walls, much stained with smoke. there is a kettle on the fire. a door opposite the fireplace opens inward from a snowy street. on the wooden table are a cup and saucer, a teapot, knife, and plate of bread and cheese. close to the fireplace in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a rug, sits mrs. roberts, a thin and dark-haired woman about thirty-five, with patient eyes. her hair is not done up, but tied back with a piece of ribbon. by the fire, too, is mrs. yeo; a red-haired, broad-faced person. sitting near the table is mrs. rous, an old lady, ashen-white, with silver hair; by the door, standing, as if about to go, is mrs. bulgin, a little pale, pinched-up woman. in a chair, with her elbows resting on the table, avid her face resting in her hands, sits madge thomas, a good-looking girl, of twenty-two, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark untidy hair. she is listening to the talk, but she neither speaks nor moves. mrs. yeo. so he give me a sixpence, and that's the first bit o' money i seen this week. there an't much 'eat to this fire. come and warm yerself mrs. rous, you're lookin' as white as the snow, you are. mrs. rous. [shivering--placidly.] ah! but the winter my old man was took was the proper winter. seventy-nine that was, when none of you was hardly born--not madge thomas, nor sue bulgin. [looking at them in turn.] annie roberts, 'ow old were you, dear? mrs roberts. seven, mrs. rous. mrs. rous. seven--well, there! a tiny little thing! mrs. yeo. [aggressively.] well, i was ten myself, i remembers it. mrs. rous. [placidly.] the company hadn't been started three years. father was workin' on the acid, that's 'ow he got 'is pisoned-leg. i kep' sayin' to 'im, "father, you've got a pisoned leg." "well," 'e said, "mother, pison or no pison, i can't afford to go a-layin' up." an' two days after, he was on 'is back, and never got up again. it was providence! there was n't none o' these compensation acts then. mrs. yeo. ye had n't no strike that winter! [with grim humour.] this winter's 'ard enough for me. mrs. roberts, you don't want no 'arder winter, do you? wouldn't seem natural to 'ave a dinner, would it, mrs. bulgin? mrs. bulgin. we've had bread and tea last four days. mrs. yeo. you got that friday's laundry job? mrs. bulgin. [dispiritedly.] they said they'd give it me, but when i went last friday, they were full up. i got to go again next week. mrs. yeo. ah! there's too many after that. i send yeo out on the ice to put on the gentry's skates an' pick up what 'e can. stops 'im from broodin' about the 'ouse. mrs. bulgin. [in a desolate, matter-of-fact voice.] leavin' out the men--it's bad enough with the children. i keep 'em in bed, they don't get so hungry when they're not running about; but they're that restless in bed they worry your life out. mrs. yeo. you're lucky they're all so small. it 's the goin' to school that makes 'em 'ungry. don't bulgin give you anythin'? mrs. bulgin. [shakes her head, then, as though by afterthought.] would if he could, i s'pose. mrs. yeo. [sardonically.] what! 'ave n't 'e got no shares in the company? mrs. rous. [rising with tremulous cheerfulness.] well, good-bye, annie roberts, i'm going along home. mrs. roberts. stay an' have a cup of tea, mrs. rous? mrs. rous. [with the faintest smile.] roberts 'll want 'is tea when he comes in. i'll just go an' get to bed; it's warmer there than anywhere. [she moves very shakily towards the door.] mrs. yeo. [rising and giving her an arm.] come on, mother, take my arm; we're all going' the same way. mrs. rous. [taking the arm.]thank you, my dearies! [they go out, followed by mrs. bulgin.] madge. [moving for the first time.] there, annie, you see that! i told george rous, "don't think to have my company till you've made an end of all this trouble. you ought to be ashamed," i said, "with your own mother looking like a ghost, and not a stick to put on the fire. so long as you're able to fill your pipes, you'll let us starve." "i 'll take my oath, madge," he said, "i 've not had smoke nor drink these three weeks!" "well, then, why do you go on with it?" "i can't go back on roberts!" . . . that's it! roberts, always roberts! they'd all drop it but for him. when he talks it's the devil that comes into them. [a silence. mrs. roberts makes a movement of pain.] ah! you don't want him beaten! he's your man. with everybody like their own shadows! [she makes a gesture towards mrs. roberts.] if rous wants me he must give up roberts. if he gave him up--they all would. they're only waiting for a lead. father's against him-- they're all against him in their hearts. mrs. roberts. you won't beat roberts! [they look silently at each other.] madge. won't i? the cowards--when their own mothers and their own children don't know where to turn. mrs. roberts. madge! madge. [looking searchingly at mrs. roberts.] i wonder he can look you in the face. [she squats before the fire, with her hands out to the flame.] harness is here again. they'll have to make up their minds to-day. mrs. roberts. [in a soft, slow voice, with a slight west-country burr.] roberts will never give up the furnace-men and engineers. 't wouldn't be right. madge. you can't deceive me. it's just his pride. [a tapping at the door is heard, the women turn as enid enters. she wears a round fur cap, and a jacket of squirrel's fur. she closes the door behind her.] enid. can i come in, annie? mrs. roberts. [flinching.] miss enid! give mrs. underwood a chair, madge! [madge gives enid the chair she has been sitting on.] enid. thank you! enid. are you any better? mrs. roberts. yes, m'm; thank you, m'm. enid. [looking at the sullen madge as though requesting her departure.] why did you send back the jelly? i call that really wicked of you! mrs. roberts. thank you, m'm, i'd no need for it. enid. of course! it was roberts's doing, wasn't it? how can he let all this suffering go on amongst you? madge. [suddenly.] what suffering? enid. [surprised.] i beg your pardon! madge. who said there was suffering? mrs. roberts. madge! madge. [throwing her shawl over her head.] please to let us keep ourselves to ourselves. we don't want you coming here and spying on us. enid. [confronting her, but without rising.] i did n't speak to you. madge. [in a low, fierce voice.] keep your kind feelings to yourself. you think you can come amongst us, but you're mistaken. go back and tell the manager that. enid. [stonily.] this is not your house. madge. [turning to the door.] no, it is not my house; keep clear of my house, mrs. underwood. [she goes out. enid taps her fingers on the table.] mrs. roberts. please to forgive madge thomas, m'm; she's a bit upset to-day. [a pause.] enid. [looking at her.] oh, i think they're so stupid, all of them. mrs. roberts. [with a faint smile]. yes, m'm. enid. is roberts out? mrs. roberts. yes, m'm. enid. it is his doing, that they don't come to an agreement. now is n't it, annie? mrs. roberts. [softly, with her eyes on enid, and moving the fingers of one hand continually on her breast.] they do say that your father, m'm---- enid. my father's getting an old man, and you know what old men are. mrs. roberts. i am sorry, m'm. enid. [more softly.] i don't expect you to feel sorry, annie. i know it's his fault as well as roberts's. mrs. roberts. i'm sorry for any one that gets old, m'm; it 's dreadful to get old, and mr. anthony was such a fine old man, i always used to think. enid. [impulsively.] he always liked you, don't you remember? look here, annie, what can i do? i do so want to know. you don't get what you ought to have. [going to the fire, she takes the kettle off, and looks for coals.] and you're so naughty sending back the soup and things. mrs. roberts. [with a faint smile.] yes, m'm? enid. [resentfully.] why, you have n't even got coals? mrs. roberts. if you please, m'm, to put the kettle on again; roberts won't have long for his tea when he comes in. he's got to meet the men at four. enid. [putting the kettle on.] that means he'll lash them into a fury again. can't you stop his going, annie? [mrs. roberts smiles ironically.] have you tried? [a silence.] does he know how ill you are? mrs. roberts. it's only my weak 'eard, m'm. enid. you used to be so well when you were with us. mrs. roberts. [stiffening.] roberts is always good to me. enid. but you ought to have everything you want, and you have nothing! mrs. roberts. [appealingly.] they tell me i don't look like a dyin' woman? enid. of course you don't; if you could only have proper--- will you see my doctor if i send him to you? i'm sure he'd do you good. mrs. roberts. [with faint questioning.] yes, m'm. enid. madge thomas ought n't to come here; she only excites you. as if i did n't know what suffering there is amongst the men! i do feel for them dreadfully, but you know they have gone too far. mrs. roberts. [continually moving her fingers.] they say there's no other way to get better wages, m'm. enid. [earnestly.] but, annie, that's why the union won't help them. my husband's very sympathetic with the men, but he says they are not underpaid. mrs. roberts. no, m'm? enid. they never think how the company could go on if we paid the wages they want. mrs. roberts. [with an effort.] but the dividends having been so big, m'm. enid. [takes aback.] you all seem to think the shareholders are rich men, but they're not--most of them are really no better off than working men. [mrs. roberts smiles.] they have to keep up appearances. mrs. roberts. yes, m'm? enid. you don't have to pay rates and taxes, and a hundred other things that they do. if the men did n't spend such a lot in drink and betting they'd be quite well off! mrs. roberts. they say, workin' so hard, they must have some pleasure. enid. but surely not low pleasure like that. mrs. roberts. [a little resentfully.] roberts never touches a drop; and he's never had a bet in his life. enid. oh! but he's not a com----i mean he's an engineer---- a superior man. mrs. roberts. yes, m'm. roberts says they've no chance of other pleasures. enid. [musing.] of course, i know it's hard. mrs. roberts. [with a spice of malice.] and they say gentlefolk's just as bad. enid. [with a smile.] i go as far as most people, annie, but you know, yourself, that's nonsense. mrs. roberts. [with painful effort.] a lot 'o the men never go near the public; but even they don't save but very little, and that goes if there's illness. enid. but they've got their clubs, have n't they? mrs. roberts. the clubs only give up to eighteen shillin's a week, m'm, and it's not much amongst a family. roberts says workin' folk have always lived from hand to mouth. sixpence to-day is worth more than a shillin' to-morrow, that's what they say. enid. but that's the spirit of gambling. mrs. roberts. [with a sort of excitement.] roberts says a working man's life is all a gamble, from the time 'e 's born to the time 'e dies. [enid leans forward, interested. mrs. roberts goes on with a growing excitement that culminates in the personal feeling of the last words.] he says, m'm, that when a working man's baby is born, it's a toss-up from breath to breath whether it ever draws another, and so on all 'is life; an' when he comes to be old, it's the workhouse or the grave. he says that without a man is very near, and pinches and stints 'imself and 'is children to save, there can't be neither surplus nor security. that's why he wouldn't have no children [she sinks back], not though i wanted them. enid. yes, yes, i know! mrs. roberts. no you don't, m'm. you've got your children, and you'll never need to trouble for them. enid. [gently.] you oughtn't to be talking so much, annie. [then, in spite of herself.] but roberts was paid a lot of money, was n't he, for discovering that process? mrs. roberts. [on the defensive.] all roberts's savin's have gone. he 's always looked forward to this strike. he says he's no right to a farthing when the others are suffering. 't is n't so with all o' them! some don't seem to care no more than that--so long as they get their own. enid. i don't see how they can be expected to when they 're suffering like this. [in a changed voice.] but roberts ought to think of you! it's all terrible----! the kettle's boiling. shall i make the tea? [she takes the teapot and, seeing tea there, pours water into it.] won't you have a cup? mrs. roberts. no, thank you, m'm. [she is listening, as though for footsteps.] i'd--sooner you did n't see roberts, m'm, he gets so wild. enid. oh! but i must, annie; i'll be quite calm, i promise. mrs. roberts. it's life an' death to him, m'm. enid. [very gently.] i'll get him to talk to me outside, we won't excite you. mrs. roberts. [faintly.] no, m'm. [she gives a violent start. roberts has come in, unseen.] roberts. [removing his hat--with subtle mockery.] beg pardon for coming in; you're engaged with a lady, i see. enid. can i speak to you, mr. roberts? roberts. whom have i the pleasure of addressing, ma'am? enid. but surely you know me! i 'm mrs. underwood. roberts. [with a bow of malice.] the daughter of our chairman. enid. [earnestly.] i've come on purpose to speak to you; will you come outside a minute? [she looks at mrs. roberts.] roberts. [hanging up his hat.] i have nothing to say, ma'am. enid. but i must speak to you, please. [she moves towards the door.] roberts. [with sudden venom.] i have not the time to listen! mrs. roberts. david! enid. mr. roberts, please! roberts. [taking off his overcoat.] i am sorry to disoblige a lady --mr. anthony's daughter. enid. [wavering, then with sudden decision.] mr. roberts, i know you've another meeting of the men. [roberts bows.] i came to appeal to you. please, please, try to come to some compromise; give way a little, if it's only for your own sakes! roberts. [speaking to himself.] the daughter of mr. anthony begs me to give way a little, if it's only for our own sakes! enid. for everybody's sake; for your wife's sake. roberts. for my wife's sake, for everybody's sake--for the sake of mr. anthony. enid. why are you so bitter against my father? he has never done anything to you. roberts. has he not? enid. he can't help his views, any more than you can help yours. roberts. i really did n't know that i had a right to views! enid. he's an old man, and you---- [seeing his eyes fixed on her, she stops.] roberts. [without raising his voice.] if i saw mr. anthony going to die, and i could save him by lifting my hand, i would not lift the little finger of it. enid. you--you----[she stops again, biting her lips.] roberts. i would not, and that's flat! enid. [coldly.] you don't mean what you say, and you know it! roberts. i mean every word of it. enid. but why? roberts. [with a flash.] mr. anthony stands for tyranny! that's why! enid. nonsense! [mrs. roberts makes a movement as if to rise, but sinks back in her chair.] enid. [with an impetuous movement.] annie! roberts. please not to touch my wife! enid. [recoiling with a sort of horror.] i believe--you are mad. roberts. the house of a madman then is not the fit place for a lady. enid. i 'm not afraid of you. roberts. [bowing.] i would not expect the daughter of mr. anthony to be afraid. mr. anthony is not a coward like the rest of them. enid. [suddenly.] i suppose you think it brave, then, to go on with the struggle. roberts. does mr. anthony think it brave to fight against women and children? mr. anthony is a rich man, i believe; does he think it brave to fight against those who have n't a penny? does he think it brave to set children crying with hunger, an' women shivering with cold? enid. [putting up her hand, as though warding off a blow.] my father is acting on his principles, and you know it! roberts. and so am i! enid. you hate us; and you can't bear to be beaten! roberts. neither can mr. anthony, for all that he may say. enid. at any rate you might have pity on your wife. [mrs. roberts who has her hand pressed to her heart, takes it away, and tries to calm her breathing.] roberts. madam, i have no more to say. [he takes up the loaf. there is a knock at the door, and underwood comes in. he stands looking at them, enid turns to him, then seems undecided.] underwood. enid! roberts. [ironically.] ye were not needing to come for your wife, mr. underwood. we are not rowdies. underwood. i know that, roberts. i hope mrs. roberts is better. [roberts turns away without answering. come, enid!] enid. i make one more appeal to you, mr. roberts, for the sake of your wife. roberts. [with polite malice.] if i might advise ye, ma'am--make it for the sake of your husband and your father. [enid, suppressing a retort, goes out. underwood opens the door for her and follows. roberts, going to the fire, holds out his hands to the dying glow.] roberts. how goes it, my girl? feeling better, are you? [mrs. roberts smiles faintly. he brings his overcoat and wraps it round her.] [looking at his watch.] ten minutes to four! [as though inspired.] i've seen their faces, there's no fight in them, except for that one old robber. mrs. roberts. won't you stop and eat, david? you've 'ad nothing all day! roberts. [putting his hand to his throat.] can't swallow till those old sharks are out o' the town: [he walks up and down.] i shall have a bother with the men--there's no heart in them, the cowards. blind as bats, they are--can't see a day before their noses. mrs. roberts. it's the women, david. roberts. ah! so they say! they can remember the women when their own bellies speak! the women never stop them from the drink; but from a little suffering to themselves in a sacred cause, the women stop them fast enough. mrs. roberts. but think o' the children, david. roberts. ah! if they will go breeding themselves for slaves, without a thought o' the future o' them they breed---- mrs. roberts. [gasping.] that's enough, david; don't begin to talk of that--i won't--i can't---- roberts. [staring at her.] now, now, my girl! mrs. roberts. [breathlessly.] no, no, david--i won't! roberts. there, there! come, come! that's right! [bitterly.] not one penny will they put by for a day like this. not they! hand to mouth--gad!--i know them! they've broke my heart. there was no holdin' them at the start, but now the pinch 'as come. mrs. roberts. how can you expect it, david? they're not made of iron. roberts. expect it? wouldn't i expect what i would do meself? wouldn't i starve an' rot rather than give in? what one man can do, another can. mrs. roberts. and the women? roberts. this is not women's work. mrs. roberts. [with a flash of malice.] no, the women may die for all you care. that's their work. roberts. [averting his eyes.] who talks of dying? no one will die till we have beaten these---- [he meets her eyes again, and again turns his away. excitedly.] this is what i've been waiting for all these months. to get the old robbers down, and send them home again without a farthin's worth o' change. i 've seen their faces, i tell you, in the valley of the shadow of defeat. [he goes to the peg and takes down his hat.] mrs. roberts. [following with her eyes-softly.] take your overcoat, david; it must be bitter cold. roberts. [coming up to her-his eyes are furtive.] no, no! there, there, stay quiet and warm. i won't be long, my girl. mrs. roberts. [with soft bitterness.] you'd better take it. [she lifts the coat. but roberts puts it back, and wraps it round her. he tries to meet her eyes, but cannot. mrs. roberts stays huddled in the coat, her eyes, that follow him about, are half malicious, half yearning. he looks at his watch again, and turns to go. in the doorway he meets jan thomas, a boy of ten in clothes too big for him, carrying a penny whistle.] roberts. hallo, boy! [he goes. jan stops within a yard of mrs. roberts, and stares at her without a word.] mrs. roberts. well, jan! jan. father 's coming; sister madge is coming. [he sits at the table, and fidgets with his whistle; he blows three vague notes; then imitates a cuckoo.] [there is a tap on the door. old thomas comes in.] thomas. a very coot tay to you, ma'am. it is petter that you are. mrs. roberts. thank you, mr. thomas. thomas. [nervously.] roberts in? mrs. roberts. just gone on to the meeting, mr. thomas. thomas. [with relief, becoming talkative.] this is fery unfortunate, look you! i came to tell him that we must make terms with london. it is a fery great pity he is gone to the meeting. he will be kicking against the pricks, i am thinking. mrs. roberts. [half rising.] he'll never give in, mr. thomas. thomas. you must not be fretting, that is very pat for you. look you, there iss hartly any mans for supporting him now, but the engineers and george rous. [solemnly.] this strike is no longer going with chapel, look you! i have listened carefully, an' i have talked with her. [jan blows.] sst! i don't care what th' others say, i say that chapel means us to be stopping the trouple, that is what i make of her; and it is my opinion that this is the fery best thing for all of us. if it was n't my opinion, i ton't say but it is my opinion, look you. mrs. roberts. [trying to suppress her excitement.] i don't know what'll come to roberts, if you give in. thomas. it iss no disgrace whateffer! all that a mortal man coult do he hass tone. it iss against human nature he hass gone; fery natural any man may do that; but chapel has spoken and he must not go against her. [jan imitates the cuckoo.] ton't make that squeaking! [going to the door.] here iss my daughter come to sit with you. a fery goot day, ma'am--no fretting --rememper! [madge comes in and stands at the open door, watching the street.] madge. you'll be late, father; they're beginning. [she catches him by the sleeve.] for the love of god, stand up to him, father--this time! thomas. [detaching his sleeve with dignity.] leave me to do what's proper, girl! [he goes out. madge, in the centre of the open doorway, slowly moves in, as though before the approach of some one.] rous. [appearing in the doorway.] madge! [madge stands with her back to mrs. roberts, staring at him with her head up and her hands behind her.] rous. [who has a fierce distracted look.] madge! i'm going to the meeting. [madge, without moving, smiles contemptuously.] d' ye hear me? [they speak in quick low voices.] madge. i hear! go, and kill your own mother, if you must. [rous seizes her by both her arms. she stands rigid, with her head bent back. he releases her, and he too stands motionless.] rous. i swore to stand by roberts. i swore that! ye want me to go back on what i've sworn. madge. [with slow soft mockery.] you are a pretty lover! rous. madge! madge. [smiling.] i've heard that lovers do what their girls ask them-- [jan sounds the cuckoo's notes] --but that's not true, it seems! rous. you'd make a blackleg of me! madge. [with her eyes half-closed.] do it for me! rous. [dashing his hand across his brow.] damn! i can't! madge. [swiftly.] do it for me! rous. [through his teeth.] don't play the wanton with me! madge. [with a movement of her hand towards jan--quick and low.] i would be that for the children's sake! rous. [in a fierce whisper.] madge! oh, madge! madge. [with soft mockery.] but you can't break your word for me! rous. [with a choke.] then, begod, i can! [he turns and rushes off.] [madge stands, with a faint smile on her face, looking after him. she turns to mrs. roberts.] madge. i have done for roberts! mrs. roberts. [scornfully.] done for my man, with that----! [she sinks back.] madge. [running to her, and feeling her hands.] you're as cold as a stone! you want a drop of brandy. jan, run to the "lion"; say, i sent you for mrs. roberts. mrs. roberts. [with a feeble movement.] i'll just sit quiet, madge. give jan--his--tea. madge. [giving jan a slice of bread.] there, ye little rascal. hold your piping. [going to the fire, she kneels.] it's going out. mrs. roberts. [with a faint smile.] 't is all the same! [jan begins to blow his whistle.] madge. tsht! tsht!--you [jan stops.] mrs. roberts. [smiling.] let 'im play, madge. madge. [on her knees at the fire, listening.] waiting an' waiting. i've no patience with it; waiting an' waiting--that's what a woman has to do! can you hear them at it--i can! [jan begins again to play his whistle; madge gets up; half tenderly she ruffles his hair; then, sitting, leans her elbows on the table, and her chin on her hands. behind her, on mrs. roberts's face the smile has changed to horrified surprise. she makes a sudden movement, sitting forward, pressing her hands against her breast. then slowly she sinks' back; slowly her face loses the look of pain, the smile returns. she fixes her eyes again on jan, and moves her lips and finger to the tune.] the curtain falls. scene ii it is past four. in a grey, failing light, an open muddy space is crowded with workmen. beyond, divided from it by a barbed-wire fence, is the raised towing-path of a canal, on which is moored a barge. in the distance are marshes and snow-covered hills. the "works" high wall runs from the canal across the open space, and ivy the angle of this wall is a rude platform of barrels and boards. on it, harness is standing. roberts, a little apart from the crowd, leans his back against the wall. on the raised towing-path two bargemen lounge and smoke indifferently. harness. [holding out his hand.] well, i've spoken to you straight. if i speak till to-morrow i can't say more. jago. [a dark, sallow, spanish-looking man with a short, thin beard.] mister, want to ask you! can they get blacklegs? bulgin. [menacing.] let 'em try. [there are savage murmurs from the crowd.] brown. [a round-faced man.] where could they get 'em then? evans. [a small, restless, harassed man, with a fighting face.] there's always blacklegs; it's the nature of 'em. there's always men that'll save their own skins. [another savage murmur. there is a movement, and old thomas, joining the crowd, takes his stand in front.] harness. [holding up his hand.] they can't get them. but that won't help you. now men, be reasonable. your demands would have brought on us the burden of a dozen strikes at a time when we were not prepared for them. the unions live by justice, not to one, but all. any fair man will tell you--you were ill-advised! i don't say you go too far for that which you're entitled to, but you're going too far for the moment; you've dug a pit for yourselves. are you to stay there, or are you to climb out? come! lewis. [a clean-cut welshman with a dark moustache.] you've hit it, mister! which is it to be? [another movement in the crowd, and rous, coming quickly, takes his stand next thomas.] harness. cut your demands to the right pattern, and we 'll see you through; refuse, and don't expect me to waste my time coming down here again. i 'm not the sort that speaks at random, as you ought to know by this time. if you're the sound men i take you for--no matter who advises you against it--[he fixes his eyes on roberts] you 'll make up your minds to come in, and trust to us to get your terms. which is it to be? hands together, and victory--or--the starvation you've got now? [a prolonged murmur from the crowd.] jago. [sullenly.] talk about what you know. harness. [lifting his voice above the murmur.] know? [with cold passion.] all that you've been through, my friend, i 've been through--i was through it when i was no bigger than [pointing to a youth] that shaver there; the unions then were n't what they are now. what's made them strong? it's hands together that 's made them strong. i 've been through it all, i tell you, the brand's on my soul yet. i know what you 've suffered--there's nothing you can tell me that i don't know; but the whole is greater than the part, and you are only the part. stand by us, and we will stand by you. [quartering them with his eyes, he waits. the murmuring swells; the men form little groups. green, bulgin, and lewis talk together.] lewis. speaks very sensible, the union chap. green. [quietly.] ah! if i 'd a been listened to, you'd 'ave 'eard sense these two months past. [the bargemen are seen laughing. ] lewis. [pointing.] look at those two blanks over the fence there! bulgin. [with gloomy violence.] they'd best stop their cackle, or i 'll break their jaws. jago. [suddenly.] you say the furnace men's paid enough? harness. i did not say they were paid enough; i said they were paid as much as the furnace men in similar works elsewhere. evans. that's a lie! [hubbub.] what about harper's? harness. [with cold irony.] you may look at home for lies, my man. harper's shifts are longer, the pay works out the same. henry rous. [a dark edition of his brother george.] will ye support us in double pay overtime saturdays? harness. yes, we will. jago. what have ye done with our subscriptions? harness. [coldly.] i have told you what we will do with them. evans. ah! will, it's always will! ye'd have our mates desert us. [hubbub.] bulgin. [shouting.] hold your row! [evans looks round angrily.] harness. [lifting his voice.] those who know their right hands from their lefts know that the unions are neither thieves nor traitors. i 've said my say. figure it out, my lads; when you want me you know where i shall be. [he jumps down, the crowd gives way, he passes through them, and goes away. a bargeman looks after him jerking his pipe with a derisive gesture. the men close up in groups, and many looks are cast at roberts, who stands alone against the wall.] evans. he wants ye to turn blacklegs, that's what he wants. he wants ye to go back on us. sooner than turn blackleg--i 'd starve, i would. bulgin. who's talkin' o' blacklegs--mind what you're saying, will you? blacksmith. [a youth with yellow hair and huge arms.] what about the women? evans. they can stand what we can stand, i suppose, can't they? blacksmith. ye've no wife? evans. an' don't want one! thomas. [raising his voice.] aye! give us the power to come to terms with london, lads. davies. [a dark, slow-fly, gloomy man.] go up the platform, if you got anything to say, go up an' say it. [there are cries of "thomas!" he is pushed towards the platform; he ascends it with difficulty, and bares his head, waiting for silence. a hush.] red-haired youth. [suddenly.] coot old thomas! [a hoarse laugh; the bargemen exchange remarks; a hush again, and thomas begins speaking.] thomas. we are all in the tepth together, and it iss nature that has put us there. henry rous. it's london put us there! evans. it's the union. thomas. it iss not lonton; nor it iss not the union--it iss nature. it iss no disgrace whateffer to a potty to give in to nature. for this nature iss a fery pig thing; it is pigger than what a man is. there iss more years to my hett than to the hett of any one here. it is fery pat, look you, this going against nature. it is pat to make other potties suffer, when there is nothing to pe cot py it. [a laugh. thomas angrily goes on.] what are ye laughing at? it is pat, i say! we are fighting for a principle; there is no potty that shall say i am not a peliever in principle. putt when nature says "no further," then it is no coot snapping your fingers in her face. [a laugh from roberts, and murmurs of approval.] this nature must pe humort. it is a man's pisiness to pe pure, honest, just, and merciful. that's what chapel tells you. [to roberts, angrily.] and, look you, david roberts, chapel tells you ye can do that without going against nature. jago. what about the union? thomas. i ton't trust the union; they haf treated us like tirt. "do what we tell you," said they. i haf peen captain of the furnace-men twenty years, and i say to the union--[excitedly]--"can you tell me then, as well as i can tell you, what iss the right wages for the work that these men do?" for fife and twenty years i haf paid my moneys to the union and--[with great excitement]--for nothings! what iss that but roguery, for all that this mr. harness says! evans. hear, hear. henry rous. get on with you! cut on with it then! thomas. look you, if a man toes not trust me, am i going to trust him? jago. that's right. thomas. let them alone for rogues, and act for ourselves. [murmurs.] blacksmith. that's what we been doin', haven't we? thomas. [with increased excitement.] i wass brought up to do for meself. i wass brought up to go without a thing, if i hat not moneys to puy it. there iss too much, look you, of doing things with other people's moneys. we haf fought fair, and if we haf peen beaten, it iss no fault of ours. gif us the power to make terms with london for ourself; if we ton't succeed, i say it iss petter to take our peating like men, than to tie like togs, or hang on to others' coat-tails to make them do our pisiness for us! evans. [muttering.] who wants to? thomas. [craning.] what's that? if i stand up to a potty, and he knocks me town, i am not to go hollering to other potties to help me; i am to stand up again; and if he knocks me town properly, i am to stay there, is n't that right? [laughter.] jago. no union! henry rous. union! [murmurs.] [others take up the shout.] evans. blacklegs! [bulgin and the blacksmith shake their fists at evans.] thomas. [with a gesture.] i am an olt man, look you. [a sudden silence, then murmurs again.] lewis. olt fool, with his "no union!" bulgin. them furnace chaps! for twopence i 'd smash the faces o' the lot of them. green. if i'd a been listened to at the first! thomas. [wiping his brow.] i'm comin' now to what i was going to say---- davies. [muttering.] an' time too! thomas. [solemnly.] chapel says: ton't carry on this strife! put an end to it! jago. that's a lie! chapel says go on! thomas. [scornfully.] inteet! i haf ears to my head. red-haired youth. ah! long ones! [a laugh.] jago. your ears have misbeled you then. thomas. [excitedly.] ye cannot be right if i am, ye cannot haf it both ways. red-haired youth. chapel can though! ["the shaver" laughs; there are murmurs from the crowd.] thomas. [fixing his eyes on "the shaver."] ah! ye 're going the roat to tamnation. an' so i say to all of you. if ye co against chapel i will not pe with you, nor will any other got-fearing man. [he steps down from the platform. jago makes his way towards it. there are cries of "don't let 'im go up!"] jago. don't let him go up? that's free speech, that is. [he goes up.] i ain't got much to say to you. look at the matter plain; ye 've come the road this far, and now you want to chuck the journey. we've all been in one boat; and now you want to pull in two. we engineers have stood by you; ye 're ready now, are ye, to give us the go-by? if we'd aknown that before, we'd not a-started out with you so early one bright morning! that's all i 've got to say. old man thomas a'n't got his bible lesson right. if you give up to london, or to harness, now, it's givin' us the chuck--to save your skins--you won't get over that, my boys; it's a dirty thing to do. [he gets down; during his little speech, which is ironically spoken, there is a restless discomfort in the crowd. rous, stepping forward, jumps on the platform. he has an air of fierce distraction. sullen murmurs of disapproval from the crowd.] rous. [speaking with great excitement.] i'm no blanky orator, mates, but wot i say is drove from me. what i say is yuman nature. can a man set an' see 'is mother starve? can 'e now? roberts. [starting forward.] rous! rous. [staring at him fiercely.] sim 'arness said fair! i've changed my mind! roberts. ah! turned your coat you mean! [the crowd manifests a great surprise.] lewis. [apostrophising rous.] hallo! what's turned him round? rous. [speaking with intense excitement.] 'e said fair. "stand by us," 'e said, "and we'll stand by you." that's where we've been makin' our mistake this long time past; and who's to blame fort? [he points at roberts] that man there! "no," 'e said, "fight the robbers," 'e said, "squeeze the breath out o' them!" but it's not the breath out o' them that's being squeezed; it's the breath out of us and ours, and that's the book of truth. i'm no orator, mates, it's the flesh and blood in me that's speakin', it's the heart o' me. [with a menacing, yet half-ashamed movement towards roberts.] he'll speak to you again, mark my words, but don't ye listen. [the crowd groans.] it's hell fire that's on that man's tongue. [roberts is seen laughing.] sim 'arness is right. what are we without the union--handful o' parched leaves--a puff o' smoke. i'm no orator, but i say: chuck it up! chuck it up! sooner than go on starving the women and the children. [the murmurs of acquiescence almost drown the murmurs of dissent.] evans. what's turned you to blacklegging? rous. [with a furious look.] sim 'arness knows what he's talking about. give us power to come to terms with london; i'm no orator, but i say--have done wi' this black misery! [he gives his muter a twist, jerks his head back, and jumps off the platform. the crowd applauds and surges forward. amid cries of "that's enough!" "up union!" "up harness!" roberts quietly ascends the platform. there is a moment of silence.] blacksmith. we don't want to hear you. shut it! henry rous. get down! [amid such cries they surge towards the platform.] evans. [fiercely.] let 'im speak! roberts! roberts! bulgin. [muttering.] he'd better look out that i don't crack his skull. [roberts faces the crowd, probing them with his eyes till they gradually become silent. he begins speaking. one of the bargemen rises and stands.] roberts. you don't want to hear me, then? you'll listen to rous and to that old man, but not to me. you'll listen to sim harness of the union that's treated you so fair; maybe you'll listen to those men from london? ah! you groan! what for? you love their feet on your necks, don't you? [then as bulgin elbows his way towards the platform, with calm bathos.] you'd like to break my jaw, john bulgin. let me speak, then do your smashing, if it gives you pleasure. [bulgin stands motionless and sullen.] am i a liar, a coward, a traitor? if only i were, ye'd listen to me, i'm sure. [the murmurings cease, and there is now dead silence.] is there a man of you here that has less to gain by striking? is there a man of you that had more to lose? is there a man of you that has given up eight hundred pounds since this trouble here began? come now, is there? how much has thomas given up--ten pounds or five, or what? you listened to him, and what had he to say? "none can pretend," he said, "that i'm not a believer in principle--[with biting irony]--but when nature says: 'no further, 't es going agenst nature.'" i tell you if a man cannot say to nature: "budge me from this if ye can!"-- [with a sort of exaltation] his principles are but his belly. "oh, but," thomas says, "a man can be pure and honest, just and merciful, and take off his hat to nature!" i tell you nature's neither pure nor honest, just nor merciful. you chaps that live over the hill, an' go home dead beat in the dark on a snowy night--don't ye fight your way every inch of it? do ye go lyin' down an' trustin' to the tender mercies of this merciful nature? try it and you'll soon know with what ye've got to deal. 't es only by that--[he strikes a blow with his clenched fist]--in nature's face that a man can be a man. "give in," says thomas, "go down on your knees; throw up your foolish fight, an' perhaps," he said, "perhaps your enemy will chuck you down a crust." jago. never! evans. curse them! thomas. i nefer said that. roberts. [bitingly.] if ye did not say it, man, ye meant it. an' what did ye say about chapel? "chapel's against it," ye said. "she 's against it!" well, if chapel and nature go hand in hand, it's the first i've ever heard of it. that young man there-- [pointing to rous]--said i 'ad 'ell fire on my tongue. if i had i would use it all to scorch and wither this talking of surrender. surrendering 's the work of cowards and traitors. henry rous. [as george rous moves forward.] go for him, george-- don't stand his lip! roberts. [flinging out his finger.] stop there, george rous, it's no time this to settle personal matters. [rous stops.] but there was one other spoke to you--mr. simon harness. we have not much to thank mr. harness and the union for. they said to us "desert your mates, or we'll desert you." an' they did desert us. evans. they did. roberts. mr. simon harness is a clever man, but he has come too late. [with intense conviction.] for all that mr. simon harness says, for all that thomas, rous, for all that any man present here can say--we've won the fight! [the crowd sags nearer, looking eagerly up.] [with withering scorn.] you've felt the pinch o't in your bellies. you've forgotten what that fight 'as been; many times i have told you; i will tell you now this once again. the fight o' the country's body and blood against a blood-sucker. the fight of those that spend themselves with every blow they strike and every breath they draw, against a thing that fattens on them, and grows and grows by the law of merciful nature. that thing is capital! a thing that buys the sweat o' men's brows, and the tortures o' their brains, at its own price. don't i know that? wasn't the work o' my brains bought for seven hundred pounds, and has n't one hundred thousand pounds been gained them by that seven hundred without the stirring of a finger. it is a thing that will take as much and give you as little as it can. that's capital! a thing that will say--"i'm very sorry for you, poor fellows--you have a cruel time of it, i know," but will not give one sixpence of its dividends to help you have a better time. that's capital! tell me, for all their talk, is there one of them that will consent to another penny on the income tax to help the poor? that's capital! a white-faced, stony-hearted monster! ye have got it on its knees; are ye to give up at the last minute to save your miserable bodies pain? when i went this morning to those old men from london, i looked into their very 'earts. one of them was sitting there--mr. scantlebury, a mass of flesh nourished on us: sittin' there for all the world like the shareholders in this company, that sit not moving tongue nor finger, takin' dividends a great dumb ox that can only be roused when its food is threatened. i looked into his eyes and i saw he was afraid--afraid for himself and his dividends; afraid for his fees, afraid of the very shareholders he stands for; and all but one of them's afraid--like children that get into a wood at night, and start at every rustle of the leaves. i ask you, men--[he pauses, holding out his hand till there is utter silence]--give me a free hand to tell them: "go you back to london. the men have nothing for you!" [a murmuring.] give me that, an' i swear to you, within a week you shall have from london all you want. evans, jago, and others. a free hand! give him a free hand! bravo --bravo! roberts. 't is not for this little moment of time we're fighting [the murmuring dies], not for ourselves, our own little bodies, and their wants, 't is for all those that come after throughout all time. [with intense sadness.] oh! men--for the love o' them, don't roll up another stone upon their heads, don't help to blacken the sky, an' let the bitter sea in over them. they're welcome to the worst that can happen to me, to the worst that can happen to us all, are n't they--are n't they? if we can shake [passionately] that white-faced monster with the bloody lips, that has sucked the life out of ourselves, our wives, and children, since the world began. [dropping the note of passion but with the utmost weight and intensity.] if we have not the hearts of men to stand against it breast to breast, and eye to eye, and force it backward till it cry for mercy, it will go on sucking life; and we shall stay forever what we are [in almost a whisper], less than the very dogs. [an utter stillness, and roberts stands rocking his body slightly, with his eyes burning the faces of the crowd.] evans and jago. [suddenly.] roberts! [the shout is taken up.] [there is a slight movement in the crowd, and madge passing below the towing-path, stops by the platform, looking up at roberts. a sudden doubting silence.] roberts. "nature," says that old man, "give in to nature." i tell you, strike your blow in nature's face--an' let it do its worst! [he catches sight of madge, his brows contract, he looks away.] madge. [in a low voice-close to the platform.] your wife's dying! [roberts glares at her as if torn from some pinnacle of exaltation.] roberts. [trying to stammer on.] i say to you--answer them--answer them---- [he is drowned by the murmur in the crowd.] thomas. [stepping forward.] ton't you hear her, then? roberts. what is it? [a dead silence.] thomas. your wife, man! [roberts hesitates, then with a gesture, he leaps down, and goes away below the towing-path, the men making way for him. the standing bargeman opens and prepares to light a lantern. daylight is fast failing.] madge. he need n't have hurried! annie roberts is dead. [then in the silence, passionately.] you pack of blinded hounds! how many more women are you going to let to die? [the crowd shrinks back from her, and breaks up in groups, with a confused, uneasy movement. madge goes quickly away below the towing-path. there is a hush as they look after her.] lewis. there's a spitfire, for ye! bulgin. [growling.] i'll smash 'er jaw. green. if i'd a-been listened to, that poor woman---- thomas. it's a judgment on him for going against chapel. i tolt him how 't would be! evans. all the more reason for sticking by 'im. [a cheer.] are you goin' to desert him now 'e 's down? are you going to chuck him over, now 'e 's lost 'is wife? [the crowd is murmuring and cheering all at once.] rous. [stepping in front of platform.] lost his wife! aye! can't ye see? look at home, look at your own wives! what's to save them? ye'll have the same in all your houses before long! lewis. aye, aye! henry rous. right! george, right! [there are murmurs of assent.] rous. it's not us that's blind, it's roberts. how long will ye put up with 'im! henry, rous, bulgin, davies. give 'im the chuck! [the cry is taken up.] evans. [fiercely.] kick a man that's down? down? henry rous. stop his jaw there! [evans throws up his arm at a threat from bulgin. the bargeman, who has lighted the lantern, holds it high above his head.] rous. [springing on to the platform.] what brought him down then, but 'is own black obstinacy? are ye goin' to follow a man that can't see better than that where he's goin'? evans. he's lost 'is wife. rous. an' who's fault's that but his own. 'ave done with 'im, i say, before he's killed your own wives and mothers. davies. down 'im! henry rous. he's finished! brown. we've had enough of 'im! blacksmith. too much! [the crowd takes up these cries, excepting only evans, jago, and green, who is seen to argue mildly with the blacksmith.] rous. [above the hubbub.] we'll make terms with the union, lads. [cheers.] evans. [fiercely.] ye blacklegs! bulgin. [savagely-squaring up to him.] who are ye callin' blacklegs, rat? [evans throws up his fists, parries the blow, and returns it. they fight. the bargemen are seen holding up the lantern and enjoying the sight. old thomas steps forward and holds out his hands.] thomas. shame on your strife! [the blacksmith, brown, lewis, and the red-haired youth pull evans and bulgin apart. the stage is almost dark.] the curtain falls. act iii it is five o'clock. in the underwoods' drawing-room, which is artistically furnished, enid is sitting on the sofa working at a baby's frock. edgar, by a little spindle-legged table in the centre of the room, is fingering a china-box. his eyes are fixed on the double-doors that lead into the dining-room. edgar. [putting down the china-box, and glancing at his watch.] just on five, they're all in there waiting, except frank. where's he? enid. he's had to go down to gasgoyne's about a contract. will you want him? edgar. he can't help us. this is a director's job. [motioning towards a single door half hidden by a curtain.] father in his room? enid. yes. edgar. i wish he'd stay there, enid. [enid looks up at him. this is a beastly business, old girl?] [he takes up the little box again and turns it over and over.] enid. i went to the roberts's this afternoon, ted. edgar. that was n't very wise. enid. he's simply killing his wife. edgar. we are you mean. enid. [suddenly.] roberts ought to give way! edgar. there's a lot to be said on the men's side. enid. i don't feel half so sympathetic with them as i did before i went. they just set up class feeling against you. poor annie was looking dread fully bad--fire going out, and nothing fit for her to eat. [edgar walks to and fro.] but she would stand up for roberts. when you see all this wretchedness going on and feel you can do nothing, you have to shut your eyes to the whole thing. edgar. if you can. enid. when i went i was all on their side, but as soon as i got there i began to feel quite different at once. people talk about sympathy with the working classes, they don't know what it means to try and put it into practice. it seems hopeless. edgar. ah! well. enid. it's dreadful going on with the men in this state. i do hope the dad will make concessions. edgar. he won't. [gloomily.] it's a sort of religion with him. curse it! i know what's coming! he'll be voted down. enid. they would n't dare! edgar. they will--they're in a funk. enid. [indignantly.] he'd never stand it! edgar. [with a shrug.] my dear girl, if you're beaten in a vote, you've got to stand it. enid. oh! [she gets up in alarm.] but would he resign? edgar. of course! it goes to the roots of his beliefs. enid. but he's so wrapped up in this company, ted! there'd be nothing left for him! it'd be dreadful! [edgar shrugs his shoulders.] oh, ted, he's so old now! you must n't let them! edgar. [hiding his feelings in an outburst.] my sympathies in this strike are all on the side of the men. enid. he's been chairman for more than thirty years! he made the whole thing! and think of the bad times they've had; it's always been he who pulled them through. oh, ted, you must! edgar. what is it you want? you said just now you hoped he'd make concessions. now you want me to back him in not making them. this is n't a game, enid! enid. [hotly.] it is n't a game to me that the dad's in danger of losing all he cares about in life. if he won't give way, and he's beaten, it'll simply break him down! edgar. did n't you say it was dreadful going on with the men in this state? enid. but can't you see, ted, father'll never get over it! you must stop them somehow. the others are afraid of him. if you back him up---- edgar. [putting his hand to his head.] against my convictions-- against yours! the moment it begins to pinch one personally---- enid. it is n't personal, it's the dad! edgar. your family or yourself, and over goes the show! enid. [resentfully.] if you don't take it seriously, i do. edgar. i am as fond of him as you are; that's nothing to do with it. enid. we can't tell about the men; it's all guess-work. but we know the dad might have a stroke any day. d' you mean to say that he isn't more to you than---- edgar. of course he is. enid. i don't understand you then. edgar. h'm! enid. if it were for oneself it would be different, but for our own father! you don't seem to realise. edgar. i realise perfectly. enid. it's your first duty to save him. edgar. i wonder. enid. [imploring.] oh, ted? it's the only interest he's got left; it'll be like a death-blow to him! edgar. [restraining his emotion.] i know. enid. promise! edgar. i'll do what i can. [he turns to the double-doors.] [the curtained door is opened, and anthony appears. edgar opens the double-doors, and passes through.] [scantlebury's voice is faintly heard: "past five; we shall never get through--have to eat another dinner at that hotel!" the doors are shut. anthony walks forward.] anthony. you've been seeing roberts, i hear. enid. yes. anthony. do you know what trying to bridge such a gulf as this is like? [enid puts her work on the little table, and faces him.] filling a sieve with sand! enid. don't! anthony. you think with your gloved hands you can cure the trouble of the century. [he passes on. ] enid. father! [anthony stops at the double doors.] i'm only thinking of you! anthony. [more softly.] i can take care of myself, my dear. enid. have you thought what'll happen if you're beaten-- [she points]--in there? anthony. i don't mean to be. enid. oh! father, don't give them a chance. you're not well; need you go to the meeting at all? anthony. [with a grim smile.] cut and run? enid. but they'll out-vote you! anthony. [putting his hand on the doors.] we shall see! enid. i beg you, dad! won't you? [anthony looks at her softly.] [anthony shakes his head. he opens the doors. a buzz of voices comes in.] scantlebury. can one get dinner on that . train up? tench. no, sir, i believe not, sir. wilder. well, i shall speak out; i've had enough of this. edgar. [sharply.] what? [it ceases instantly. anthony passes through, closing the doors behind him. enid springs to them with a gesture of dismay. she puts her hand on the knob, and begins turning it; then goes to the fireplace, and taps her foot on the fender. suddenly she rings the bell. frost comes in by the door that leads into the hall.] frost. yes, m'm? enid. when the men come, frost, please show them in here; the hall 's cold. frost. i could put them in the pantry, m'm. enid. no. i don't want to--to offend them; they're so touchy. frost. yes, m'm. [pause.] excuse me, mr. anthony's 'ad nothing to eat all day. enid. i know frost. frost. nothin' but two whiskies and sodas, m'm. enid. oh! you oughtn't to have let him have those. frost. [gravely.] mr. anthony is a little difficult, m'm. it's not as if he were a younger man, an' knew what was good for 'im; he will have his own way. enid. i suppose we all want that. frost. yes, m'm. [quietly.] excuse me speakin' about the strike. i'm sure if the other gentlemen were to give up to mr. anthony, and quietly let the men 'ave what they want, afterwards, that'd be the best way. i find that very useful with him at times, m'm. [enid shakes hey head.] if he's crossed, it makes him violent [with an air of discovery], and i've noticed in my own case, when i'm violent i'm always sorry for it afterwards. enid. [with a smile.] are you ever violent, frost? frost. yes, m'm; oh! sometimes very violent. enid. i've never seen you. frost. [impersonally.] no, m'm; that is so. [enid fidgets towards the back of the door.] [with feeling.] bein' with mr. anthony, as you know, m'm, ever since i was fifteen, it worries me to see him crossed like this at his age. i've taken the liberty to speak to mr. wanklin [dropping his voice]-- seems to be the most sensible of the gentlemen--but 'e said to me: "that's all very well, frost, but this strike's a very serious thing," 'e said. "serious for all parties, no doubt," i said, "but yumour 'im, sir," i said, "yumour 'im. it's like this, if a man comes to a stone wall, 'e does n't drive 'is 'ead against it, 'e gets over it." "yes," 'e said, "you'd better tell your master that." [frost looks at his nails.] that's where it is, m'm. i said to mr. anthony this morning: "is it worth it, sir?" "damn it," he said to me, "frost! mind your own business, or take a month's notice!" beg pardon, m'm, for using such a word. enid. [moving to the double-doors, and listening.] do you know that man roberts, frost? frost. yes, m'm; that's to say, not to speak to. but to look at 'im you can tell what he's like. enid. [stopping.] yes? frost. he's not one of these 'ere ordinary 'armless socialists. 'e's violent; got a fire inside 'im. what i call "personal." a man may 'ave what opinions 'e likes, so long as 'e 's not personal; when 'e 's that 'e 's not safe. enid. i think that's what my father feels about roberts. frost. no doubt, m'm, mr. anthony has a feeling against him. [enid glances at him sharply, but finding him in perfect earnest, stands biting her lips, and looking at the double-doors.] it 's, a regular right down struggle between the two. i've no patience with this roberts, from what i 'ear he's just an ordinary workin' man like the rest of 'em. if he did invent a thing he's no worse off than 'undreds of others. my brother invented a new kind o' dumb-waiter--nobody gave him anything for it, an' there it is, bein' used all over the place. [enid moves closer to the double-doors.] there's a kind o' man that never forgives the world, because 'e wasn't born a gentleman. what i say is--no man that's a gentleman looks down on another because 'e 'appens to be a class or two above 'im, no more than if 'e 'appens to be a class or two below. enid. [with slight impatience.] yes, i know, frost, of course. will you please go in and ask if they'll have some tea; say i sent you. frost. yes, m'm. [he opens the doors gently and goes in. there is a momentary sound of earnest, gather angry talk.] wilder. i don't agree with you. wanklin. we've had this over a dozen times. edgar. [impatiently.] well, what's the proposition? scantlebury. yes, what does your father say? tea? not for me, not for me! wanklin. what i understand the chairman to say is this---- [frost re-enters closing the door behind him.] enid. [moving from the door.] won't they have any tea, frost? [she goes to the little table, and remains motionless, looking at the baby's frock.] [a parlourmaid enters from the hall.] parlourmaid. a miss thomas, m'm enid. [raising her head.] thomas? what miss thomas--d' you mean a----? parlourmaid. yes, m'm. enid. [blankly.] oh! where is she? parlourmaid. in the porch. enid. i don't want----[she hesitates.] frost. shall i dispose of her, m'm? enid. i 'll come out. no, show her in here, ellen. [the parlour maid and frost go out. enid pursing her lips, sits at the little table, taking up the baby's frock. the parlourmaid ushers in madge thomas and goes out; madge stands by the door.] enid. come in. what is it. what have you come for, please? madge. brought a message from mrs. roberts. enid. a message? yes. madge. she asks you to look after her mother. enid. i don't understand. madge. [sullenly.] that's the message. enid. but--what--why? madge. annie roberts is dead. [there is a silence.] enid. [horrified.] but it's only a little more than an hour since i saw her. madge. of cold and hunger. enid. [rising.] oh! that's not true! the poor thing's heart---- what makes you look at me like that? i tried to help her. madge. [with suppressed savagery.] i thought you'd like to know. enid. [passionately.] it's so unjust! can't you see that i want to help you all? madge. i never harmed any one that had n't harmed me first. enid. [coldly.] what harm have i done you? why do you speak to me like that? madge. [with the bitterest intensity.] you come out of your comfort to spy on us! a week of hunger, that's what you want! enid. [standing her ground.] don't talk nonsense! madge. i saw her die; her hands were blue with the cold. enid. [with a movement of grief.] oh! why wouldn't she let me help her? it's such senseless pride! madge. pride's better than nothing to keep your body warm. enid. [passionately.] i won't talk to you! how can you tell what i feel? it's not my fault that i was born better off than you. madge. we don't want your money. enid. you don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go away! madge. [balefully.] you've killed her, for all your soft words, you and your father! enid. [with rage and emotion.] that's wicked! my father is suffering himself through this wretched strike. madge. [with sombre triumph.] then tell him mrs. roberts is dead! that 'll make him better. enid. go away! madge. when a person hurts us we get it back on them. [she makes a sudden and swift movement towards enid, fixing her eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. enid snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. they stand a yard apart, crossing glances.] madge. [pointing to the frock with a little smile.] ah! you felt that! lucky it's her mother--not her children--you've to look after, is n't it. she won't trouble you long! enid. go away! madge. i've given you the message. [she turns and goes out into the hall. enid, motionless till she has gone, sinks down at the table, bending her head over the frock, which she is still clutching to her. the double-doors are opened, and anthony comes slowly in; he passes his daughter, and lowers himself into an arm-chair. he is very flushed.] enid. [hiding her emotion-anxiously.] what is it, dad? [anthony makes a gesture, but does not speak.] who was it? [anthony does not answer. enid going to the double-doors meets edgar coming in. they speak together in low tones.] what is it, ted? edgar. that fellow wilder! taken to personalities! he was downright insulting. enid. what did he say? edgar. said, father was too old and feeble to know what he was doing! the dad's worth six of him! enid. of course he is. [they look at anthony.] [the doors open wider, wanklin appears with scantlebury.] scantlebury. [sotto voce.] i don't like the look of this! wanklin. [going forward.] come, chairman! wilder sends you his apologies. a man can't do more. [wilder, followed by tench, comes in, and goes to anthony.] wilder. [glumly.] i withdraw my words, sir. i'm sorry. [anthony nods to him.] enid. you have n't come to a decision, mr. wanklin? [wanklin shakes his head.] wanklin. we're all here, chairman; what do you say? shall we get on with the business, or shall we go back to the other room? scantlebury. yes, yes; let's get on. we must settle something. [he turns from a small chair, and settles himself suddenly in the largest chair with a sigh of comfort.] [wilder and wanklin also sit; and tench, drawing up a straight-backed chair close to his chairman, sits on the edge of it with the minute-book and a stylographic pen.] enid. [whispering.] i want to speak to you a minute, ted. [they go out through the double-doors.] wanklin. really, chairman, it's no use soothing ourselves with a sense of false security. if this strike's not brought to an end before the general meeting, the shareholders will certainly haul us over the coals. scantlebury. [stirring.] what--what's that? wanklin. i know it for a fact. anthony. let them! wilder. and get turned out? wanklin. [to anthony.] i don't mind martyrdom for a policy in which i believe, but i object to being burnt for some one else's principles. scantlebury. very reasonable--you must see that, chairman. anthony. we owe it to other employers to stand firm. wanklin. there's a limit to that. anthony. you were all full of fight at the start. scantlebury. [with a sort of groan.] we thought the men would give in, but they-have n't! anthony. they will! wilder. [rising and pacing up and down.] i can't have my reputation as a man of business destroyed for the satisfaction of starving the men out. [almost in tears.] i can't have it! how can we meet the shareholders with things in the state they are? scantlebury. hear, hear--hear, hear! wilder. [lashing himself.] if any one expects me to say to them i've lost you fifty thousand pounds and sooner than put my pride in my pocket i'll lose you another. [glancing at anthony.] it's--it's unnatural! i don't want to go against you, sir. wanklin. [persuasively.] come chairman, we 're not free agents. we're part of a machine. our only business is to see the company earns as much profit as it safely can. if you blame me for want of principle: i say that we're trustees. reason tells us we shall never get back in the saving of wages what we shall lose if we continue this struggle--really, chairman, we must bring it to an end, on the best terms we can make. anthony. no. [there is a pause of general dismay.] wilder. it's a deadlock then. [letting his hands drop with a sort of despair.] now i shall never get off to spain! wanklin. [retaining a trace of irony.] you hear the consequences of your victory, chairman? wilder. [with a burst of feeling.] my wife's ill! scantlebury. dear, dear! you don't say so. wilder. if i don't get her out of this cold, i won't answer for the consequences. [through the double-doors edgar comes in looking very grave.] edgar. [to his father.] have you heard this, sir? mrs. roberts is dead! [every one stages at him, as if trying to gauge the importance of this news.] enid saw her this afternoon, she had no coals, or food, or anything. it's enough! [there is a silence, every one avoiding the other's eyes, except anthony, who stares hard at his son.] scantlebury. you don't suggest that we could have helped the poor thing? wilder. [flustered.] the woman was in bad health. nobody can say there's any responsibility on us. at least--not on me. edgar. [hotly.] i say that we are responsible. anthony. war is war! edgar. not on women! wanklin. it not infrequently happens that women are the greatest sufferers. edgar. if we knew that, all the more responsibility rests on us. anthony. this is no matter for amateurs. edgar. call me what you like, sir. it's sickened me. we had no right to carry things to such a length. wilder. i don't like this business a bit--that radical rag will twist it to their own ends; see if they don't! they'll get up some cock and bull story about the poor woman's dying from starvation. i wash my hands of it. edgar. you can't. none of us can. scantlebury. [striking his fist on the arm of his chair.] but i protest against this! edgar. protest as you like, mr. scantlebury, it won't alter facts. anthony. that's enough. edgar. [facing him angrily.] no, sir. i tell you exactly what i think. if we pretend the men are not suffering, it's humbug; and if they're suffering, we know enough of human nature to know the women are suffering more, and as to the children--well--it's damnable! [scantlebury rises from his chair.] i don't say that we meant to be cruel, i don't say anything of the sort; but i do say it's criminal to shut our eyes to the facts. we employ these men, and we can't get out of it. i don't care so much about the men, but i'd sooner resign my position on the board than go on starving women in this way. [all except anthony are now upon their feet, anthony sits grasping the arms of his chair and staring at his son.] scantlebury. i don't--i don't like the way you're putting it, young sir. wanklin. you're rather overshooting the mark. wilder. i should think so indeed! edgar. [losing control.] it's no use blinking things! if you want to have the death of women on your hands--i don't! scantlebury. now, now, young man! wilder. on our hands? not on mine, i won't have it! edgar. we are five members of this board; if we were four against it, why did we let it drift till it came to this? you know perfectly well why--because we hoped we should starve the men out. well, all we've done is to starve one woman out! scantlebury. [almost hysterically.] i protest, i protest! i'm a humane man--we're all humane men! edgar. [scornfully.] there's nothing wrong with our humanity. it's our imaginations, mr. scantlebury. wilder. nonsense! my imagination's as good as yours. edgar. if so, it is n't good enough. wilder. i foresaw this! edgar. then why didn't you put your foot down! wilder. much good that would have done. [he looks at anthony.] edgar. if you, and i, and each one of us here who say that our imaginations are so good-- scantlebury. [flurried.] i never said so. edgar. [paying no attention.]--had put our feet down, the thing would have been ended long ago, and this poor woman's life wouldn't have been crushed out of her like this. for all we can tell there may be a dozen other starving women. scantlebury. for god's sake, sir, don't use that word at a--at a board meeting; it's--it's monstrous. edgar. i will use it, mr. scantlebury. scantlebury. then i shall not listen to you. i shall not listen! it's painful to me. [he covers his ears.] wanklin. none of us are opposed to a settlement, except your father. edgar. i'm certain that if the shareholders knew---- wanklin. i don't think you'll find their imaginations are any better than ours. because a woman happens to have a weak heart---- edgar. a struggle like this finds out the weak spots in everybody. any child knows that. if it hadn't been for this cut-throat policy, she need n't have died like this; and there would n't be all this misery that any one who is n't a fool can see is going on. [throughout the foregoing anthony has eyed his son; he now moves as though to rise, but stops as edgar speaks again.] i don't defend the men, or myself, or anybody. wanklin. you may have to! a coroner's jury of disinterested sympathisers may say some very nasty things. we mustn't lose sight of our position. scantlebury. [without uncovering his ears.] coroner's jury! no, no, it's not a case for that! edgar. i 've had enough of cowardice. wanklin. cowardice is an unpleasant word, mr. edgar anthony. it will look very like cowardice if we suddenly concede the men's demands when a thing like this happens; we must be careful! wilder. of course we must. we've no knowledge of this matter, except a rumour. the proper course is to put the whole thing into the hands of harness to settle for us; that's natural, that's what we should have come to any way. scantlebury. [with dignity.] exactly! [turning to edgar.] and as to you, young sir, i can't sufficiently express my--my distaste for the way you've treated the whole matter. you ought to withdraw! talking of starvation, talking of cowardice! considering what our views are! except your own is--is one of goodwill--it's most irregular, it's most improper, and all i can say is it's--it's given me pain---- [he places his hand over his heart.] edgar. [stubbornly.] i withdraw nothing. [he is about to say mote when scantlebury once more coveys up his ears. tench suddenly makes a demonstration with the minute-book. a sense of having been engaged in the unusual comes over all of them, and one by one they resume their seats. edgar alone remains on his feet.] wilder. [with an air of trying to wipe something out.] i pay no attention to what young mr. anthony has said. coroner's jury! the idea's preposterous. i--i move this amendment to the chairman's motion: that the dispute be placed at once in the hands of mr. simon harness for settlement, on the lines indicated by him this morning. any one second that? [tench writes in his book.] wanklin. i do. wilder. very well, then; i ask the chairman to put it to the board. anthony. [with a great sigh-slowly.] we have been made the subject of an attack. [looking round at wilder and scantlebury with ironical contempt.] i take it on my shoulders. i am seventy-six years old. i have been chairman of this company since its inception two-and-thirty years ago. i have seen it pass through good and evil report. my connection with it began in the year that this young man was born. [edgar bows his head. anthony, gripping his chair, goes on.] i have had do to with "men" for fifty years; i've always stood up to them; i have never been beaten yet. i have fought the men of this company four times, and four times i have beaten them. it has been said that i am not the man i was. [he looks at wilder.] however that may be, i am man enough to stand to my guns. [his voice grows stronger. the double-doors are opened. enid slips in, followed by underwood, who restrains her.] the men have been treated justly, they have had fair wages, we have always been ready to listen to complaints. it has been said that times have changed; if they have, i have not changed with them. neither will i. it has been said that masters and men are equal! cant! there can only be one master in a house! where two men meet the better man will rule. it has been said that capital and labour have the same interests. cant! their interests are as wide asunder as the poles. it has been said that the board is only part of a machine. cant! we are the machine; its brains and sinews; it is for us to lead and to determine what is to be done, and to do it without fear or favour. fear of the men! fear of the shareholders! fear of our own shadows! before i am like that, i hope to die. [he pauses, and meeting his son's eyes, goes on.] there is only one way of treating "men"--with the iron hand. this half and half business, the half and half manners of this generation, has brought all this upon us. sentiment and softness, and what this young man, no doubt, would call his social policy. you can't eat cake and have it! this middle-class sentiment, or socialism, or whatever it may be, is rotten. masters are masters, men are men! yield one demand, and they will make it six. they are [he smiles grimly] like oliver twist, asking for more. if i were in their place i should be the same. but i am not in their place. mark my words: one fine morning, when you have given way here, and given way there--you will find you have parted with the ground beneath your feet, and are deep in the bog of bankruptcy; and with you, floundering in that bog, will be the very men you have given way to. i have been accused of being a domineering tyrant, thinking only of my pride--i am thinking of the future of this country, threatened with the black waters of confusion, threatened with mob government, threatened with what i cannot see. if by any conduct of mine i help to bring this on us, i shall be ashamed to look my fellows in the face. [anthony stares before him, at what he cannot see, and there is perfect stillness. frost comes in from the hall, and all but anthony look round at him uneasily.] frost. [to his master.] the men are here, sir. [anthony makes a gesture of dismissal.] shall i bring them in, sir? anthony. wait! [frost goes out, anthony turns to face his son.] i come to the attack that has been made upon me. [edgar, with a gesture of deprecation, remains motionless with his head a little bowed.] a woman has died. i am told that her blood is on my hands; i am told that on my hands is the starvation and the suffering of other women and of children. edgar. i said "on our hands," sir. anthony. it is the same. [his voice grows stronger and stronger, his feeling is more and more made manifest.] i am not aware that if my adversary suffer in a fair fight not sought by me, it is my fault. if i fall under his feet--as fall i may--i shall not complain. that will be my look-out--and this is--his. i cannot separate, as i would, these men from their women and children. a fair fight is a fair fight! let them learn to think before they pick a quarrel! edgar. [in a low voice.] but is it a fair fight, father? look at them, and look at us! they've only this one weapon! anthony. [grimly.] and you're weak-kneed enough to teach them how to use it! it seems the fashion nowadays for men to take their enemy's side. i have not learnt that art. is it my fault that they quarrelled with their union too? edgar. there is such a thing as mercy. anthony. and justice comes before it. edgar. what seems just to one man, sir, is injustice to another. anthony. [with suppressed passion.] you accuse me of injustice--of what amounts to inhumanity--of cruelty? [edgar makes a gesture of horror--a general frightened movement.] wanklin. come, come, chairman. anthony. [in a grim voice.] these are the words of my own son. they are the words of a generation that i don't understand; the words of a soft breed. [a general murmur. with a violent effort anthony recovers his control.] edgar. [quietly.] i said it of myself, too, father. [a long look is exchanged between them, and anthony puts out his hand with a gesture as if to sweep the personalities away; then places it against his brow, swaying as though from giddiness. there is a movement towards him. he moves them back.] anthony. before i put this amendment to the board, i have one more word to say. [he looks from face to face.] if it is carried, it means that we shall fail in what we set ourselves to do. it means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe to all capital. it means that we shall fail in the duty that we owe ourselves. it means that we shall be open to constant attack to which we as constantly shall have to yield. be under no misapprehension--run this time, and you will never make a stand again! you will have to fly like curs before the whips of your own men. if that is the lot you wish for, you will vote for this amendment. [he looks again, from face to face, finally resting his gaze on edgar; all sit with their eyes on the ground. anthony makes a gesture, and tench hands him the book. he reads.] "moved by mr. wilder, and seconded by mr. wanklin: 'that the men's demands be placed at once in the hands of mr. simon harness for settlement on the lines indicated by him this morning.'" [with sudden vigour.] those in favour: signify the same in the usual way! [for a minute no one moves; then hastily, just as anthony is about to speak, wilder's hand and wanklin's are held up, then scantlebury's, and last edgar's who does not lift his head.] [anthony lifts his own hand.] [in a clear voice.] the amendment is carried. i resign my position on this board. [enid gasps, and there is dead silence. anthony sits motionless, his head slowly drooping; suddenly he heaves as though the whole of his life had risen up within him.] contrary? fifty years! you have disgraced me, gentlemen. bring in the men! [he sits motionless, staring before him. the board draws hurriedly together, and forms a group. tench in a frightened manner speaks into the hall. underwood almost forces enid from the room.] wilder. [hurriedly.] what's to be said to them? why isn't harness here? ought we to see the men before he comes? i don't---- tench. will you come in, please? [enter thomas, green, bulgin, and rous, who file up in a row past the little table. tench sits down and writes. all eyes are foxed on anthony, who makes no sign.] wanklin. [stepping up to the little table, with nervous cordiality.] well, thomas, how's it to be? what's the result of your meeting? rous. sim harness has our answer. he'll tell you what it is. we're waiting for him. he'll speak for us. wanklin. is that so, thomas? thomas. [sullenly.] yes. roberts will not pe coming, his wife is dead. scantlebury. yes, yes! poor woman! yes! yes! frost. [entering from the hall.] mr. harness, sir! [as harness enters he retires.] [harness has a piece of paper in his hand, he bows to the directors, nods towards the men, and takes his stand behind the little table in the very centre of the room.] harness. good evening, gentlemen. [tench, with the paper he has been writing, joins him, they speak together in low tones.] wilder. we've been waiting for you, harness. hope we shall come to some---- frost. [entering from the hall.] roberts! [he goes.] [roberts comes hastily in, and stands staring at anthony. his face is drawn and old.] roberts. mr. anthony, i am afraid i am a little late, i would have been here in time but for something that--has happened. [to the men.] has anything been said? thomas. no! but, man, what made ye come? roberts. ye told us this morning, gentlemen, to go away and reconsider our position. we have reconsidered it; we are here to bring you the men's answer. [to anthony.] go ye back to london. we have nothing for you. by no jot or tittle do we abate our demands, nor will we until the whole of those demands are yielded. [anthony looks at him but does not speak. there is a movement amongst the men as though they were bewildered.] harness. roberts! roberts. [glancing fiercely at him, and back to anthony.] is that clear enough for ye? is it short enough and to the point? ye made a mistake to think that we would come to heel. ye may break the body, but ye cannot break the spirit. get back to london, the men have nothing for ye? [pausing uneasily he takes a step towards the unmoving anthony.] edgar. we're all sorry for you, roberts, but---- roberts. keep your sorrow, young man. let your father speak! harness. [with the sheet of paper in his hand, speaking from behind the little table.] roberts! robert. [to anthony, with passionate intensity.] why don't ye answer? harness. roberts! roberts. [turning sharply.] what is it? harness. [gravely.] you're talking without the book; things have travelled past you. [he makes a sign to tench, who beckons the directors. they quickly sign his copy of the terms.] look at this, man! [holding up his sheet of paper.] "demands conceded, with the exception of those relating to the engineers and furnace-men. double wages for saturday's overtime. night-shifts as they are." these terms have been agreed. the men go back to work again to-morrow. the strike is at an end. roberts. [reading the paper, and turning on the men. they shrink back from him, all but rous, who stands his ground. with deadly stillness.] ye have gone back on me? i stood by ye to the death; ye waited for that to throw me over! [the men answer, all speaking together.] rous. it's a lie! thomas. ye were past endurance, man. green. if ye'd listen to me! bulgin. (under his breath.) hold your jaw! roberts. ye waited for that! harness. [taking the director's copy of the terms, and handing his own to tench.] that's enough, men. you had better go. [the men shuffle slowly, awkwardly away.] wilder. [in a low, nervous voice.] there's nothing to stay for now, i suppose. [he follows to the door.] i shall have a try for that train! coming, scantlebury? scantlebury. [following with wanklin.] yes, yes; wait for me. [he stops as roberts speaks.] roberts. [to anthony.] but ye have not signed them terms! they can't make terms without their chairman! ye would never sign them terms! [anthony looks at him without speaking.] don't tell me ye have! for the love o' god! [with passionate appeal.] i reckoned on ye! harness. [holding out the director's copy of the teems.] the board has signed! [roberts looks dully at the signatures--dashes the paper from him, and covers up his eyes.] scantlebury. [behind his hand to tench.] look after the chairman! he's not well; he's not well--he had no lunch. if there's any fund started for the women and children, put me down for--for twenty pounds. [he goes out into the hall, in cumbrous haste; and wanklin, who has been staring at roberts and anthony with twitchings of his face, follows. edgar remains seated on the sofa, looking at the ground; tench, returning to the bureau, writes in his minute-- book. harness stands by the little table, gravely watching roberts.] roberts. then you're no longer chairman of this company! [breaking into half-mad laughter.] ah! ha-ah, ha, ha! they've thrown ye over thrown over their chairman: ah-ha-ha! [with a sudden dreadful calm.] so--they've done us both down, mr. anthony? [enid, hurrying through the double-doors, comes quickly to her father.] anthony. both broken men, my friend roberts! harness. [coming down and laying his hands on roberts's sleeve.] for shame, roberts! go home quietly, man; go home! roberts. [tearing his arm away.] home? [shrinking together--in a whisper.] home! enid. [quietly to her father.] come away, dear! come to your room [anthony rises with an effort. he turns to roberts who looks at him. they stand several seconds, gazing at each other fixedly; anthony lifts his hand, as though to salute, but lets it fall. the expression of roberts's face changes from hostility to wonder. they bend their heads in token of respect. anthony turns, and slowly walks towards the curtained door. suddenly he sways as though about to fall, recovers himself, and is assisted out by edgar and enid; underwood follows, but stops at the door. roberts remains motionless for several seconds, staring intently after anthony, then goes out into the hall.] tench. [approaching harness.] it's a great weight off my mind, mr. harness! but what a painful scene, sir! [he wipes his brow.] [harness, pale and resolute, regards with a grim half-smile the quavering.] tench. it's all been so violent! what did he mean by: "done us both down?" if he has lost his wife, poor fellow, he oughtn't to have spoken to the chairman like that! harness. a woman dead; and the two best men both broken! tench. [staring at him-suddenly excited.] d'you know, sir--these terms, they're the very same we drew up together, you and i, and put to both sides before the fight began? all this--all this--and--and what for? harness. [in a slow grim voice.] that's where the fun comes in! [underwood without turning from the door makes a gesture of assent.] the curtain falls. the end violence and the labor movement [illustration: logo] the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto violence and the labor movement by robert hunter author of "poverty," "socialists at work," etc. new york the macmillan company printed in the united states of america copyright, by the macmillan company set up and electrotyped. published march, . ferris printing company new york city this volume is affectionately dedicated by the author to eugene v. debs "one who never turned his back but marched breast forward, never doubted clouds would break," and d. douglas wilson who, though paralyzed and blind, has so long and faithfully blazed the trail for labor preface this volume is the result of some studies that i felt impelled to make when, about three years ago, certain sections of the labor movement in the united states were discussing vehemently political action _versus_ direct action. a number of causes combined to produce a serious and critical controversy. the industrial workers of the world were carrying on a lively agitation that later culminated in a series of spectacular strikes. with ideas and methods that were not only in opposition to those of the trade unions, but also to those of the socialist party, the new organization sought to displace the older organizations by what it called the "one big union." there were many in the older organizations who firmly believed in industrial unionism, and the dissensions which arose were not so much over that question as over the antagonistic character of the new movement and its advocacy here of the violent methods employed by the revolutionary section of the french unions. the most forceful and active spokesman of these methods was mr. william d. haywood, and, largely as a result of his agitation, _la grève générale_ and _le sabotage_ became the subjects of the hour in labor and socialist circles. in mr. haywood and mr. frank bohn published a booklet, entitled _industrial socialism_, in which they urged that the worker should "use any weapon which will win his fight."[a] they declared that, as "the present laws of property are made by and for the capitalists, the workers should not hesitate to break them."[b] the advocacy of such doctrines alarmed the older socialists, who were familiar with the many disasters that had overtaken the labor movement in its earlier days, and nearly all of them assailed the direct actionists. mr. eugene v. debs, mr. victor l. berger, mr. john spargo, mr. morris hillquit, and many others, less well known, combated "the new methods" in vigorous language. mr. hillquit dealt with the question in a manner that immediately awakened the attention of every active socialist. condemning without reserve every resort to lawbreaking and violence, and insisting that both were "ethically unjustifiable and tactically suicidal," mr. hillquit pointed out that whenever any group or section of the labor movement "has embarked upon a policy of 'breaking the law' or using 'any weapons which will win the fight,' whether such policy was styled 'terrorism,' 'propaganda of the deed,' 'direct action,' 'sabotage,' or 'anarchism,' it has invariably served to demoralize and destroy the movement, by attracting to it professional criminals, infesting it with spies, leading the workers to needless and senseless slaughter, and ultimately engendering a spirit of disgust and reaction. it was this advocacy of 'lawbreaking' which marx and engels fought so severely in the international and which finally led to the disruption of the first great international parliament of labor, and the socialist party of every country in the civilized world has since uniformly and emphatically rejected that policy."[c] there could be no better introduction to the present volume than these words of mr. hillquit, and it will, i think, be clear to the reader that the history of the labor movement during the last half-century fully sustains mr. hillquit's position. the problem of methods has always been a vital matter to the labor movement, and, for a hundred years at least, the quarrels now dividing syndicalists and socialists have disturbed that movement. in the chartist days the "physical forcists" opposed the "moral forcists," and later dissensions over the same question occurred between the bakouninists and the marxists. since then anarchists and social democrats, direct actionists and political actionists, syndicalists and socialists have continued the battle. i have attempted here to present the arguments made by both sides of this controversy, and, while no doubt my bias is perfectly clear, i hope i have presented fairly the position of each of the contending elements. fortunately, the direct actionists have exercised a determining influence only in a few places, and everywhere, in the end, the victory of those who were contending for the employment of peaceable means has been complete. already in this country, as a result of the recent controversy, it is written in the constitution of the socialist party that "any member of the party who opposes political action or advocates crime, sabotage, or other methods of violence as a weapon of the working class to aid in its emancipation shall be expelled from membership in the party."[d] adopted by the national convention of the party in , this clause was ratified at a general referendum of all the membership of the party. it is clear, therefore, that the immense majority of socialists are determined to employ peaceable and legal methods of action. it is, of course, perfectly obvious that the methods to be employed in the struggles between classes, as between nations, cannot be predetermined. and, while the socialists everywhere have condemned the use of violent measures and are now exercising every power at their command to keep the struggle between labor and capital on legal ground, events alone will determine whether the great social problems of our day can be settled peaceably. the entire matter is largely in the hands of the ruling classes. and, while the socialists in all countries are determined not to allow themselves to be provoked into acts of despair by temporary and fleeting methods of repression, conditions may of course arise where no organization, however powerful, could prevent the masses from breaking into an open and bloody conflict. on one memorable occasion (march , ), august bebel uttered some impressive words on this subject in the german reichstag. "herr von puttkamer," said bebel, "calls to mind the speech which i delivered in in the debate on the socialist law a few days after the murder of the czar. i did not then glorify regicide. i declared that a system like that prevailing in russia necessarily gave birth to nihilism and must necessarily lead to deeds of violence. yes, i do not hesitate to say that if you should inaugurate such a system in germany it would of necessity lead to deeds of violence with us as well. (a deputy called out: 'the german monarchy?') the german monarchy would then certainly be affected, and i do not hesitate to say that i should be one of the first to lend a hand in the work, for all measures are allowable against such a system."[e] i take it that bebel was, in this instance, simply pointing out to the german bureaucracy the inevitable consequences of the russian system. at that very moment he was restraining hundreds of thousands of his followers from acts of despair, yet he could not resist warning the german rulers that the time might come in that country when no considerations whatever could persuade men to forego the use of the most violent retaliative measures. this view is, of course, well established in our national history, and our declaration of independence, as well as many of our state constitutions, asserts that it is both the right and the duty of the people to overthrow by any means in their power an oppressive and tyrannical government. this was, of course, always the teaching of what marx liked to call "the bourgeois democrats." it was, in fact, their only conception of revolution. the socialist idea of revolution is quite a different one. insurrection plays no necessary part in it, and no one sees more clearly than the socialist that nothing could prove more disastrous to the democratic cause than to have the present class conflict break into a civil war. if such a war becomes necessary, it will be in spite of the organized socialists, who, in every country of the world, not only seek to avoid, but actually condemn, riotous, tempestuous, and violent measures. such measures do not fit into their philosophy, which sees, as the cause of our present intolerable social wrongs, not the malevolence of individuals or of classes, but the workings of certain economic laws. one can cut off the head of an individual, but it is not possible to cut off the head of an economic law. from the beginning of the modern socialist movement, this has been perfectly clear to the socialist, whose philosophy has taught him that appeals to violence tend, as engels has pointed out, to obscure the understanding of the real development of things. the dissensions over the use of force, that have been so continuous and passionate in the labor movement, arise from two diametrically opposed points of view. one is at bottom anarchistic, and looks upon all social evils as the result of individual wrong-doing. the other is at bottom socialistic, and looks upon all social evils as in the main the result of economic and social laws. to those who believe there are good trusts and bad trusts, good capitalists and bad capitalists, and that this is an adequate analysis of our economic ills, there is, of course, after all, nothing left but hatred of individuals and, in the extreme case, the desire to remove those individuals. to those, on the other hand, who see in certain underlying economic forces the source of nearly all of our distressing social evils, individual hatred and malice can make in reality no appeal. this volume, on its historical side, as well as in its survey of the psychology of the various elements in the labor movement, is a contribution to the study of the reactions that affect various minds and temperaments in the face of modern social wrongs. if one's point of view is that of the anarchist, he is led inevitably to make his war upon individuals. the more sensitive and sincere he is, the more bitter and implacable becomes that war. if one's point of view is based on what is now called the economic interpretation of history, one is emancipated, in so far as that is possible for emotional beings, from all hatred of individuals, and one sees before him only the necessity of readjusting the economic basis of our common life in order to achieve a more nearly perfect social order. in contrasting the temperaments, the points of view, the philosophy, and the methods of these two antagonistic minds, i have been forced to take two extremes, the bakouninist anarchist and the marxian socialist. in the case of the former, it has been necessary to present the views of a particular school of anarchism, more or less regardless of certain other schools. proudhon, stirner, warren, and tucker do not advocate violent measures, and tolstoi, ibsen, spencer, thoreau, and emerson--although having the anarchist point of view--can hardly be conceived of as advocating violent measures. it will be obvious to the reader that i have not dealt with the philosophical anarchism, or whatever one may call it, of these last. i have confined myself to the anarchism of those who have endeavored to carry out their principles in the democratic movement of their time and to the deeds of those who threw themselves into the active life about them and endeavored to impress both their ideas and methods upon the awakening world of labor. it is the anarchism of these men that the world knows. by deeds and not by words have they written their definition of anarchism, and i am taking and using the term in this volume in the sense in which it is used most commonly by people in general. if this offends the anarchists of the non-resistant or passive-resistant type, it cannot be helped. it is the meaning that the most active of the anarchists have themselves given it. i have sought to take my statements from first-hand sources only, although in a few cases i have had to depend on secondary sources. i am deeply indebted to mr. herman schlueter, editor of the _new yorker volkszeitung_, for lending me certain rare books and pamphlets, and also for reading carefully and critically the entire manuscript. with his help i have managed to get every document that has seemed to me essential. at the end of the volume will be found a complete list of the authorities which i have consulted. i have to regret that i could not read, before sending this manuscript to the publisher, the four volumes just published of the correspondence between marx and engels (_der briefwechsel zwischen friedrich engels und karl marx bis , herausgegeben von a. bebel und ed. bernstein_, j. h. w. dietz, stuttgart, ). i must also express here my gratitude to mr. morris hillquit and to miss helen phelps stokes for making many valuable suggestions, as well as my indebtedness to miss helen bernice sweeney and mr. sidney s. bobbé for their most capable secretarial assistance. special appreciation is due my wife for her helpfulness and painstaking care at many difficult stages of the work. highland farm, noroton heights, connecticut. november , . footnotes: [a] p. . [b] p. . [c] the new york _call_, november , . [d] article ii, section . [e] quoted by dawson, "german socialism and ferdinand lassalle," p. . contents preface vii part i terrorism in western europe chapter i. the father of terrorism ii. a series of insurrections iii. the propaganda of the deed iv. johann most in america v. a series of tragedies vi. seeking the causes part ii struggles with violence vii. the birth of modern socialism viii. the battle between marx and bakounin ix. the fight for existence x. the newest anarchism xi. the oldest anarchism xii. visions of victory authorities index part i terrorism in western europe [illustration: michael bakounin] violence and the labor movement chapter i the father of terrorism "dante tells us," writes macaulay, "that he saw, in malebolge, a strange encounter between a human form and a serpent. the enemies, after cruel wounds inflicted, stood for a time glaring on each other. a great cloud surrounded them, and then a wonderful metamorphosis began. each creature was transfigured into the likeness of its antagonist. the serpent's tail divided into two legs; the man's legs intertwined themselves into a tail. the body of the serpent put forth arms; the arms of the man shrank into his body. at length the serpent stood up a man, and spake; the man sank down a serpent, and glided hissing away."[ ] something, i suppose, not unlike this appalling picture of dante's occurs in the world whenever a man's soul becomes saturated with hatred. it will be remembered, for instance, that even shelley's all-forgiving and sublime prometheus was forced by the torture of the furies to cry out in anguish, "whilst i behold such execrable shapes, methinks i grow like what i contemplate." it would not be strange, then, if here and there a man's entire nature were transfigured when he sees a monster appear, cruel, pitiless, and unyielding, crushing to the earth the weak, the weary, and the heavy-laden. nor is it strange that in russia--the blackest malebolge in the modern world--a litter of avengers is born every generation of the savage brutality, the murderous oppression, the satanic infamy of the russian government. and who does not love those innumerable russian youths and maidens, driven to acts of defiance--hopeless, futile, yet necessary--if for no other reason than to fulfill their duty to humanity and thus perhaps quiet a quivering conscience? there is something truly promethean in the struggle of the russian youth against their overpowering antagonist. they know that the price of one single act of protest is their lives. yet, to the eternal credit of humanity, thousands of them have thrown themselves naked on the spears of their enemy, to become an example of sacrificial revolt. and can any of us wonder that when even this tragic seeding of the martyrs proved unfruitful, many of the russian youth, brooding over the irremediable wrongs of their people, were driven to insanity and suicide? and, if all that was possible, would it be surprising if it also happened that at least one flaming rebel should have developed a philosophy of warfare no less terrible than that of the russian bureaucracy itself? i do not know, nor would i allow myself to suggest, that michael bakounin, who brought into western europe and planted there the seeds of terrorism, came to be like what he contemplated, or that his philosophy and tactics of action were altogether a reflection of those he opposed. yet, if that were the case, one could better understand that bitter and bewildering character. that there is some justification for speculation on these grounds is indicated by the heroes of bakounin. he always meant to write the story of prometheus, and he never spoke of satan without an admiration that approached adoration. they were the two unconquerable enemies of absolutism. he was "the eternal rebel," bakounin once said of satan, "the first free-thinker and emancipator of the worlds."[ ] in another place he speaks of proudhon as having the instinct of a revolutionist, because "he adored satan and proclaimed anarchy."[ ] in still another place he refers to the proletariat of paris as "the modern satan, the great rebel, vanquished, but not pacified."[ ] in the statutes of his secret organization, of which i shall speak again later, he insists that "principles, programs, and rules are not nearly as important as that the persons who put them into execution shall have the devil in them."[ ] although an avowed and militant atheist, bakounin could not subdue his worship of the king of devils, and, had anyone during his life said that bakounin was not only a modern satan incarnate, but the eight other devils as well, nothing could have delighted him more. and no doubt he was inspired to this demon worship by his implacable hatred of absolutism--whether it be in religion, which he considered as tyranny over the mind, or in government, which he considered as tyranny over the body. to bakounin the two eternal enemies of man were the government and the church, and no weapon was unworthy of use which promised in any measure to assist in their entire and complete obliteration. absolutism was to bakounin a universal destroyer of the best and the noblest qualities in man. and, as it stands as an effective barrier to the only social order that can lift man above the beast--that of perfect liberty--so must the sincere warrior against absolutism become the universal destroyer of any and everything associated with tyranny. how far such a crusade leads one may be gathered from bakounin's own words: "the end of revolution can be no other," he declares, "than the destruction of all powers--religious, monarchical, aristocratic, and bourgeois--in europe. consequently, the destruction of all now existing states, with all their institutions--political, juridical, bureaucratic, and financial."[ ] in another place he says: "it will be essential to destroy everything, and especially and before all else, all property and its inevitable corollary, the state."[ ] "we want to destroy all states," he repeats in still another place, "and all churches, with all their institutions and their laws of religion, politics, jurisprudence, finance, police, universities, economics, and society, in order that all these millions of poor, deceived, enslaved, tormented, exploited human beings, delivered from all their official and officious directors and benefactors, associations, and individuals, can at last breathe with complete freedom."[ ] all through life bakounin clung tenaciously to this immense idea of destruction, "terrible, total, inexorable, and universal," for only after such a period of destructive terror--in which every vestige of "the institutions of tyranny" shall be swept from the earth--can "anarchy, that is to say, the complete manifestation of unchained popular life,"[ ] develop liberty, equality, and justice. these were the means, and this was the end that bakounin had in mind all the days of his life from the time he convinced himself as a young man that "the desire for destruction is at the same time a creative desire."[ ] even so brief a glimpse into bakounin's mind is likely to startle the reader. but there is no fiction here; he is what carlyle would have called "a terrible god's fact." he was a very real product of russia's infamy, and we need not be surprised if one with bakounin's great talents, worshiping satan and preaching ideas of destruction that comprehended cosmos itself, should have performed in the world a unique and never-to-be-forgotten rôle. it was inevitable that he should have stood out among the men of his time as a strange, bewildering figure. to his very matter-of-fact and much annoyed antagonist, karl marx, he was little more than a buffoon, the "amorphous pan-destroyer, who has succeeded in uniting in one person rodolphe, monte cristo, karl moor, and robert macaire."[ ] on the other hand, to his circle of worshipers he was a mental giant, a flaming titan, a russian siegfried, holding out to all the powers of heaven and earth a perpetual challenge to combat. and, in truth, bakounin's ideas and imagination covered a field that is not exhausted by the range of mythology. he juggled with universal abstractions as an alchemist with the elements of the earth or an astrologist with the celestial spheres. his workshop was the universe, his peculiar task the refashioning of cosmos, and he began by declaring war upon the almighty himself and every institution among men fashioned after what he considered to be the absolutism of the infinite. it is, then, with no ordinary human being that we must deal in treating of him who is known as the father of terrorism. yet, as he lived in this world and fought with his faithful circle to lay down the principles of universal revolution, we find him very human indeed. of contradictions, for instance, there seems to be no end. although an atheist, he had an idol, satan. although an eternal enemy of absolutism, he pleaded with alexander to become the czar of the people. and, although he fought passionately and superbly to destroy what he called the "authoritarian hierarchy" in the organization of the international, he planned for his own purpose the most complete hierarchy that can well be imagined. his only tactic, that of _lex talionis_, also worked out a perfect reciprocity even in those common affairs to which this prodigy stooped in order to conquer, for he seemed to create infallibly every institution he combated and to use every weapon that he execrated when employed by others. the most fertile of law-givers himself, he could not tolerate another. pope of popes in his little inner circle, he could brook no rival. machiavelli's prince was no richer in intrigue than bakounin; yet he always fancied himself, with the greatest self-compassion, as the naïve victim of the endless and malicious intrigues of others. however affectionate, generous, and open he seemed to be with those who followed him worshipfully, even they were not trusted with his secrets, and, if he was always cunning and crafty toward his enemies, he never had a friend that he did not use to his profit. volatile in his fitful changes toward men and movements, rudderless as he often seemed to be in the incoherence of his ideas and of his policies, there nevertheless burned in his soul throughout life a great flaming, and perhaps redeeming, hatred of tyranny. at times he would lead his little bands into open warfare upon it, dreaming always that the world once in motion would follow him to the end in his great work of destruction. at other times he would go to it bearing gifts, in the hope, as we must charitably think, of destroying it by stealth. in general outline, this is the father of terrorism as i see him. how he developed his views is not entirely clear, as very little is known of his early life, and there are several broken threads at different periods both early and late in his career. the little known of his youth may be quickly told. he was born in russia in , of a family of good position, belonging to the old nobility. he was well educated and began his career in the army. shortly after the polish insurrection had been crushed, militarism and despotism became abhorrent to him, and the spectacle of that terrorized country made an everlasting impression upon him. in he renounced his military career and returned to moscow, where he gave himself up entirely to the study of philosophy, and, as was natural at the period, he saturated himself with hegel. from moscow he went to st. petersburg and later to berlin, constantly pursuing his studies, and in he published under the title, "_la réaction en allemagne, fragment, par un français_," an article ending with the now famous line: "the desire for destruction is at the same time a creative desire."[ ] this article appeared in the _deutsche jahrbücher_, in which publication he soon became a collaborator. the authorities, however, were hostile to the paper, and he went into switzerland in , only to be driven later to paris. there he made the acquaintance of proudhon, "the father of anarchism," and spent days and nights with him discussing the problems of government, of society, and of religion. he also met marx, "the father of socialism," and, although they were never sympathetic, yet they came frequently in friendly and unfriendly contact with each other. george sand, george herwegh, arnold ruge, frederick engels, william weitling, alexander herzen, richard wagner, adolf reichel, and many other brilliant revolutionary spirits of the time, bakounin knew intimately, and for him, as for many others, the period of the forties was one of great intellectual development. in the insurrectionary period that began in he became active, but he appears to have done little noteworthy before january, , when he went secretly to leipsic in the hope of aiding a group of young czechs to launch an uprising in bohemia. shortly afterward an insurrection broke out in dresden, and he rushed there to become one of the most active leaders of the revolt. it is said that he was "the veritable soul of the revolution," and that he advised the insurrectionists, in order to prevent the prussians from firing upon the barricades, to place in front of them the masterpieces from the art museum.[ ] when that insurrection was suppressed, he, richard wagner, and some others hurried to chemnitz, where bakounin was captured and condemned to death. austria, however, demanded his extradition, and there, for the second time, he was condemned to be hanged. eventually he was handed over to russia, where he again escaped paying the death penalty by the pardon of the czar, and, after six years in prison, he was banished to siberia. great efforts were made to secure a pardon for him, but without success. however, through his influential relatives, he was allowed such freedom of movement that in the end he succeeded in escaping, and, returning to europe through japan and america, he arrived in england in . the next year is notable for the appearance of two of his brochures, "_aux amis russes, polonais, et à tous les amis slaves_," and "_la cause du peuple, romanoff, pougatchoff, ou pestel?_" one would have thought that twelve years in prison and in siberia would have made him more bitter than ever against the state and the czar; but, curiously, these writings mark a striking departure from his previous views. for almost the only time in his life he expressed a desire to see russia develop into a magnificent "state," and he urged the russians to drive the tartars back to asia, the germans back to germany, and to become a free people, exclusively russian. by coöperative effort between the military powers of the russian government and the insurrectionary activities of the slavs subjected to foreign governments, the russian peoples could wage a war, he argued, that would create a great united empire. the second of the above-mentioned volumes was addressed particularly to alexander ii. in this bakounin prophesies that russia must soon undergo a revolution. it may come through terrible and bloody uprisings on the part of the masses, led by some fierce and sanguinary popular idol, or it will come through the czar himself, if he should be wise enough to assume in person the leadership of the peasants. he declared that "alexander ii. could so easily become the popular idol, the first czar of the peasants.... by leaning upon the people he could become the savior and master of the entire slavic world."[ ] he then pictures in glowing terms a united russia, in which the czar and the people will work harmoniously together to build up a great democratic state. but he threatens that, if the czar does not become the "savior of the slavic world," an avenger will arise to lead an outraged and avenging people. he again declares, "we prefer to follow romanoff (the family name of the czar), if romanoff could and would transform himself from the _petersbourgeois_ emperor into the czar of the peasants."[ ] despite much flattery and ill-merited praise, the czar refused to be converted, and bakounin rushed off the next year to stockholm, in the hope of organizing a band of russians to enter poland to assist in the insurrection which had broken out there. the next few years were spent mostly in italy, and it was here that he conceived his plan of a secret international organization of revolutionists. little is known of how extensive this secret organization actually became, but bakounin said in that it included a number of italian, french, scandinavian, and slavic revolutionists. as a scheme this secret organization is remarkable. it included three orders: i. the international brothers; ii. the national brothers; iii. the semi-secret, semi-public organization of the international alliance of social democracy. without bakounin's intending it, doubtless, the international brothers resembled the circle of gods in mythology; the national brothers, the circle of heroes; while the third order resembled the mortals who were to bear the burden of the fighting. the international brothers were not to exceed one hundred, and they were to be the guiding spirits of the great revolutionary storms that bakounin thought were then imminent in europe. they must possess above all things "revolutionary passion," and they were to be the supreme secret executive power of the two subordinate organizations. in their hands alone should be the making of the programs, the rules, and the principles of the revolution. the national brothers were to be under the direction of the international brothers, and were to be selected because of their revolutionary zeal and their ability to control the masses. they were "to have the devil in them." the semi-secret, semi-public organization was to include the multitude, and sections were to be formed in every country for the purpose of organizing the masses. however, the masses were not to know of the secret organization of the national brothers, and the national brothers were not to know of the secret organization of the international brothers. in order to enable them to work separately but harmoniously, bakounin, who had chosen himself as the supreme law-giver, wrote for each of the three orders a program of principles, a code of rules, and a plan of methods all its own. the ultimate ends of this movement were not to be communicated to either the national brothers or to the alliance, and the masses were to know only that which was good for them to know, and which would not be likely to frighten them. these are very briefly the outlines of the extraordinary hierarchy that was to form throughout all europe and america an invisible network of "the real revolutionists." this organization was "to accelerate the universal revolution," and what was understood by the revolution was "the unchaining of what is to-day called the bad passions and the destruction of what in the same language is called 'public order.' we do not fear, we invoke anarchy, convinced that from this anarchy, that is to say, from the complete manifestation of unchained popular life, must come forth liberty, equality, justice ..."[ ] it was clearly foreseen by bakounin that there would be opponents to anarchy among the revolutionists themselves, and he declared: "we are the natural enemies of these revolutionists ... who ... dream already of the creation of new revolutionary states."[ ] it was admitted that the brothers could not of themselves create the revolution. all that a secret and well-organized society can do is "to organize, not the army of the revolution--the army must always be the people--but a sort of revolutionary staff composed of individuals who are devoted, energetic, intelligent, and especially sincere friends of the people, not ambitious nor self-conceited--capable of serving as intermediaries between the revolutionary idea and the popular instincts. the number of these individuals does not have to be immense. for the international organization of all europe, one hundred revolutionists, strongly and seriously bound together, are sufficient. two or three hundred revolutionists will be sufficient for the organization of the largest country."[ ] the idea of a secret organization of revolutionary leaders proved to be wholly repugnant to many of even the most devoted friends of bakounin, and by the organization is supposed to have been dissolved, because, it was said, secrets had leaked out and the whole affair had been subjected to much ridicule.[ ] the idea of the third order, however, that of the international alliance, was not abandoned, and it appears that bakounin and a number of the faithful brothers felt hopeful in of capturing a great "bourgeois" congress, called the "league of peace and of liberty," that had met that year in geneva. bakounin, Élisée reclus, aristide rey, victor jaclard, and several others in the conspiracy undertook to persuade the league to pass some revolutionary resolutions. bakounin was already a member of the central committee of the league, and, in preparation for the battle, he wrote the manuscript afterward published under the title, "_fédéralisme, socialisme, et antithéologisme_." but the congress of dashed their hopes to the ground, and the revolutionists separated from the league and founded the same day, september th, a new association, called _l'alliance internationale de la démocratie socialiste_. the program now adopted by the alliance, although written by bakounin, expressed quite different views from those of the international brothers. but it, too, began its revolutionary creed by declaring itself atheist. its chief and most important work was "to abolish religion and to substitute science for faith; and human justice for divine justice." second, it declared for "the political, economic, and social equality of the classes" (which, it was assumed, were to continue to exist), and it intended to attain this end by the destruction of government and by the abolition of the right of inheritance. third, it assailed all forms of political action and proposed that, in place of the community, groups of producers should assume control of all industrial processes. fourth, it opposed all centralized organization, believing that both groups and individuals should demand for themselves complete liberty to do in all cases whatever they desired.[ ] the same revolutionists who a short time before had planned a complete hierarchy now appeared irreconcilably opposed to any form of authority. they now argued that they must abolish not only god and every political state, but also the right of the majority to rule. then and then only would the people finally attain perfect liberty. these were the chief ideas that bakounin wished to introduce into the international working men's association. that organization, founded in in london, had already become a great power in europe, and bakounin entered it in , not only for the purpose of forwarding the ideas just mentioned, but also in the hope of obtaining the leadership of it. failing in to convert the czar, in - to organize into a hierarchy the revolutionary spirits of europe, in to capture the bourgeoisie, he turned in to seek the aid of the working class. on each of these occasions his views underwent the most magical of transformations. with more bitterness than ever he now declared war upon the political and economic powers of europe, but he was unable to prosecute this war until he had destroyed every committee or group in the international which possessed, or sought to possess, any power. he assailed marx, engels, and all those who he thought wished to dominate the international. the beam in his own eye he saw in theirs, and he now expressed an unspeakable loathing for all hierarchical tendencies and authoritarian methods. the story of the great battle between him and marx must be left for a later chapter, and we must content ourselves for the present with following the history of bakounin as he gradually developed in theory and in practice the principles and tactics of terrorism. while struggling to obtain the leadership of the working classes of western europe, bakounin was also busy with russian affairs. "i am excessively absorbed in what is going on in russia," he writes to a friend, april , . "our youth, the most revolutionary in the world perhaps, in theory and in practice, are so stirred up that the government has been forced to close the universities, academies, and several schools at st. petersburg, moscow, and kazan. i have here now a specimen of these young fanatics, who hesitate at nothing and who fear nothing.... they are admirable, ... believers without god and heroes without phrase!"[ ] he who called forth this eulogy was the young russian revolutionist, sergei nechayeff. whether admirable or not we shall leave the reader to judge. but, if bakounin bewilders one, nechayeff staggers one. and, if bakounin was the father of terrorism, nechayeff was its living embodiment. he was not complex, mystical, or sentimental. he was truly a revolutionist without phrase, and he can be described in the simplest words. he was a liar, a thief, and a murderer--the incarnation of hatred, malice, and revenge, who stopped at no crime against friend or foe that promised to advance what he was pleased to call the revolution. bakounin had for a long time sought his coöperation, and now in switzerland they began that collaboration which resulted in the most extraordinary series of sanguinary revolutionary writings known to history. in the summer of there was printed at geneva "words addressed to students," signed by them both; the "formula of the revolutionary question"; "the principles of the revolution"; and the "publications of the people's tribunal"--the three last appearing anonymously. all of them counsel the most infamous doctrines of criminal activity. in "words addressed to students," the russian youth are exhorted to leave the universities and go among the people. they are asked to follow the example of stenka razin, a robber chieftain who, in the time of alexis, placed himself at the head of a popular insurrection.[f] "robbery," declare bakounin and nechayeff, "is one of the most honorable forms of russian national life. the brigand is the hero, the defender, the popular avenger, the irreconcilable enemy of the state, and of all social and civil order established by the state. he is the wrestler in life and in death against all this civilization of officials, of nobles, of priests, and of the crown.... he who does not understand robbery can understand nothing in the history of the russian masses. he who is not sympathetic with it, cannot sympathize with the popular life, and has no heart for the ancient, unbounded sufferings of the people; he belongs in the camp of the enemy, the partisans of the state.... it is through brigandage only that the vitality, passion, and force of the people are established undeniably.... the brigand in russia is the veritable and unique revolutionist--revolutionist without phrase, without rhetoric borrowed from books, a revolutionist indefatigable, irreconcilable, and irresistible in action.... the brigands scattered in the forests, the cities, and villages of all russia, and the brigands confined in the innumerable prisons of the empire, form a unique and indivisible world, strongly bound together, the world of the russian revolution. in it, in it alone, has existed for a long time the veritable revolutionary conspiracy."[ ] once again the principles of the revolution appear to be complete and universal destruction. "there must 'not rest ... one stone upon a stone.' it is necessary to destroy everything, in order to produce 'perfect amorphism,' for, if 'a single one of the old forms' were preserved, it would become 'the embryo' from which would spring all the other old social forms."[ ] the same leaflet preaches systematic assassination and declares that for practical revolutionists all speculations about the future are "criminal, because they hinder _pure destruction_ and trammel the march of the revolution. we have confidence only in those who show by their acts their devotion to the revolution, without fear of torture or of imprisonment, and we disclaim all words unless action should follow immediately." ...[ ] "words have no value for us unless followed at once by action. but all is not action that goes under that name: for example, the modest and too-cautious organization of secret societies without some external manifestations is in our eyes merely ridiculous and intolerable child's play. by external manifestations we mean a series of actions that positively destroy something--a person, a cause, a condition that hinders the emancipation of the people. without sparing our lives, without pausing before any threat, any obstacle, any danger, etc., we must break into the life of the people with a series of daring, even insolent, attempts, and inspire them with a belief in their own power, awake them, rally them, and drive them on to the triumph of their own cause."[ ] the most remarkable of this series of writings is "the revolutionary catechism." this existed for several years in cipher, and was guarded most carefully by nechayeff. altogether it contained twenty-six articles, classified into four sections. here it is declared that if the revolutionist continues to live in this world it is only in order to annihilate it all the more surely. "the object remains always the same: the quickest and surest way of destroying this filthy order." ... "for him exists only one single pleasure, one single consolation, one reward, one satisfaction: the success of the revolution. night and day he must have but one thought, but one aim--implacable destruction." ... "for this end of implacable destruction a revolutionist can and often must live in the midst of society, feigning to be altogether different from what he really is. a revolutionist must penetrate everywhere: into high society as well as into the middle class, into the shops, into the church, into the palaces of the aristocracy, into the official, military, and literary worlds, _into the third section_ (the secret police), and even into the imperial palace."[ ] "all this unclean society must be divided into several categories, the first composed of those who are condemned to death without delay." (sec. .) ... "in the first place must be destroyed the men most inimical to the revolutionary organization and whose violent and sudden death can frighten the government the most and break its power in depriving it of energetic and intelligent agents." (sec. .) "the second category must be composed of people to whom we concede life provisionally, in order that by a series of monstrous acts they may drive the people into inevitable revolt." (sec. .) "to the third category belong a great number of animals in high position or of individuals who are remarkable neither for their mind nor for their energy, but who, by their position, have wealth, connections, influence, power. we must exploit them in every possible manner, overreach them, deceive them, and, _getting hold of their dirty secrets_, make them our slaves." (sec. .) ... "the fourth class is composed of sundry ambitious persons in the service of the state and of liberals of various shades of opinion. with them we can conspire after their own program, pretending to follow them blindly. we must take them in our hands, _seize their secrets, compromise them completely_, in such a way that retreat becomes impossible for them, so as to make use of them in bringing about disturbances in the state." (sec. .) "the fifth category is composed of doctrinaires, conspirators, revolutionists, and of those who babble at meetings and on paper. we must urge these on and draw them incessantly into practical and perilous manifestations, which will result in making the majority of them disappear, while making some of them genuine revolutionists." (sec. .) "the sixth category is very important. they are the women, who must be divided into three classes: the first, frivolous women, without mind or heart, which we must use in the same manner as the third and fourth categories of men; the second, the ardent, devoted, and capable women, but who are not ours because they have not reached a practical revolutionary understanding, without phrase--we must make use of these like the men of the fifth category; finally, the women who are entirely with us, that is to say, completely initiated and having accepted our program in its entirety. we ought to consider them as the most precious of our treasures, without whose help we can do nothing." (sec. .)[ ] the last section of the "catechism" treats of the duty of the association toward the people. "the society has no other end than the complete emancipation and happiness of the people, namely, of the laborers. but, convinced that this emancipation and this happiness can only be reached by means of an all-destroying popular revolution, _the society will use every means and every effort to increase and intensify the evils and sorrows_, which must at last exhaust the patience of the people and excite them to insurrection _en masse_. by a popular revolution the society does not mean a movement regulated according to the classic patterns of the west, which, always restrained in the face of property and of the traditional social order of so-called civilization and morality, has hitherto been limited merely to exchanging one form of political organization for another, and to the creating of a so-called revolutionary state. the only revolution that can do any good to the people is that which utterly annihilates every idea of the state and overthrows all traditions, orders, and classes in russia. with this end in view, the society has no intention of imposing on the people any organization whatever coming from above. the future organization will, without doubt, proceed from the movement and life of the people; but that is the business of future generations. our task is terrible, total, inexorable, and universal destruction."[ ] these are in brief the tactics and principles of terrorism, as understood by bakounin and nechayeff. as only the criminal world shared these views in any degree, the "catechism" ends: "we have got to unite ourselves with the adventurer's world of the brigands, who are the veritable and unique revolutionists of russia."[ ] it is customary now to credit most of these writings to nechayeff, although bakounin himself, i believe, never denied that they were his, and no one can read them without noting the ear-marks of both bakounin's thought and style. in any case, nechayeff was constantly with bakounin in the spring and summer of , and the most important of these brochures were published in geneva in the summer of that year. and, while it may be said for bakounin that he nowhere else advocates all the varied criminal methods advised in these publications, there is hardly an argument for their use that is not based upon his well-known views. furthermore, nechayeff was primarily a man of action, and in a letter, which is printed hereafter, it appears that he urgently requested bakounin to develop some of his theories in a russian journal. evidently, then, nechayeff had little confidence in his own power of expression. we must, however, leave the question of paternity undecided and follow the latter to russia, where he went late in the summer, loaded down with his arsenal of revolutionary literature and burning to put into practice the principles of the "catechism." without following in detail his devious and criminal work, one brief tale will explain how his revolutionary activities were brought quickly to an end. there was in moscow, so the story runs, a gentle, kindly, and influential member of nechayeff's society. of ascetic disposition, this iwanof spent much of his time in freely educating the peasants and in assisting the poorer students. he starved himself to establish cheap eating houses, which became the centers of the revolutionary groups. the police finally closed his establishments, because nechayeff had placarded them with revolutionary appeals. iwanof, quite unhappy at this ending of his usefulness, begged nechayeff to permit him to retire from the secret society. nechayeff was, however, in fear that iwanof might betray the secrets of the society, and he went one night with two fellow conspirators and shot iwanof and threw the corpse into a pond. the police, in following up the murder, sought out nechayeff, who had already fled from russia and was hurrying back to bakounin in switzerland. from january until july, , he was constantly with bakounin, but quarrels began to arise between them in june, and bakounin writes in a letter to ogaref: "our _boy_ (nechayeff) is very stubborn, and i, when once i make a decision, am not accustomed to change it. therefore, the break with him, on my side at least seems inevitable."[ ] in the middle of july it was discovered that nechayeff was once more carrying out the ethics they had jointly evolved, and, in order to make bakounin his slave, had recourse to all sorts of "jesuitical maneuvers, of lies and of thefts." suddenly he disappeared from geneva, and bakounin and other russians discovered that they had been robbed of all their papers and confidential letters. soon it was learned that nechayeff had presented himself to talandier in london, and bakounin hastened to write to his friend an explanation of their relations. "it may appear strange to you that we advise you to repulse a man to whom we gave letters of recommendation, written in the most cordial terms. but these letters date from the month of may, and there have happened since some events so serious that they have forced us to break all connections with nechayeff." ... "it is perfectly true that nechayeff is more persecuted by the russian government than any other man.... it is also true that nechayeff is one of the most active and most energetic men that i have ever met. when it is a question of serving what he calls _the_ cause, he does not hesitate, he stops at nothing, and is as pitiless toward himself as toward all others. that is the principal quality which attracted me to him and which made me for a long time seek his coöperation. there are those who pretend that he is nothing but a sharper, but that is a lie. he is a devoted fanatic, but at the same time a dangerous fanatic, with whom an alliance could only prove very disastrous for everyone concerned. this is the reason: he first belonged to a secret society which, in reality, existed in russia. this society exists no more; all its members have been arrested. nechayeff alone remains, and alone he constitutes to-day what he calls the 'committee.' the russian organization in russia having been destroyed, he is forced to create a new one in a foreign country. all that was perfectly natural, legitimate, very useful--but the means by which he undertakes it are detestable.... he will spy on you and will try to get possession of all your secrets, and to do that, in your absence, left alone in your room, he will open all your drawers, will read all your correspondence, and whenever a letter appears interesting to him, that is to say, compromising you or one of your friends from one point of view or another, he will steal it, and will guard it carefully as a document against you or your friend.... if you have presented him to a friend, his first care will be to sow between you seeds of discord, scandal, intrigue--in a word, to set you two at variance. if your friend has a wife or a daughter, he will try to seduce her, to lead her astray, and to force her away from the conventional morality and throw her into a revolutionary protest against society.... do not cry out that this is exaggeration. it has all been fully developed and proved. seeing himself unmasked, this poor nechayeff is indeed so childlike, so simple, in spite of his systematic perversity, that he believed it possible to convert me. he has even gone so far as to beg me to consent to develop this theory in a russian journal which he proposed to me to establish. he has betrayed the confidence of us all, he has stolen our letters, he has horribly compromised us--in a word, he has acted like a villain. his only excuse is his fanaticism. he is a terribly ambitious man without knowing it, because he has at last completely identified the revolutionary cause with his own person. but he is not an egoist in the worst sense of that word, because he risks his own person terribly and leads the life of a martyr, of privations, and of unheard-of work. he is a fanatic, and fanaticism draws him on, even to the point of becoming an accomplished jesuit. at moments he becomes simply stupid. most of his lies are sewn with white thread.... in spite of this relative naïveté, he is very dangerous, because he daily commits acts, abuses of confidence, and treachery, against which it is all the more difficult to safeguard oneself because one hardly suspects the possibility. with all that, nechayeff is a force, because he is an immense energy. it is with great pain that i have separated from him, because the service of our cause demands much energy, and one rarely finds it developed to such a point."[ ] the irony of fate rarely executes itself quite so humorously. although perfectly familiar with nechayeff's philosophy of action for over a year, the viciousness of it appeared to bakounin only when he himself became a victim. when nechayeff arrived in london he began the publication of a russian journal, the _commune_, where he bitterly attacked bakounin and his views. early in the seventies, he was arrested and taken back to russia, where he and over eighty others, mostly young men and women students, were tried for belonging to secret societies. for the first time in russian history the court proceeding took place before a jury and in public. most of those arrested were condemned for long periods to the mines of siberia at forced labor, while nechayeff was kept in solitary imprisonment until his death, some years later. bakounin, on the other hand, remained in switzerland and became the very soul of that element in italy, spain, and switzerland which fought the policies of marx in the international. at the same time he was training a group of youngsters to carry out in western europe the principles of revolution as laid down in his russian publications. over young middle-class youths, especially, bakounin's magnetic power was extraordinary, and his followers were the faithful of the faithful. a very striking picture of bakounin's hypnotic influence over this circle is to be found in the memoirs of madame a. bauler. she tells us of some sundays she spent with bakounin and his friends. "at the beginning," she says, "being unfamiliar with the italian language, i did not even understand the general drift of the conversation, but, observing the faces of those present, i had the impression that something extraordinarily grave and solemn was taking place. the atmosphere of these conferences imbued me; it created in me a state of mind which i shall call, for want of a better term, an '_état de grâce_.' faith increased; doubts vanished. the value of bakounin became clear to me. his personality enlarged. i saw that his strength was in the power of taking possession of human souls. beyond a doubt, all these men who were listening to him were ready to undertake anything, at the slightest word from him. i could picture to myself another gathering, less intimate, that of a great crowd, and i realized that there the influence of bakounin would be the same. only the enthusiasm, here gentle and intimate, would become incomparably more intense and the atmosphere more agitated by the mutual contagion of the human beings in a crowd. "at bottom, in what did the charm of bakounin consist? i believe that it is impossible to define it exactly. it was not by the force of persuasion that he agitated. it was not his thought which awakened the thought of others. but he aroused every rebellious heart and awoke there an 'elemental' anger. and this anger, transplendent with beauty, became creative and showed to the exalted thirst for justice and happiness an issue and a possibility of accomplishment. 'the desire for destruction is at the same time a creative desire,' bakounin has repeated to the end of his life."[ ] footnote: [f] this formidable peasant insurrection occurred in - . when pougatchoff, a century later, in - , urged the cossacks and serfs to insurrection against catherine ii, the russian people saw in him a new stenka razin; and they expected in russia, in and the following years, a third centennial apparition of the legendary brigand who, in the minds of the oppressed people, personified revolt. chapter ii a series of insurrections at the beginning of the seventies bakounin and his friends found opening before them a field of practical activity. on the whole, the sixties were spent in theorizing, in organizing, and in planning, but with the seventies the moment arrived "to unchain the hydra of revolution." on the th of september, , the third republic was proclaimed in paris, and a few days afterward there were many uprisings in the other cities of france. it was, however, only in lyons that the bakouninists played an important part. bakounin had a fixed idea that, wherever there was an uprising of the people, there he must go, and he wrote to adolphe vogt on september : "my friends, the revolutionary socialists of lyons, are calling me there. i am resolved to take my old bones thither and to play there what will probably be my last game. but, as usual, i have not a sou. can you, i do not say lend me, but give me or , or or , or even francs, for my voyage?"[ ] guillaume does not state where the money finally came from, but bakounin evidently raised it somehow, for he left locarno on september . the night of the th he spent in neuchâtel, where he conferred with guillaume regarding the publication of a manuscript. on the th he arrived in geneva, and two days later set out for lyons, accompanied by two revolutionary enthusiasts, ozerof and the young pole, valence lankiewicz. since the th of september a committee of public safety had been installed at the hôtel de ville composed of republicans, radicals, and some militants of the international. gaspard blanc and albert richard, two intimate friends of bakounin, were not members of this committee, and in a public meeting, september , richard made a motion, which was carried, to name a standing commission of ten to act as the "intermediaries between the people of lyons and the committee of public safety." three of these commissioners, richard, andrieux, and jaclard, were then appointed to go as delegates to paris in order to come to some understanding with the government. andrieux, in the days of the empire, had acquired fame as a revolutionist by proposing at a meeting to burn the ledger of the public debt. it seems, however, that these close and trusted friends of bakounin began immediately upon their arrival in paris to solicit various public positions remunerative to themselves,[ ] and, although they succeeded in having general cluseret sent to take command of the voluntary corps then forming in the department of the rhone, that proved, as we shall see, most disastrous of all. this is about all that had happened previous to bakounin's arrival in lyons, and, when he came, there was confusion everywhere. even the members of the alliance had no clear idea of what ought to be done. bakounin, however, was an old hand at insurrections, and in a little lodging house where he and his friends were staying a new uprising was planned. he lost no time in getting hold of all the men of action. under his energetic leadership "public meetings were multiplied and assumed a character of unheard-of violence. the most sanguinary motions were introduced and welcomed with enthusiasm. they openly provoked revolt in order to overthrow the laws and the established order of things."[ ] on september bakounin wrote to ogaref: "there is so much work to do that it turns my head. the real revolution has not yet burst forth here, but it will come. everything possible is being done to prepare for it. i am playing a great game. i hope to see the approaching triumph."[ ] a great public meeting was held on the th, presided over by eugène saignes, a plasterer and painter, and a man of energy and influence among the lyons workmen, at which various questions relative to proposed political changes were voted upon. but it was the following day, the th, that probably the most notable event of the insurrection took place. "the next day, sunday, was employed," guillaume says, "in the drawing up and printing of a great red placard, containing the program of the revolution which the central committee of safety of france proposed to the people...."[ ] the first article of the program declares: "the administrative and governmental machinery of the state, having become powerless, is abolished. the people of france once again enter into full possession of themselves." the second article suspends "all civil and criminal courts," and replaces them "by the justice of the people." the third suspends "the payment of taxes and of mortgages." the fourth declares that "the state, having decayed, can no longer intervene in the payment of private debts." the fifth states that "all existing municipal organizations are broken up and replaced in all the federated communes by committees of safety of france, which will exercise all powers under the immediate control of the people." the revolution was at last launched, and the placard ends, "_aux armes!!!_"[ ] while the bakouninists were decreeing the revolution by posters and vainly calling the people to arms, an event occurred in lyons which brought to them a very useful contingent of fighters. the lyons municipality had just reduced the pay of the workers in the national dock yards from three to two and a half francs a day, and, on this account, these laborers joined the ranks of the insurgents. on the evening of september a meeting of the central committee of safety of france took place, and there a definite plan of action for the next day was decided upon. velay, a tulle maker and municipal councillor, bakounin, and others advised an armed manifestation, but the majority expressed itself in favor of a peaceful one. an executive committee composed of eight members signed the following proclamation, drawn up by gaspard blanc, which was printed during the night and posted early the next morning: "the people of lyons ... are summoned, through the organ of their assembled popular committees, to a popular manifestation to be held to-day, september , at noon, on the _place des terreaux_, in order to force the authority to take immediately the most energetic and efficacious measures for the national defense."[ ] turning again to guillaume, we find "at noon many thousands of men pressed together on the _place des terreaux_. a delegation of sixteen of the national dock-yard workmen entered the hôtel de ville to demand of the municipal council the reëstablishment of their wage to three francs a day, but the council was not in session. very soon a movement began in the crowd, and a hundred resolute men, saignes at their head, forcing the door of the hôtel de ville, penetrated the municipal building. some members of the central committee of safety of france, bakounin, parraton, bastelica, and others, went in with them. from the balcony, saignes announced that the municipal council was to be compelled to accept the program of the red proclamation of september or to resign, and he proposed to name cluseret general of the revolutionary army. cluseret, cheered by the crowd, appeared in the balcony, thanked them, and announced that he was going to croix-rousse" (the working-class district).[ ] he went there, it is true, but not to call to arms the national guards of that quarter. indeed, his aim appears to have been to avoid a conflict, and he simply asked the workers "to come down _en masse_ and without arms."[ ] in the meantime the national guards of the wealthier quarters of the city hastened to the hôtel de ville and penetrated the interior court, while the committee of safety of france installed itself inside the building. there they passed two or three hours in drawing up resolutions, while bakounin and others in vain protested: "we must act. we are losing time. we are going to be invaded by the national bourgeois guard. it is necessary to arrest immediately the prefect, the mayor, and general mazure."[ ] but their words went unheeded. and all the while the bourgeois guards were massing themselves before the hôtel de ville, and cluseret and his unarmed manifestants were yielding place to them. in fact, cluseret even persuaded the members of the committee of safety to retire and those of the municipal council to return to their seats, which they consented to do. bakounin made a last desperate effort to save the situation and to induce the insurgents to oppose force to force, but they would not. even albert richard failed him. the revolutionary committee, after parleying with the municipal councillors, then evacuated the hôtel de ville and contented itself with issuing a statement to the effect that "the delegates of the people have not believed it their duty to impose themselves on the municipal council by violence and have retired when it went into session, leaving it to the people to fully appreciate the situation."[ ] "at the moment," says guillaume, "when ... mayor hénon, with an escort of national bourgeois guards, reëntered the hôtel de ville, he met bakounin in the hall of the _pas-perdus_. the mayor immediately ordered his companions to take him in custody and to confine him at once in an underground hiding-place."[ ] the municipal councillors then opened their session and pledged that no pursuit should be instituted in view of the happenings of the day. they voted to reëstablish the former wage of the national dock-yard workers, but declared themselves unable to undertake the revolutionary measures proposed by the committee of safety of france, as these were outside their legal province. in the meantime bakounin was undergoing an experience far from pleasant, if we are to judge from the account which he gives in a letter written the following day: "some used me brutally in all sorts of ways, jostling me about, pushing me, pinching me, twisting my arms and hands. i must, however, admit that others cried: 'do not harm him.' in truth the bourgeoisie showed itself what it is everywhere: brutal and cowardly. for you know that i was delivered by some sharpshooters who put to flight three or four times their number of these heroic shopkeepers armed with their rifles. i was delivered, but of all the objects which had been stolen from me by these gentlemen i was able to find only my revolver. my memorandum book and my purse, which contained francs and some sous, without doubt stayed in the hands of these gentlemen.... i beg you to reclaim them in my name. you will send them to me when you have recovered them."[ ] as a matter of fact, it was at the instance of his follower, ozerof, that bakounin was finally delivered. when he came forth from the hôtel de ville, the committee of safety of france and its thousands of sympathizers had disappeared, and he found himself practically alone. he spent the night at the house of a friend, and departed for marseilles the next day, after writing the following letter to palix: "my dear friend, i do not wish to leave lyons without having said a last word of farewell to you. prudence keeps me from coming to shake hands with you for the last time. i have nothing more to do here. i came to lyons to fight or to die with you. i came because i am profoundly convinced that the cause of france has become again, at this supreme hour, ... the cause of humanity. i have taken part in yesterday's movement, and i have signed my name to the resolutions of the committee of safety of france, because it is evident to me that, after the real and certain destruction of all the administrative and governmental machinery, there is nothing but the immediate and revolutionary action of the people which can save france.... the movement of yesterday, if it had been successful ... could have saved lyons and france.... i leave lyons, dear friend, with a heart full of sadness and somber forebodings. i begin to think now that it is finished with france.... she will become a viceroyalty of germany. _in place of her living and real socialism,[g] we shall have the doctrinaire socialism of the germans_, who will say no more than the prussian bayonets will permit them to say. the bureaucratic and military intelligence of prussia, combined with the knout of the czar of st. petersburg, are going to assure peace and public order for at least fifty years on the whole continent of europe. farewell, liberty! farewell, socialism! farewell, justice for the people and the triumph of humanity! all that could have grown out of the present disaster of france. all that would have grown out of it if the people of france, if the people of lyons, had wished it."[ ] the insurrection at lyons and bakounin's decree abolishing the state amounted to very little in the history of the french republic. writing afterward to professor edward spencer beesly, karl marx comments on the events that had taken place in lyons: "at the beginning everything went well," he writes. "under the pressure of the section of the international, the republic had been proclaimed at lyons before it had been at paris. a revolutionary government was immediately established, namely the _commune_, composed in part of workmen belonging to the international, in part of bourgeois radical republicans.... but those blunderers, bakounin and cluseret, arrived at lyons and spoiled everything. both being members of the international, they had unfortunately enough influence to lead our friends astray. the hôtel de ville was taken, for a moment only, and very ridiculous decrees on the _abolition of the state_ and other nonsense were issued. you understand that the fact alone of a russian--whom the newspapers of the bourgeoisie represented as an agent of bismarck--pretending to thrust himself at the head of a _committee of safety of france_ was quite sufficient to change completely public opinion. as to cluseret, he behaved at once like an idiot and a coward. these two men left lyons after their failure."[ ] bakounin's so-called abolition of the state appealed to the humor of marx. he speaks of it in another place in these words: "then arrived the critical moment, the moment longed for since many years, when bakounin was able to accomplish the most revolutionary act the world has ever seen: he decreed the _abolition of the state_. but the state, in the form and aspect of two companies of national bourgeois guards, entered by a door which they had forgotten to guard, swept the hall, and caused bakounin to hasten back along the road to geneva."[ ] such indeed was the humiliating and vexatious ending of bakounin's dream of an immediate social revolution. his sole reward was to be jostled, pinched, and robbed. this was perhaps most tragic of all, especially when added to this injury there was the further indignity of allowing the father of terrorism to keep his revolver. the incident is one that george meredith should have immortalized in another of his "tragic comedians." however, although the insurrection at lyons was a complete failure, the commune of paris was really a spontaneous and memorable working-class uprising. the details of that insurrection, the legislation of the commune itself, and its violent suppression on may , , are not strictly germane to this chapter, because, in fact, the bakouninists played no part in it. in the case of lyons, the revolution maker was at work; in the case of paris, "the working class," says marx, "did not expect miracles from the commune. they have no ready-made utopias to introduce _par décret du peuple_. they know that in order to work out their own emancipation, and along with it that higher form to which present society is irresistibly tending, by its own economic agencies, they will have to pass through long struggles, through a series of historic processes, transforming circumstances and men."[h] but, while marx wrote in this manner of the paris commune, he evidently had in mind men of the type of bakounin when he declared: "in every revolution there intrude, at the side of its true agents, men of a different stamp; some of them survivors of and devotees to past revolutions, ... others mere bawlers, who by dint of repeating year after year the same set of stereotyped declamations against the government of the day have sneaked into the reputation of revolutionists of the first water. after the th of march some such men turned up, and in some cases contrived to play preeminent parts. as far as their power went, they hampered the real action of the working class, exactly as men of that sort have hampered the full development of every previous revolution. they are an unavoidable evil; with time they are shaken off; but time was not allowed to the commune."[ ] the despair of bakounin over the miserable ending of his great plans for the salvation of france had, of course, disappeared long before the revolution broke out in spain, and he easily persuaded himself that his presence there was absolutely necessary to insure its success. "i have always felt and thought," he wrote in the _mémoire justificatif_, "that the most desirable end for me would be to fall in the midst of a great revolutionary storm."[ ] consequently, in the summer of the year , when the uprising gave promise of victory to the insurgents, bakounin decided that he must go and, to do so, that he must have money. bakounin then wrote to his wealthy young disciple, cafiero, in a symbolic language which they had worked out between them, declaring his intention of going to spain and asking him to furnish the necessary money for his expenses. as usual, bakounin became melodramatic in his effort to work upon the impressionable cafiero, and, as he put it afterward in the _mémoire justificatif_, "i added a prayer that he would become the protector of my wife and my children, in case i should fall in spain."[ ] cafiero, who at this time worshiped bakounin, pleaded with him not to risk his precious life in spain. he promised to do everything possible for his family in case he persisted in going, but he sent no money, whether because he did not have it or because he did not wish bakounin to go is not clear. bakounin now wrote to guillaume that he was greatly disappointed not to be able to take part in the spanish revolution, but that it was impossible for him to do so without money. guillaume admits that he was not convinced of the absolute necessity of bakounin's presence in spain, but, nevertheless, since he desired to go there, guillaume offered to secure for him fifteen hundred francs to make the journey. on the receipt of this news, bakounin answered guillaume that the sum would be wholly insufficient. if, however, the spanish revolution was forced to proceed without bakounin, his influence in that country was not wanting. in the year the spanish sections of the international were among the largest and most numerous in europe. at the time of the congress of cordova, which assembled at the close of the year , three hundred and thirty-one sections with over twenty-five thousand members expressed themselves in favor of "anarchist and collectivist" principles. the trade unions were very active, and they formed the basis of the spanish movement. they had numerous organs of propaganda, and the general unrest, both political and economic, led for a time to an extraordinary development in revolutionary ideas. on february , , the king abdicated and a republic was proclaimed. insurrections broke out in all parts of spain. at barcelona, cartagena, murcia, cadiz, seville, granada, and valencia there existed a state of civil war, while throughout the industrial districts strikes were both frequent and violent. demands were made on all sides for shorter hours and increase of wages. at alcoy ten thousand workingmen declared a general strike, and, when the municipal authorities opposed them, they took the town by storm. in some cases the strikers lent their support to the republicans; in other cases they followed the ideas of bakounin, and openly declared they had no concern for the republic. the changes in the government were numerous. indeed, for three years spain, politically and industrially, was in a state of chaos. at times the revolt of the workers was suppressed with the utmost brutality. their leaders were arrested, their papers suppressed, and their meetings dispersed with bloodshed. at other times they were allowed to riot for weeks if the turbulence promised to aid the intrigues of the politicians. a lively discussion took place as to the wisdom of the tactics employed by the anarchists in spain. frederick engels severely criticised the position of the bakouninists in two articles which he published in the _volksstaat_. he reviewed the events that had taken place during the summer of , and he condemned the folly of the anarchists, who had refused to coöperate with the other revolutionary forces in spain. in his opinion, the workers were simply wasting their energy and lives in pursuit of a distant and unattainable end. "spain is a country so backward industrially," he wrote, "that it cannot be a question there of the immediate complete emancipation of the workers. before arriving at that stage, spain will still have to pass through diverse phases of development and struggle against a whole series of obstacles. the republic furnished the means of passing through these phases most rapidly and of removing these obstacles most quickly. but, to accomplish that, the spanish proletariat would have had to launch boldly into active _politics_. the mass of the working people realized this, and everywhere demanded that they should take part in what was happening, that they should profit by the opportunities to act, instead of leaving, as formerly, the field free to the action and intrigues of the possessing classes. the government ordered elections for the cortès members. what position should the international take? the leaders of the bakouninists were in the greatest dilemma. a continued political inactivity appeared more ridiculous and more impossible from day to day. the workers wanted to 'see deeds.' on the other hand, the _alliancistes_ (bakouninists) had preached for years that one ought not to take part in any revolution that had not for its end the immediate and entire emancipation of the workers, that participation in any political action constituted an acceptance of the principle of the state, that source of all evil, and that especially taking part in any election was a mortal sin."[ ] the anarchists were of course very bitter over this attack on their policies, and they concluded that the socialists had become reactionaries who no longer sought the emancipation of the working class. they were more than incensed at the reference engels had made to an act of the insurgents of cartagena, who, in order to gain allies in their struggle, had armed the convicts of a prison, "eighteen hundred villains, the most dangerous robbers and murderers of spain."[ ] according to engels' information, this infamous act had been undertaken upon the advice of bakounin, but, whether or not that is true, it was a fatal mistake that brought utter disaster to the insurgents. certainly of this fact there can be no question--the divisions among the revolutionary forces in spain, which engels deplored, resulted, after many months of fighting, in returning to power the most reactionary elements in spain. and this was foreseen, as even before the end of the summer bakounin had despaired of success. in his opinion, the spanish revolution miscarried miserably, "for want," as he afterward wrote, "of energy and revolutionary spirit in the leaders as well as in the masses. and all the rest of the world was plunged," he lamented, "into the most dismal reaction."[ ] france and spain, having now failed to launch the universal revolution, bakounin's hopes turned to italy, where a series of artificial uprisings among the almost famished peasants was being stirred up by his followers. their greatest activity was during the first two weeks in august of the next year, , and the three main centers were bologna, romagna, and apulia. in spite of the fact that the followers of mazzini were opposed to the international, an attempt was made in the summer of by some italian socialists (celso cerretti among others), to effect a union in order that by common action they might work more advantageously against the monarchy. garibaldi, to whom these socialists appealed, at first disapproved of any reconciliation with bakounin and his friends, but later allowed himself to be persuaded. a meeting of the mazzinian leaders to discuss the matter convened august at the village of ruffi. the older members were opposed to all common action, while the younger elements desired it. however, before an agreement was reached, twenty-eight mazzinians were arrested, among them saffi, fortis, and valzania. three days later, the police succeeded in arresting andrea costa, for whom they had been searching for more than a year on account of his participation in the international congress at geneva. although these events were something of a setback, the revolutionists decided that they had gone too far to retreat. it was then that bakounin wrote: "and now, my friends, there remains nothing more for me but to die. farewell!"[ ] on the way to italy he wrote to his friend, guillaume, saying good-by to him and announcing, without explanation, that he was journeying to italy to take part in a struggle from which he would not return alive. on his arrival in that country, however, he carefully concealed himself in a small house where only the revolutionary "intimates" could see him. the nights of august and had been chosen for the insurrection which was to burst forth in bologna and thence to extend, first to romagna, and afterward to the marches and tuscany. a group of bologna insurgents, reinforced by about three thousand others from romagna, were to enter bologna by the san felice gate. another group would enter the arsenal, the doors of which would be opened by two non-commissioned officers, and take possession of the arms and ammunition, carrying them to the church of santa annunziata, where all the guns should be stored. at certain places in the city material was already gathered with which to improvise barricades. one hundred republicans had promised to take part in the movement, not as a group, but individually. on the th copies of the proclamation of the italian committee for the social revolution were distributed throughout the city, calling the masses to arms and urging the soldiers to make common cause with the people. during the nights of the th and th, groups from bologna assembled at the appointed places of meeting outside the walls, but the romagna comrades did not come, or at least came in very small numbers. those from imola were surrounded in their march, some being arrested and others being forced to retreat. at dawn the insurgents who had gathered under the walls of bologna dispersed, some taking refuge in the mountains. bakounin had been alone during the night, and became convinced that the insurrection had failed. he was trying to make up his mind to commit suicide, when his friend, silvio, arrived and told him that all was not lost and that perhaps other attempts might yet be made. the following day bakounin was removed to another retreat of greater safety, as numerous arrests had been made at bologna, imola, romagna, the marches, as well as in florence, rome, and other parts of italy. about the same time a conspiracy similar to that undertaken at bologna was launched by enrico malatesta and some friends in apulia. a heavy chest of guns had been dispatched from tarentum to a station in the province of bari, from which it was carried on a cart to the old château of _castel del monte_, which had been chosen as the rendezvous. "many hundreds of conspirators," malatesta recounts, "had promised to meet at _castel del monte_. i arrived, but of all those who had sworn to be there we found ourselves six. no matter. we opened the box of arms and found it was filled with old percussion guns, but that made no difference. we armed ourselves and declared war on the italian army. we roamed the country for some days, trying to gain over the peasants, but meeting with no response. the second day we met eight _carabinieri_, who opened fire on us and imagined that we were very numerous. three days later we discovered that we were surrounded by soldiers. there remained only one thing to do. we buried the guns and decided to disperse. i hid myself in a load of hay, and thus succeeded in escaping from the dangerous region."[ ] an attempt at insurrection also took place in romagna, but it appears to have been limited to cutting the telegraph wires between bologna and imola. back of all the italian riots lay a serious economic condition. the peasants were in very deep distress, and it was not difficult for the bakouninists to stir them to revolt. the _bulletin_ of the jura federation of august informs us: "during the last two years there have been about sixty riots produced by hunger; but the rioters, in their ignorance, only bore a grudge against the immediate monopolists, and did not know how to discern the fundamental causes of their misery."[ ] this is all too plainly shown in the events of . beyond giving the bakouninists a chance to play at revolution, there is little significance in the italian uprisings of that year. the failure of the various insurrections in france, spain, and italy was, naturally enough, discouraging to bakounin and his followers. the commune of paris was the one uprising that had made any serious impression upon the people, and it was the one wherein the bakouninists had played no important part. the others had failed miserably, with no other result than that of increasing the power of reaction, while discouraging and disorganizing the workers. even bakounin had now reached the point where he was thoroughly disillusioned, and he wrote to his friends that he was exhausted, disheartened, and without hope. he desired, he said, to withdraw from the movement which made him the object of the persecutions of the police and the calumnies of the jealous. the whole world was in the evening of a black reaction, he thought, and he wrote to the truest and most devoted of all that loyal circle of swiss workmen, james guillaume, that the time for revolutionary struggles was past and that europe had entered into a period of profound reaction, of which the present generation would probably not see the end. "he urged me," relates guillaume, "to imitate himself and 'to make my peace with the bourgeoisie.'"[ ] "it is useless," are bakounin's words, "to wish obstinately to obtain the impossible. it is necessary to recognize reality and to realize that, for the moment, the popular masses do not wish socialism. and, if some tipplers of the mountains desire on this account to accuse you of treason, you will have for yourself the witness of your conscience and the esteem of your friends."[ ] in july, , bakounin retired to an estate that had been bought for him through the generosity of cafiero, on the route from locarno to bellinzona, and for the next few months lavish expenditures were made in the construction and reconstruction of an establishment where the "intimates" could be entertained. that fall bakounin wrote to the jura federation, announcing his retreat from public life and requesting it to accept his resignation. "for acting in this way," he wrote, "i have many reasons. do not believe that it is principally on account of the personal attacks of which i have been made the object these last years. i do not say that i am absolutely insensible to such. however, i would feel myself strong enough to resist them if i thought that my further participation in your work and in your struggles could aid in the triumph of the cause of the proletariat. but i do not think so. "by my birth and my personal position, and doubtless by my sympathies and my tendencies, i am only a bourgeois, and, as such, i could not do anything else among you but propaganda. well, i have a conviction that the time for great theoretical discourses, whether printed or spoken, is past. in the last nine years there have been developed within the international more ideas than would be necessary to save the world, if ideas alone could save it, and i defy anybody to invent a new one."[ ] this letter in reality marks the end of bakounin's activity in the revolutionary movement. after squandering most of cafiero's fortune, bakounin sought a martyr's death in italy, but in this, as in all his other exploits, he was unsuccessful. and from that time on to his death his life is a humiliating story as he sought here and there the necessary money for his livelihood. nearly always he had been forced to live from hand to mouth. money, money, money was the burden of hundreds of his letters. in order to obtain funds he had resorted to almost every possible plan. he had accepted money in advance from publishers for books which he had never had time to write. from time to time he would find an almoner to care for him, only in the end to lose him through his importunate and exacting demands. an account is given by guillaume of what i believe is the last meeting between bakounin and certain of his old friends in september, . ross, cafiero, spichiger, and guillaume met bakounin in a hotel at neuchâtel. guillaume, it appears, was cold and unfeeling; cafiero and ross said nothing, while spichiger wept silently in a corner. "the explicit declaration made by me ..." says guillaume, "took away from bakounin at the very beginning all hope of a change in our estimation of him. it was also a question of money in this last interview. we offered to assure to our old friend a monthly pension of francs, expressing the hope that he would continue to write, but he refused to accept anything. as a set-off, he asked cafiero to loan him , francs (no longer , ), ... and cafiero replied that he would do it. then we separated sadly."[ ] on the first of july, , bakounin, after a brief illness, died at bern at the house of his old friend, dr. vogt. the press of europe printed various comments upon his life and work. the anarchists wrote their eulogies, while the socialists generally deplored the ruinous and disrupting tactics that bakounin had employed in the international working men's association. this story will be told later, but it is well to mention here that since an unbridgeable chasm had opened itself between the anarchists and the socialists. when they first came together in the international there was no clear distinction between them, but, after bakounin was expelled from that organization in , at the hague, his followers frankly called themselves anarchists, while the followers of marx called themselves socialists. in principles and tactics they were poles apart, and the bitterness between them was at fever heat. the anarchists took the principles of bakounin and still further elaborated them, while his methods were developed from conspiratory insurrections to individual acts of violence. while the idea of the propaganda of the deed is to be found in the writings of bakounin and nechayeff, it was left to others to put into practice that doctrine. for the next thirty years the principles and ideals of anarchism made no appreciable headway, but the deeds of the anarchists became the talk and, to a degree, the terror of the world. footnotes: [g] previous to , socialism was used by robert owen and his followers, as well as by many french idealists, to mean phalansteries, colonies, or other voluntary communal undertakings. marx and engels at first called themselves "communists," and were thus distinguished from these earlier socialists. during the period of the international all its members began more and more to call themselves "socialists." the word, anarchism, was rarely used. as a matter of fact, it was the struggle in the international which eventually clarified the views of both anarchists and socialists and made clear the distinctions now recognized between communism, anarchism, and socialism. see chapter viii, _infra_. [h] this is from "the commune of paris," which was read by marx to the general council of the international on may , two days after the last of the combatants of the commune were crushed by superior numbers on the heights of belleville. chapter iii the propaganda of the deed the insurrections in france and spain were on the whole spontaneous uprisings, but those disturbances in italy in which the anarchists played a part were largely the result of agitation. of course, adverse political and economic conditions were the chief causes of that general spirit of unrest which was prevalent in the early seventies in all the latin countries, but after the numerous riots in which the anarchists were active were almost entirely the work of enthusiasts who believed they could make revolutions. the results of the previous uprisings had a terribly depressing effect upon nearly all the older men, but there were four youths attached to bakounin's insurrectionary ideas whose spirits were not bowed down by what had occurred. carlo cafiero, enrico malatesta, paul brousse, and prince kropotkin were at the period of life when action was a joyous thing, and they undertook to make history. cafiero we know as a young italian of very wealthy parents. malatesta "had left the medical profession and also his fortune for the sake of the revolution."[ ] paul brousse was of french parentage, and had already distinguished himself in medicine, but he cast it aside in his early devotion to anarchism. he had rushed to spain when the revolution broke out there, and he was always ready to go where-ever an opportunity offered itself for revolutionary activity. the russian prince, kropotkin, the fourth member of the group, was a descendant of the ruriks, and it was said sometimes, in jest, that he had more right to the russian throne than czar alexander ii. the fascinating story of his life is told in the "memoirs of a revolutionist," but modesty forbade him to say that no one since bakounin has exercised so great an influence as himself over the principles and tactics of anarchism. kropotkin first visited switzerland in , when he came in close contact with the men of the jura federation. a week's stay with the bakouninists converted him, he says, to anarchism.[ ] he then returned to st. petersburg, and shortly after entered the famous circle of tchaykovsky, and, as a result of his revolutionary activity, he was arrested and imprisoned in the fortress of st. peter and st. paul. after his thrilling escape from prison, in , kropotkin returned to switzerland, and for several years gave himself up entirely to the cause of anarchism. these four young men, all far removed by training and position from the working class, after the death of bakounin, devised the propaganda of the deed, a method of agitation that was destined to become famous throughout the world. hitherto the bakouninists had all been firmly convinced that the masses were ready to rise at a moment's notice in order to tear down the existing governments. they were obsessed with the idea that only a spark was needed to set the whole world into a general conflagration. but repeated failures taught them that the masses were inclined to make very little sacrifice for the sake of communism and that stupendous efforts were needed to create a revolution. it appeared to them, therefore, that the propaganda of words and of theories was of little avail. consequently, these four youths, with their friends, set out to spread knowledge by acts of violence. of course, they had not entirely given up the hope that a minority could, by a series of well-planned assaults, gradually sweep in after them the masses. but even should they fail in that, they felt that they must strike at the enemy, though they stood alone. whatever happened, they argued, the acts themselves would prove of great propaganda value. even the trials would enable them to use the courts as a tribune, and the bourgeois press itself would print their words and spread throughout the world their doctrines. in the _bulletin_ of the jura federation, december , , cafiero and malatesta wrote: "the great majority of italian socialists are grouped about the program of the italian federation--a program which is anarchist, collectivist, and revolutionary. and the small number who, up to the present, have remained on the outside--the dupes of intrigues and lies--are all beginning to enter our organization. we do not refer to a small group who, influenced by personal considerations and reactionary ends, are trying to establish a propaganda which they call 'gradual and peaceful.' these have already been judged in the opinion of the italian socialists and represent nothing but themselves. "the italian federation believes that the _insurrectionary deed_, destined to affirm socialist principles by acts, is the most efficacious means of propaganda."[ ] the next year paul brousse originated the famous phrase, the propaganda of the deed. he reviews in the _bulletin_ the various methods of propaganda which had previously been employed. "propaganda from individual to individual, propaganda by mass meeting or conference, propaganda by newspaper, pamphlet, or book--these means," he declares, "are adapted only to theoretical propaganda. besides, they become more and more difficult to employ in any efficacious fashion in the presence of those means possessed by the bourgeoisie, with its orators, trained at the bar and knowing how to wheedle the popular assemblies, and with its venal press which calumniates and disguises everything."[ ] in the opinion of brousse, the workers, "laboring most of the time eleven and twelve hours a day ... return home so exhausted by fatigue that they have little desire to read socialist books and newspapers."[ ] rejecting thus all other methods of propaganda, brousse concludes that "the propaganda of the deed is a powerful means of awakening the popular conscience."[ ] kropotkin was even more enthusiastic over this new method of education. "a single deed," he declared, "makes more propaganda in a few days than a thousand pamphlets. the government defends itself, it rages pitilessly; but by this it only causes further deeds to be committed by one or more persons, and drives the insurgents to heroism. one deed brings forth another; opponents join the mutiny; the government splits into factions; harshness intensifies the conflict; concessions come too late; the revolution breaks out."[ ] here at last is the famous propaganda of the deed, destined to such tragic ends. it owes its inspiration, of course, to the teachings of bakounin, and we find among these youths the same contempt for words and theories that bakounin himself had, and they proposed, in the words of bakounin, "to destroy something--a person, a cause, a condition that hinders the emancipation of the people."[ ] consequently, they undertook immediately to carry into effect these new theories of propaganda, and during the year they organized two important demonstrations, the avowed purpose of which was to show anarchism in action. the first event, which occurred at bern, march , under the leadership of paul brousse, was a manifestation to celebrate the anniversary of the proclamation of the commune. all the members of the jura federation were invited to take part, and the red flag was to be unfurled. among the most conspicuous in this demonstration were brousse, werner, chopard, schwitzguébel, kropotkin, pindy, jeallot, ferré, spichiger, guillaume, and george plechanoff, recently arrived from st. petersburg. the participants became mixed up in a violent affray in the streets, blows were exchanged between them and the police, but in the effort to tear away the red flags many of the gendarmes were wounded. the climax came on august of the same year, when twenty-five of the _manifestants_ appeared before the correctional tribunal of bern, accused "( ) of participation in a brawl with deadly instruments, ( ) of resisting, by means of force, the employees of the police." most of the prisoners were condemned to imprisonment, the terms varying from ten days to two months. james guillaume was condemned to forty days, brousse to a month. the latter and five other convicted foreigners were also banished for three years from the canton of bern.[ ] the second of these demonstrations took place in april in the form of an insurrectionary movement of the internationalists of italy. they chose the massive group of mountains which border on the province of bénévent for the scene of their operations, and made naples their headquarters. during the whole of the preceding winter they were occupied in making their preparations, and endeavoring to gain the support of the peasants of the near-by villages. they instructed all those who joined their cause from emilia, romagna, and tuscany to be ready for action the beginning of april, as soon as the snow disappeared from the summits of the apennines. according to information furnished by malatesta to guillaume, on april and they journeyed from san lupo (province of bénévent) into the region at the south of the malta mountains (province of caserte). on the th they attacked the communes of letino and gallo, burned the archives of the first named, pillaged the treasury of the preceptor, and burned the parish house of the second. on the th and th they tried to penetrate the other communes, but in vain, for they found them all occupied by troops sent directly by the government to oppose them. their provisions were exhausted, and they would have bought a fresh supply in the village of venafro, only the soldiers gave the alarm and pursued the band as far as a wood, in which they hid themselves. all of the th was spent in a long march through rain and snow. the jaded band was finally surprised and captured in a sheepfold, where they had sought shelter for that night. two of the revolutionists escaped, but were recaptured a short time afterward. they were confined in the prison of santa-maria capua visere, to the number of thirty-seven, among them being cafiero, malatesta, ceccarelli, lazzari, fortini (curé of letino), tomburri vincenzo (curé of gallo), starnari, and others. on december the chamber of arraignment of naples rendered its decision. the two priests and a man who had served as guide to the insurgents were exempted from punishment, but the thirty-four others were sent before the court of assizes on the charge of conspiracy against the security of the state. as these were political crimes, which were covered by a recent amnesty, there remained only the murder of a carabineer, of which the court of assizes of bénévent finally acquitted cafiero, malatesta, and their friends in august, .[ ] by the above series of events the propaganda of the deed was launched, and from this day on it became a recognized method of propaganda. neither money, nor organization, nor literature was any longer absolutely necessary. one human being in revolt with torch or dynamite was able to instruct the world. bakounin and nechayeff had written their principles, and had, in fact, in some measure, endeavored to carry them into effect. but the propaganda of the deed was no more evolved as a principle of action than these four daring youths put it into practice. in the next few years it became the chief expression of anarchism, and little by little it made the very name of anarchism synonymous with violence and crime. surely these four zealous youths could hardly have devised a method of propaganda that could have served more completely to defeat their purpose. the year witnessed a series of violent acts which brought in their train serious consequences. in that year an attempt was made upon the life of king humbert of italy; and, while driving in berlin with his daughter, the grand duchess of baden, emperor william was shot at by a half-witted youth named hödel. three weeks later dr. karl nobiling fired at the emperor from an upper window overlooking the _unter den linden_. these assaults were made to serve as the pretext for a series of brutally repressive measures against the german socialists, although the authorities were unable to connect either hödel or nobiling with the anarchists or with the socialists. an excellent opportunity, however, had arrived to deal a crushing blow to socialism, and "bismarck used his powerful influence with the press," august bebel says, "in order to lash the public into a fanatical hatred of the social-democratic party. others who had an interest in the defeat of the party joined in, especially a majority of the employers. henceforth our opponents spoke of us exclusively as the party of assassins, or the 'ruin all' party--a party that wished to rob the masses of their faith in god, the monarchy, the family, marriage, and property."[ ] the attempt to destroy the german socialist organization was only one of the many repressive measures that were taken by the governments of europe in the midst of the panic. to the terrorism of the anarchists the governments responded by a terrorism of repression, and this in itself helped to establish murderous assaults as a method of propaganda. up to this time germany had been comparatively free from anarchist teachings. a number of the lassalleans had advocated violent methods. hasselmann had several years before launched the _red flag_, which advocated much that was not in harmony with socialism, and eventually the german socialist congress requested him to cease the publication of his paper. a few individuals without great influence had endeavored at various times to import bakounin's philosophy and methods into germany, but their propaganda bore no fruit whatever. it was only when the german government began to imitate the terrorism of the russian bureaucracy that a momentary passion for retaliation arose among the socialists. in fact, a few notable socialists went over to anarchism, frankly declaring their belief in terrorist tactics. and one of the most striking characters in the history of terrorism, johann most, was a product of bismarck's man-hunting policies and legal tyranny. nevertheless, those policies failed utterly to provoke the extensive retaliation which bismarck expected, although it was a german who, after five attempts had been made on the life of czar alexander ii. of russia--the last being successful--proposed at an anarchist congress in paris, in , the forcible removal of all the potentates of the earth. this was rejected by the paris conference as "at present not yet suitable,"[ ] although the idea proved attractive to some anarchists who even believed that a few daring assaults could so terrify the royal families of europe that they would be forced to abdicate their power. during the same period the anarchist movement was developing in austria-hungary. a number of anarchist newspapers were launched, and a ceaseless agitation was in progress under the guidance of peukert, stellmacher, and kammerer. most's _freiheit_ was smuggled into the country in large quantities and was read greedily. at the trial of merstallinger it was shown that the money for anarchist agitation was obtained by robbery. this discovery added to the bitterness of the fight going on between the socialists and the anarchists. the anarchists, however, overpowered their opponents, and everywhere secret printing presses were busily producing incendiary literature which advocated the murder of police officials and otherwise developed the tactics of terrorism. "at a secret conference at lang enzersdorf," says zenker, "a new plan of action was discussed and adopted, namely, to proceed with all means in their power to take action against 'exploiters and agents of authority,' to keep people in a state of continual excitement by such acts of terrorism, and to bring about the revolution in every possible way. this program was immediately acted upon in the murder of several police agents. on december , , at floridsdorf, a police official named hlubek was murdered, and the condemnation of rouget, who was convicted of the crime, on june , , was immediately answered the next day by the murder of the police agent blöct. the government now took energetic measures. by order of the ministry, a state of siege was proclaimed in vienna and district from january , , by which the usual tribunals for certain crimes and offences were temporarily suspended, and the severest repressive measures were exercised against the anarchists, so that anarchism in austria rapidly declined, and at the same time it soon lost its leaders. stellmacher and kammerer were executed, peukert escaped to england, most of the other agitators were fast in prison, the journals were suppressed and the groups broken up."[ ] while these events were taking place in austria, anarchist agitation was manifesting itself in several great strikes that broke out in the industrial centers of southern france. at lyons, fournier, who shot his employer in the open street, was honored in a public meeting by the presentation of a revolver. a great demonstration was planned for paris, but, as there happened to be a review of troops on the day set, the anarchists decided to abandon the demonstration. in the autumn of the same year ( ), troubles arose in monceau-les-mines and at blanzy, where the workers were bent under a terrible capitalist and clerical domination. under the circumstances, the anarchist propaganda was very welcome, and it was only a short time until it produced an anti-religious demonstration. three or four hundred men, armed with pitchforks and revolvers, spread over the country, breaking the crosses and the statues of the virgin which were placed at the junctions of the roads. they called the working classes to arms and took as hostages landlords, curés, and functionaries. these riots were the childlike manifestations of exasperated and miserable men, destined in advance to failure. numerous arrests followed, and in the mines the workers suffered increased oppression. in the great silk industry of lyons was undergoing a serious crisis, and the misery among the weavers was intense. the anarchists were carrying on a big agitation led by kropotkin, gautier, bordas, bernard, and others. in the center of this city reduced almost to starvation there was, says kropotkin, an "underground café at the théâtre bellecour, which remained open all night, and where, in the small hours of the morning, one could see newspaper men and politicians feasting and drinking in company with gay women. not a meeting was held but some menacing allusion was made to that café, and one night a dynamite cartridge was exploded in it by an unknown hand. a worker who was occasionally there, a socialist, jumped to blow out the lighted fuse of the cartridge, and was killed, while a few of the feasting politicians were slightly wounded. next day a dynamite cartridge was exploded at the doors of a recruiting bureau, and it was said that the anarchists intended to blow up the huge statue of the virgin which stands on one of the hills of lyons."[ ] a panic seized the wealthier classes of the city, and some sixty anarchists were arrested, including kropotkin. a great trial, known as the _procès des anarchistes de lyons_, ensued, which lasted many weeks. at the conclusion only three out of the entire number were acquitted. although nearly all the anarchists were condemned, the police of lyons were still searching for the author of the explosion. at last, cyvoct, a militant anarchist of lyons, was identified as the one who had thrown the bomb. cyvoct had first gone to switzerland, then to brussels, in the suburbs of which city he was finally arrested. he was given over to the french police, appeared before the court of assizes of the rhone, and was condemned to death. his sentence was afterward commuted to that of enforced labor, and in he was pardoned. on march , , the carpenters' union of paris called the unemployed to a meeting to be held on the _esplanade des invalides_. two groups of anarchists formed. one started toward the _Élysée_ and was scattered on its way by the police. the second went toward the suburb of saint-antoine. on the march many bakeries were robbed by the manifestants. arrived at _place maubert_, they clashed with a large force of police. as a result, many arrests were made. accused of inciting to pillage, louise michel and Émile pouget were condemned to several years' imprisonment. the same month, at monceau-les-mines and in paris, great demonstrations of the "unemployed" took place in the streets, combined with robbery and dynamite outrages, while in july there were sanguinary encounters with the armed forces in roubaix and elsewhere. again and again the populace was incited to rise against the bourgeoisie, "who (it was said) were indulging in festivities while they had condemned louise michel, the champion of the proletariat, to a cruel imprisonment."[ ] these are but a few instances of the activity of the anarchists at the end of the seventies and at the beginning of the eighties. they are perhaps sufficient to show that the propaganda of the deed was making headway in western europe. certainly in germany and austria its course was soon run, but in france, italy, spain, and even in belgium every strike was attended with violence. insurrections, dynamite outrages, assassinations--all played their part. at the same time the governments carried on a ferocious persecution, and the chief anarchists were driven from place to place and hunted as wild animals. police spies and _agents provocateurs_ swarmed over the labor, socialist, and anarchist movements, and at the slightest sign of an uprising the soldiers were brought out to shoot down the people. hardly a month went by without some "anarchist trouble," and many harmless strikes resulted in dreadful massacres. it was a tragic period, that reminds one again of the picture in dante in which the two bitter enemies inflict upon each other cruel wounds in a fight that on both sides was inspired by the deepest hatred. chapter iv johann most in america while the above events were transpiring in the latin countries, the bakouninists were keeping a sharp eye on america as a land of hopeful possibilities. as early as bakounin himself considered the matter of coming here, while kropotkin and guillaume followed with interest the labor disturbances that were at that time so numerous and so violent in this country. the panic of had caused widespread suffering among the working classes. for several years afterward hordes of unemployed tramped the country. the masses were driven to desperation and, in their hunger, to frequent outbreaks of violence. when later a measure of prosperity returned, both the trade-union and the socialist movements began to attract multitudes of the discontented. the news of two important events in the labor world of america reached the anarchists of the jura and filled them, guillaume says, "with a lively emotion." in june, , kropotkin called attention to the act of the supreme court of the united states in declaring unconstitutional the eight-hour law on government work. he was especially pleased with an article in the _labor standard_ of new york, which declared: "this will teach the workers not to put their confidence in congress and to trust only in their own efforts. no law of congress could be of any use to the worker if he is not so organized that he can enforce it. and, if the workers are strong enough to do that, if they succeed in solidly forming the federation of their trade organizations, then they will be able, not only to force the legislators to make efficacious laws on the hours of work, on inspection, etc., but they will also be able to make the law themselves, deciding that henceforth no worker in the country shall work more than eight hours a day." "it is the good, practical sense of an american which says that,"[ ] comments kropotkin. this act of the supreme court and this statement of the _labor standard_ were very welcome news to the anarchists. they were convinced that the americans had abandoned political action and were turning to what they had already begun to call "direct action." another event, a month later, added to this conviction. in its issue of july the _bulletin_ published this article: "'following a strike of the machinists of the baltimore & ohio railroad, a popular insurrection has burst forth in the states of maryland, west virginia, pennsylvania, and ohio. if at martinsburg (west virginia) the workmen have been conquered by the militia, at baltimore (maryland), a city of , inhabitants, they have been victorious. they have taken possession of the station and have burned it, together with all the wagons of petroleum which were there. at pittsburgh (pennsylvania), a city of , inhabitants, the workers are at the present time masters of the city, after having seized guns and cannon.... the strike is extending to the near-by railroads and is gaining in the direction of the pacific. great agitation reigns in new york. it is announced that the troops will concentrate, that sheridan has been named commander, and that the western states have offered their help.' in the following number, a detailed article, written by kropotkin, recounted the _dénouement_ of the crisis, the recovery of pittsburgh, where two thousand wagons loaded with merchandise had been burned, the repression and the disarray of the strikers following the treachery of the miserable false brothers, and the final miscarriage of the movement. but if there had been, in this attempt of popular insurrection, weak sides that had brought about the failure, kropotkin rightly praised the qualities of which the american working people had just given proof: 'this movement will have certainly impressed profoundly the proletariat of europe and excited its admiration. its spontaneity, its simultaneousness at so many distant points communicating only by telegraph, the aid given by the workers of different trades, the resolute character of the uprising from the beginning, call forth all our sympathies, excite our admiration, and awaken our hopes.... but the blood of our brothers of america shall not have flowed in vain. their energy, their union in action, their courage will serve as an example to the proletariat of europe. but would that this flowing of noble blood prove once again the blindness of those who amuse the people with the plaything of parliamentarism when the powder magazine is ready to take fire, unknown to them, at the fall of the least spark.'"[ ] the news of industrial troubles, such as the above, convinced the anarchist elements of europe that america was ripe for direct action and the revolution. and it was indeed this period of profound industrial unrest that gave a forward impulse to all radical movements in the late seventies. socialist newspapers sprang up in all parts of the country, and both socialist and trade-union organizations took on an immense development. riots, minor insurrections, and strikes were symptoms of an all-pervading discontent. simultaneously with this, many revolutionists, upon being expelled from germany, were injected into the ferment. with many other refugees, the germans then began to form revolutionary clubs, and, in , johann most appeared in the united states scattering broadcast the terrorist ideas of bakounin and nechayeff. most was perhaps the most fiery personality that appeared in the ranks of the anarchists after the death of bakounin. a cruel stepmother, a pitiless employer, a long sickness, and an operation which left his face deformed forever are some of the incidents of his unhappy childhood. he received a poor education, but read extensively, and as a bookbinder worked at his trade in germany, austria, italy, and switzerland. he became attached to the labor movement toward the end of the sixties, and was elected to the german reichstag in . forced to leave germany as a result of the anti-socialist law, he went to london, where he established _die freiheit_, at first a social-democratic paper, which was smuggled into germany. he became, however, more and more violent, and in , at a secret gathering of the german socialists at wyden in switzerland, he and his friend hasselmann were expelled from the germany party. after this he no longer attempted to conceal his anarchist sympathies, and in the _freiheit_, on the platform, and on every possible occasion he preached principles almost identical with those of nechayeff and bakounin. in a pamphlet on the scientific art of revolutionary warfare and of dynamiters he prescribes in detail where bombs should be placed in churches, palaces, and ball-rooms.[i] he advises wholly individual action, in order that the groups may suffer as little harm as possible. his pamphlet also contains a dictionary of poisons which may be usefully employed against politicians, traitors, and spies. "extirpate the miserable brood!" he writes in _die freiheit_; "extirpate the wretches! thus runs the refrain of a revolutionary song of the working classes, and this will be the exclamation of the executive of a victorious proletariat army when the battle has been won. for at the critical moment the executioner's block must ever be before the eyes of the revolutionist. either he is cutting off the heads of his enemies or his own is being cut off. science gives us means which make it possible to accomplish the wholesale destruction of these beasts quietly and deliberately." elsewhere he says, "those of the reptile brood who are not put to the sword remain as a thorn in the flesh of the new society; hence it would be both foolish and criminal not to annihilate utterly this race of parasites."[ ] it was this cheerful individual who, after being expelled from the german socialist party, made prodigious efforts to establish revolutionary organizations all over europe. in london he captured the communist working men's educational society, despite the protest of a considerable minority, and through it he undertook to launch other revolutionary clubs. the parliamentary socialists were bitterly assailed, and a congress was held in paris and a later one in london for the purpose of uniting the revolutionists of all countries. according to zenker, the headquarters of the association were at london, and sub-committees were formed to act in paris, geneva, and new york. money was to be collected "for the purchase of poison and weapons, as well as to find places suitable for laying mines, and so on. to attain the proposed end, the annihilation of all rulers, ministers of state, nobility, the clergy, the most prominent capitalists, and other exploiters, any means are permissible, and therefore great attention should be given specially to the study of chemistry and the preparation of explosives, as being the most important weapons. together with the chief committee in london there will also be established an executive bureau, whose duty is to carry out the decisions of the chief committee and to conduct correspondence."[ ] after these attempts to establish an anarchist international, most sailed for new york. some of his ideas had preceded him, and when he arrived he was met and greeted by masses of german workingmen. miss emma goldman, in "anarchism and other essays," tells us of the impression he made upon her. "some twenty-one years ago," she says, "i heard the first great anarchist speaker--the inimitable john most. it seemed to me then, and for many years after, that the spoken word hurled forth among the masses with such wonderful eloquence, such enthusiasm and fire, could never be erased from the human mind and soul. how could any one of all the multitudes who flocked to most's meetings escape his prophetic voice!"[ ] at the time of most's arrival the american socialist movement was hopelessly divided over questions of methods and tactics. already there had been bitter quarrels between those in the movement who had formed secret drilling organizations which were preparing for a violent revolution, and those others who sought by education, organization, and political action to achieve their demands. in the year a number of new york members had left the socialist organization and formed a revolutionary group, and in october of the following year a convention was held to organize the various revolutionary groups into a national organization. everything was favorable for most, and when he arrived it was not long, with his magnetic personality and fiery agitation, until he had swept out of existence the older socialist organizations. in representatives from twenty-six cities met in pittsburgh to form the revolutionary socialist and anarchist groups into one body, called the "international working people's association." the same year a dismal socialist convention was held in baltimore with only sixteen delegates attending. they attempted to stem the tide to terrorism by declaring: "we do not share the folly of the men who consider dynamite bombs as the best means of agitation. we know full well that a revolution must take place in the heads and in the industrial life of men before the working class can achieve lasting success."[ ] the tide, however, was not stayed. the advocates of direct action continued headlong toward the bitter climax at the haymarket in chicago in . just previous to that fatal catastrophe, a series of great strikes had occurred in and about that city. at the mccormick reaper works a crowd of men was being addressed by spies, an anarchist, when the "scabs" left the factory. a pitched battle ensued. the police were called, and, when they were assaulted with stones, they opened fire on the crowd, shooting indiscriminately men, women, and children, killing six and wounding many more. spies, full of rage, hurried to the office of _arbeiter zeitung_, the anarchist paper, and composed the proclamation to the workingmen of chicago which has since become famous as "the revenge circular." it called upon the workingmen to arm themselves and to avenge the brutal murder of their brothers. five thousand copies of the circular, printed in english and german, were distributed in the streets. the next evening, may , , a mass meeting was called at the haymarket. about two thousand working people attended the meeting. the mayor of the city went in person to hear the addresses, and later testified that he had reported to captain bonfield, at the nearest police station, that "nothing had occurred nor was likely to occur to require interference." nevertheless, after mayor harrison had gone, captain bonfield sent one hundred and seventy-six policemen to march upon the little crowd that remained. captain ward, the officer in charge, commanded the meeting to disperse, and, as fielden, one of the speakers, retorted that the meeting was a peaceable one, a dynamite bomb was thrown from an adjoining alley that killed several policemen and wounded many more. in the agitation that led up to the haymarket tragedy, dynamite had always been glorified as the poor man's weapon. it was the power that science had given to the weak to protect them from injustice and tyranny. as powder and the musket had destroyed feudalism, so dynamite would destroy capitalism. in the issue of the _freiheit_, march , , most printed an article called "revolutionary principles." many of the phrases are evidently taken from the "catechism" of bakounin and nechayeff, and the sentiments are identical. during all this period great meetings were organized to glorify some martyr who, by the propaganda of the deed, had committed some great crime. for instance, vast meetings were organized in honor of stellmacher and others who had murdered officers of the viennese police. at one of these meetings most declared that such acts should not be called murder, because "murder is the killing of a human being, and i have never heard that a policeman was a human being."[ ] when august reinsdorf was executed for an attempt on the life of the german emperor, most's _freiheit_ appeared with a heavy black border. "one of our noblest and best is no more," he laments. "in the prison yard at halle under the murderous sword of the criminal hohenzollern band, on the th of february, august reinsdorf ended a life full of battle and of self-sacrificing courage, as a martyr to the great revolution."[ ] it was inevitable that such views should lead sooner or later to a tragedy, and, while most of the chicago anarchists were plain workingmen, simple and kindly, at least one fanatic in the group deserves to rank with nechayeff and most as an irreconcilable enemy of the existing order. this was louis lingg, whose last words as he was taken from the court were: "i repeat that i am the enemy of the 'order' of to-day, and i repeat that, with all my powers, so long as breath remains in me, i shall combat it. i declare again, frankly and openly, that i am in favor of using force. i have told captain schaack, and i stand by it, 'if you cannonade us, we shall dynamite you.' you laugh! perhaps you think, 'you'll throw no more bombs'; but let me assure you that i die happy on the gallows, so confident am i that the hundreds and thousands to whom i have spoken will remember my words; and, when you shall have hanged us, then, mark my words, they will do the bomb-throwing! in this hope i say to you: i despise you. i despise your order, your laws, your force-propped authority. hang me for it!"[ ] there are many minor incidents now quite forgotten that played a part in this american terrorism. benjamin r. tucker, of new york, himself an anarchist, but not an advocate of terrorist tactics, had in the midst of this period to cry out in protest against the acts of those who called themselves anarchists. in his paper, _liberty_, march , , tucker wrote on "the beast of communism."[ ] he began by quoting henri rochefort, who was reported to have said: "anarchists are merely criminals. they are robbers. they want no government whatever, so that, when they meet you on the street, they can knock you down and rob you."[ ] "this infamous and libelous charge," says tucker, "is a very sweeping one; i only wish that i could honestly meet it with as sweeping a denial. and i can, if i restrict the word anarchist as it always has been restricted in these columns, and as it ought to be restricted everywhere and always. confining the word anarchist so as to include none but those who deny all external authority over the individual, whether that of the present state or that of some industrial collectivity or commune which the future may produce, i can look henri rochefort in the face and say: 'you lie!' for of all these men i do not recall even one who, in any ordinary sense of the term, can be justly styled a robber. "but unfortunately, in the minds of the people at large, this word anarchist is not yet thus restricted in meaning. this is due principally to the fact that within a few years the word has been usurped, in the face of all logic and consistency, by a party of communists who believe in a tyranny worse than any that now exists, who deny to the laborer the individual possession of his product, and who preach to their followers the following doctrine: 'private property is your enemy; it is the beast that is devouring you; all wealth belongs to everybody; take it wherever you can find it; have no scruples about the means of taking it; use dynamite, the dagger, or the torch to take it; kill innocent people to take it; but, at all events, take it.' this is the doctrine which they call anarchy, and this policy they dignify with the name of 'propagandism by deed.' "well, it has borne fruit with most horrible fecundity. to be sure, it has gained a large mass of adherents, especially in the western cities, who are well-meaning men and women, not yet become base enough to practice the theories which they profess to have adopted. but it has also developed, and among its immediate and foremost supporters, a gang of criminals whose deeds for the past two years rival in 'pure cussedness' any to be found in the history of crime. were it not, therefore, that i have first, last, and always repudiated these pseudo-anarchists and their theories, i should hang my head in shame before rochefort's charge at having to confess that too many of them are not only robbers, but incendiaries and murderers. but, knowing as i do that no _real_ anarchist has any part or lot in these infamies, i do not confess the facts with shame, but reiterate them with righteous wrath and indignation, in the interest of my cause, for the protection of its friends, and to save the lives and possessions of any more weak and innocent persons from being wantonly destroyed or stolen by cold-blooded villains parading in the mask of reform. "yes, the time has come to speak. it is even well-nigh too late. within the past fortnight a young mother and her baby boy have been burned to death under circumstances which suggest to me the possibility that, had i made this statement sooner, their lives would have been saved; and, as i now write these lines, i fairly shudder at the thought that they may not reach the public and the interested parties before some new holocaust has added to the number of those who have already fallen victims. others who know the facts, well-meaning editors of leading journals of so-called communistic anarchism, may, from a sense of mistaken party fealty, bear longer the fearful responsibility of silence, if they will; for one i will not, cannot. i will take the other responsibility of exposure, which responsibility i personally and entirely assume, although the step is taken after conference upon its wisdom with some of the most trusted and active anarchists in america. "now, then, the facts. and they _are_ facts, though i state them generally, without names, dates, or details. "the main fact is this: that for nearly two years a large number of the most active members of the german group of the international working people's association in new york city, and of the social revolutionary club, another german organization in that city, have been persistently engaged in getting money by insuring their property for amounts far in excess of the real value thereof, secretly removing everything that they could, setting fire to the premises, swearing to heavy losses, and exacting corresponding sums from the insurance companies. explosion of kerosene lamps is usually the device which they employ. some seven or eight fires, at least, of this sort were set in new york and brooklyn in by members of the gang, netting the beneficiaries an aggregate profit of thousands of dollars. in nearly twenty more were set, with equally profitable results. the record for has reached six already, if not more. the business has been carried on with the most astonishing audacity. one of these men had his premises insured, fired them, and presented his bill of loss to the company within twenty-four hours after getting his policy, and before the agent had reported the policy to the company. the bill was paid, and a few months later the same fellow, under another name, played the game over again, though not quite so speedily. in one of the fires set in a woman and two children were burned to death. the two guilty parties in this case were members of the bohemian group and are now serving life sentences in prison. another of the fires was started in a six-story tenement house, endangering the lives of hundreds, but fortunately injuring no one but the incendiary. in one case in the firemen have saved two women whom they found clinging to their bed posts in a half-suffocated condition. in another a man, woman, and baby lost their lives. three members of the gang are now in jail awaiting trial for murdering and robbing an old woman in jersey city. two others are in jail under heavy bail and awaiting trial for carrying concealed weapons and assaulting an officer. they were walking arsenals, and were found under circumstances which lead to the suspicion that they were about to perpetrate a robbery, if not a murder. "the profits accruing from this 'propagandism by deed' are not even used for the benefit of the movement to which the criminals belong, but go to fill their own empty pockets, and are often spent in reckless, riotous living. the guilty parties are growing bolder and bolder, and, anticipating detection ultimately, a dozen or so of them have agreed to commit perjury in order to involve the innocent as accomplices in their crimes. it is their boast that the active anarchists shall all go to the gallows together." the history of terrorist tactics in america largely centers about the career of johann most. in august bebel's story of his life he speaks in high terms of the unselfish devotion and sterling character of most in his early days. "if later on," says bebel, "under the anti-socialist laws, he went astray and became an anarchist and an advocate of direct action, and finally, although he had been a model of abstinence, ended in the united states as a drunkard, it was all due to the anti-socialist laws, laws which drove him and many others from the country. had he remained under the influence of the men who were able to guide him and restrain his passionate temper, the party would have possessed in him a most zealous, self-sacrificing, and indefatigable fighter."[ ] most, then, was one of the victims of bismarck's savage policies, as were also nearly all the other germans who took part in the sordid crimes related by tucker. and the haymarket--the greatest of all american tragedies--leads directly back to the iron chancellor and his ferocious inquisition. a few minor incidents of anarchist activity may be recorded for the following years, but the only acts of importance were the shooting of president mckinley by czolgosz and the shooting of henry c. frick by alexander berkman. in the "prison memoirs of an anarchist," berkman has now told us that as a youth he became a disciple of bakounin and a fiery member of the nihilist group. it was after the homestead strike that berkman saw a chance to propagate his gospel by a deed. leaving his home in new york, he went to pittsburgh for the purpose of killing henry c. frick, then head of the carnegie steel company. berkman made his way into frick's office, shot at and slightly wounded him. in explanation of this act he says: "in truth, murder and _attentat_ (that is, political assassination) are to me opposite terms. to remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people."[ ] for this attempt on the life of frick, berkman was condemned to a term of imprisonment of twenty-two years. despite a few isolated outbreaks, it may be said, therefore, that the seeds of anarchism have never taken root in america, just as they have never taken root in germany or in england. to-day there are no active american terrorists and only a handful of avowed anarchists. in the latin countries, however, the deeds of terrorism still played a tragic part in the history of the next few years. footnote: [i] see _revolutionäre kriegswissenschaft_. chapter v a series of tragedies while johann most was sowing the seeds of terrorism in america, his comrades were actively at work in europe. and, if the tactics of most led eventually to petty thievery, somewhat the same degeneration was overtaking the propaganda of the deed in europe. up to robbery had not yet been adopted as a weapon of the latin revolutionists. in america, in austria, and in russia, the doctrine had been preached and, to a certain extent, practiced, but _l'affaire duval_ was responsible for its introduction into france. unlike most of the preceding demonstrations, the act of duval was essentially an individual one. on october , , a large house situated at rue de monceau, paris, and occupied by mme. herbelin and her daughter, mme. madeleine lemaire, the well-known artist, was robbed and half burned. some days later, clément duval and two accomplices, didier and houchard, were arrested as the perpetrators of this act. at first the matter was treated by the newspapers as an ordinary robbery. the _cri du peuple_ called it a simple burglary, followed by an incendiary attempt. but after some days, duval announced himself an anarchist and declared that his act was in harmony with his faith. on january and , , the case came before the court. the discussions were very heated. after m. fernand labori, then a very young advocate, who had been appointed to defend duval, had made his plea, duval became anxious to defend himself. he threatened, in leaving the prison, to blow up with dynamite the jury and the court, and heaped upon them most abusive language. the president ordered that he should be removed from the court. an enormous tumult then ensued in that part of the hall where the anarchists were massed. "help! help! comrades! long live anarchy!" cried duval. "long live anarchy!" answered his comrades. thirty guards led duval away, and the verdict was read in the presence of an armed force with fixed bayonets. he was condemned to death and his two accomplices acquitted. eight days afterward, on january , an indignation meeting against the condemnation of duval was organized by the anarchists, at which nearly , were present. tennevin, leboucher, and louise michel spoke in turn, glorifying duval. the opposition was taken by a blanquist, a normandy citizen, who censured the act of duval, because such acts, he said, throw discredit on the revolutionists and so retard the hour of the social revolution. duval's case was appealed to the highest court in france, but the appeal was rejected. the president of the republic, however, commuted his sentence of capital punishment to enforced labor. then followed a long period of discussions and violent controversies between the anarchists and the socialists over the whole affair. the anarchists claimed the right of theft on the grounds that it was the beginning of capitalist expropriation and that stolen wealth could aid in propaganda and action. the socialists, on the other hand, protested against this theory with extreme vigor. after duval, there is little noteworthy in the terrorist movement for a period of four years, but with may , , there began what is known as _la période tragique_. five notable figures, decamps, ravachol, vaillant, henry, and caserio, within a period of three years, performed a series of terrorist acts that cannot be forgotten. their utter desperation and abandon, the terrible solemnity of their lives, and the almost superhuman efforts they made to bring society to its knees mark the most tragic and heroic period in the history of anarchism. at levallois-perret a demonstration was organized by the anarchists for may . they brought out their red and black flags, and, when the police attempted to interfere and to take away their banners, they opened fire upon them. several fell injured, while others returned the fire. the fight continued for some time, until finally reinforcements arrived and the anarchists were subdued. six of the police and three of the anarchists were severely injured, one of the latter being decamps, who had received severe blows from a sword. the trial took place in august, and, when decamps attempted to defend himself, the judge refused to hear him. finally he and his friends were condemned to prison. the next year, , the avenger of decamps appeared. it was the famous ravachol, who for a time kept all paris in a state of terror. in the night of february there was a theft of dynamite from the establishment of _soisy-sous-etioles_. on march an explosion shook the house on boulevard saint-germain, in which lived m. benoît, the judge who had presided in august, , at the trial of decamps at levallois. on march a bomb was discovered on the window of the lobau barracks. on march a bomb was exploded on the first floor of a house on rue de clichy, occupied by m. bulot, who had held the office of public minister at the trial in levallois. it was only by chance, on the accusation of a boy by the name of lhérot, who was employed in a restaurant, that the police eventually captured ravachol. he admitted having exploded the bombs in rue de clichy and boulevard saint-germain, "in order to avenge," he said, "the abominable violences committed against our friends, decamps, léveillé, and dardare."[ ] on april a bomb was exploded in the restaurant where lhérot, the informer, worked, killing the proprietor and severely wounding one of the patrons. the public was thrown into a state of dreadful alarm. the next day, when ravachol was brought to trial, some awful foreboding seemed to possess those who were present. all paris was guarded. in spite of the efforts of the public minister, the jury spared ravachol on the ground of extenuating circumstances. it is difficult to say whether it was fear or pity that determined the decision of the jurors. in any case, ravachol was acquitted, only to be condemned to death a few months later for strangling the hermit of chambles, and he was then executed. "what shall one think of ravachol?" says prolo in _les anarchistes_. "he assassinated a mendicant, he broke into tombs in order to steal jewels, he manufactured counterfeit money, or, more exactly, substituting himself for the state, he cast five-franc pieces in silver, with the authentic standard, and put them in circulation. lastly, he dynamited some property. he is of mystical origin. profoundly religious in his early youth, he embraces with the same ardor, the same passion, and the same spirit of sacrifice the new political theory of equality. he throws himself deliberately outside the limits of the society which he abhors--kills, robs, and avenges his brothers. and let anyone question him, he replies: 'a begging hermit, he is a parasite and should be suppressed. one ought not to bury jewels when children are hungry, when mothers weep, and when men suffer from misery. the state makes money. is it of good alloy? i make it as the state makes it and of the same alloy! as to dynamite, it is the arm of the weak who avenge themselves or avenge others for the humiliating oppression of the strong and their unconscious accomplices.'"[ ] although the anarchists accepted duval and defended his acts, ravachol was variously appreciated by them. jean grave, the french anarchist, and merlino, the italian anarchist, both condemned ravachol. "he is not one of us," declared the latter, "and we repudiate him. his explosions lose their revolutionary character because of his personality, which is unworthy to serve the cause of humanity."[ ] Élisée reclus, on the contrary, wrote of ravachol in the _sempre avanti_ as follows: "i admire his courage, his goodness of heart, his grandeur of soul, the generosity with which he has pardoned his enemies. i know few men who surpass him in generosity. i pass over the question of knowing up to what point it is always desirable to push one's own right to the extreme and whether other considerations, actuated by a sentiment of human solidarity, ought not to make it yield. but i am none the less of those who recognize in ravachol a hero of a rare grandeur of soul."[ ] in the _entretiens politiques et littéraires_, under the title, _eloge de ravachol_, paul adam wrote: "whatever may have been the invectives of the bourgeois press and the tenacity of the magistrates in dishonoring the act of the victim, they have not succeeded in persuading us of his error. after so many judicial debates, chronicles, and appeals to legal murder, ravachol remains the propagandist of the grand idea of the ancient religions which extolled the quest of individual death for the good of the world, the abnegation of self, of one's life, and of one's fame for the exaltation of the poor and the humble. he is definitely the renewer of the essential sacrifice."[ ] museux, in _l'art social_, said: "ravachol has remained what he at first showed himself, a rebel. he has made the sacrifice of his life for an idea and to cause that idea to pass from a dream into reality. he has recoiled before nothing, claiming the responsibility for his acts. he has been logical from one end to the other. he has given example of a fine character and indomitable energy, at the same time that he has summed up in himself the vague anger of the revolutionists."[ ] hardly had the people of paris gotten over their terror of the deeds of ravachol when august vaillant endeavored to blow up with dynamite the french chamber of deputies. he was a socialist, almost unknown among the anarchists. he said afterward that political-financial scandals were arousing popular anger and that it was necessary to thrust the sword into the heart of public powers, since they could not be conquered peaceably. in order to carry out his plan, he went to _palais-bourbon_, and, when the session opened, vaillant arose in the gallery to throw his bomb. a woman, perceiving the intentions of the thrower, grasped his arm, causing the bomb to strike a chandelier, with the result that only abbé lemire and some spectators were injured. in the midst of commotion, with men stupefied with terror, the president of the chamber, m. charles dupuy, called out the memorable words, "the session continues." arraigned before the court, vaillant was condemned to death. he said in explanation of his act, "i carried this bomb to those who are primarily responsible for social misery."[ ] "gentlemen, in a few minutes you are to deal your blow, but in receiving your verdict i shall have at least the satisfaction of having wounded the existing society, that cursed society in which one may see a single man spending, uselessly, enough to feed thousands of families; an infamous society which permits a few individuals to monopolize all the social wealth, while there are hundreds of thousands of unfortunates who have not even the bread that is not refused to dogs, and while entire families are committing suicide for want of the necessities of life....[ ] "i conclude, gentlemen, by saying that a society in which one sees such social inequalities as we see all about us, in which we see every day suicides caused by poverty, prostitution flaring at every street corner--a society whose principal monuments are barracks and prisons--such a society must be transformed as soon as possible, on pain of being eliminated, and that speedily, from the human race. hail to him who labors, by no matter what means, for this transformation! it is this idea that has guided me in my duel with authority, but as in this duel i have only wounded my adversary, it is now its turn to strike me."[ ] the abbé lemire, deputy from the north, the only member of the chamber who had been slightly wounded by the explosion of the bomb, urged the pardon of the condemned man. the socialist deputies likewise decided to appeal to the pardoning power of the president of the republic and signed the following petition: "the undersigned, members of the chamber of deputies which was made the object of the criminal attempt of december , have the honor to address to the president of the republic a last appeal in favor of the condemned."[ ] it has long been the custom in france not to punish an abortive crime with the death penalty, and it was generally believed that vaillant's sentence would be changed to life imprisonment. president carnot, however, refused to extend any mercy, and vaillant was guillotined. a few days after the execution of vaillant, a bomb was thrown among some guests who were quietly assembled, listening to the music, in the café of the hotel terminus. several persons were severely wounded. after a fierce struggle with the police, Émile henry was arrested. in the trial it was learned that he had been responsible for a number of other explosions that had taken place in the two or three years previous. he had attempted to avenge the miners who had been on strike at carmaux by blowing up the manager of the company. he had deposited the bomb in the office of the company, where it was discovered by the porter. it was brought to the police, where it exploded, killing the secretary and three of his agents. henry was a silent, lonely man, wholly unknown to the police. mystical, sentimental, and brooding, he believed that the rich were individually responsible for misery and social wrong. "i had been told that life was easy and with abundant opportunity for all intellects and all energies," he declared at his trial, "but experience has shown me that only the cynics and the servile can make a place for themselves at the banquet. i had been told that social institutions were based on justice and equality, and i have seen about me only lies and deceit. each day robbed me of an illusion. everywhere i went i was witness of the same sorrows about us, of the same joys about others. therefore i was not long in understanding that the words which i had been taught to reverence--honor, devotion, duty--were nothing but a veil concealing the most shameful baseness.... "for an instant i was attracted by socialism; but i was not long in withdrawing myself from that party. i had too much love for liberty, too much respect for individual initiative, too much dislike for incorporation to take a number in the registered army of the fourth estate. i brought into the struggle a profound hatred, every day revived by the repugnant spectacle of this society in which everything is sordid, ... in which everything hinders the expansion of human passions, the generous impulses of the heart, the free flight of thought. i have, however, wished, as far as i was able, to strike forcibly and justly.... in this pitiless war which we have declared on the bourgeoisie we ask no pity. we give death and know how to suffer it. that is why i await your verdict with indifference."[ ] in the case of henry appeals were also made to president carnot for mercy, but they, too, were ignored, and henry was guillotined a few days after vaillant. a month or so later, june , president carnot arrived at lyons to open an exposition. that evening, while on his way to a theater, he was stabbed to death by the italian anarchist, caserio, on the handle of whose stiletto was engraved "vaillant." this was the climax to the series of awful tragedies. it would be impossible to picture the utter consternation of the entire french nation. the characters that had figured in this terrible drama were not ordinary men. their addresses before condemnation were so eloquent and impressive as to awaken lively emotions among the most thoughtful and brilliant men in france. they challenged society. the judge refused decamps a hearing, and ravachol undertook individually to destroy the judge. vaillant, deciding that the lawmakers were responsible for social injustice, undertook with one bomb to destroy them. henry, feeling that it was not the lawmakers who were responsible, but the rich, careless, and sensual, who in their mastery over labor caused poverty, misery, and all suffering, sought with his bomb to destroy them. utterly blind to the sentiments which moved these men, the president of the republic allowed them to be guillotined, and caserio, stirred to his very depths by what he considered to be the sublime acts of his comrades, stabbed to death the president. it is hard to pass judgment on lives such as these. one stands bewildered and aghast before men capable of such deeds; and, if they defy frivolous judgment, even to explain them seems beyond the power of one who, in the presence of the same wrongs that so deeply moved them, can still remain inert. yet is there any escape to the conclusion that all this was utter waste of life and devotion? far from awakening in their opponents the slightest thought of social wrong, these men, at the expense of their lives, awakened only a spirit of revenge. "an eye for an eye" was now the sentiment of the militants on both sides. all reason and sympathy disappeared, and, instead, every brutal passion had play. politically and socially, the reactionaries were put in the saddle. every progressive in france was placed on the defensive. anyone who hinted of social wrong was ostracized. cæsarism ruled france, and, through _les lois scélérates_, every bush was beaten, every hiding-place uncovered, until every anarchist was driven out. the acts of vaillant and henry, like the acts of the chicago anarchists, not only failed utterly as propaganda, they even closed the ear and the heart of the world to everything and anything that was associated, or that could in any manner be connected, with anarchism. they served only one purpose--every malign influence and reactionary element took the acts of these misguided prodigies as a pretext to fasten upon the people still more firmly both social and political injustice. to no one were they so useful as to their enemy. for three years after this tragic period little noteworthy occurred in the history of terrorism. in barcelona, spain, a bomb was thrown, and immediately three hundred men and women were arrested. they were all thrown into prison and subjected to torture. some were killed, others driven insane, although after a time some were released upon appeals made by the press and by many notables of other countries of europe. the prime minister of spain, canovas del castillo, was chiefly responsible for the torture of the victims. and in a young italian, angiolillo, went to spain, and, at an interview which he sought with the prime minister, shot him. the same year an attempt was made on the life of the king of greece, and in the empress of austria was assassinated in switzerland by an italian named luccheni. the latter had gone there intending to kill the duke of york, but, not finding him, decided to destroy the empress. in king humbert of italy was assassinated by gaetano bresci. the latter had been working as a weaver in america, where he had also edited an anarchist paper. he was deeply moved when the story reached him of some soldiers who had shot and killed some peasants, who through hunger had been driven to riot. he demanded money of his comrades in paterson, new jersey, and, when he obtained it, hurried back to his native land, where, at monza, on the th of july he shot the king. the next year on september , president mckinley was shot in buffalo by leon czolgosz. no other striking figure appears among the anarchists until . in the early months of that year all paris was terrified by a series of crimes unexampled, it is said, in western history. the deeds of bonnot and his confederates were so reckless, daring, and openly defiant, their escapes so miraculous, and the audacity of their assaults so incredible, that the people of paris were put in a state bordering on frenzy. just before the previous christmas, in broad daylight, on a busy street, the band fell upon a bank messenger. they shot him and took from his wallet $ , . they then jumped in an automobile and disappeared. a short time later a police agent called upon a chauffeur who was driving at excess speed to stop. it was in the very center of paris, but instead of slackening his pace one of the occupants of the car drew a revolver, and, firing, killed the officer. a pursuit was organized, but the murderers escaped. several other crimes were committed by the band in the next few days, but perhaps the most daring was that of march . in the forest of senart, at eight o'clock in the morning, a band of five men stopped a chauffeur driving a powerful new motor car. they shot the chauffeur and injured his companion. the five men then took the car, and proceeded at great speed to the famous racing center of chantilly. they went directly to a bank, descended from the car, and shot down the three men in charge of the bank. they then seized from the safe $ , . a crowd which had gathered was kept back by one of the bandits with a rifle. the others came out, opened fire on the spectators, started the car at its utmost speed, and disappeared. not long after, monsieur jouin, deputy chief of the sûreté, and chief inspector colmar were making a domiciliary search in a house near paris. instead of finding what they thought, a man crouching beneath a bed sprang upon them, and in the fight jouin was killed and colmar severely injured. bonnot, although injured, escaped by almost miraculous means. at last, on april , the band, which had defied the police force of paris for four months, was discovered concealed in a garage said to belong to a wealthy anarchist. a body of police besieged the place, and after two police officers were killed a dynamite cartridge was exploded that destroyed the garage. bonnot was then captured, fighting to the last. the police reported the finding of bonnot's will, in which he says: "i am a celebrated man.... ought i to regret what i have done? yes, perhaps; but i must live my life. so much the worse for idiotic and imbecile society.... i am not more guilty," he continues, "than the sweaters who exploit poor devils."[ ] his final thought, it is said, was for his accomplices, both of whom were women, one his mistress, the other the manager of the _journal anarchie_. chapter vi seeking the causes such is the tragic story of barely forty years of terrorism in western europe. it reads far more like lurid fiction than the cold facts of history. yet these amazing irreconcilables actually lived--in our time--and fought, at the cost of their lives, the entire organization of society. surely few other periods in history can show a series of characters so daring, so bitter, so bent on destruction and annihilation. bakounin, nechayeff, most, lingg, duval, decamps, ravachol, henry, vaillant, caserio, and luccheni--these bewildering rebels--individually waged their deadly conflict with the world. with the weakness of their one single life in revolt against society--protected as it is by countless thousands of police, millions of armed men, and all its machinery for defense--these amazing creatures fought their fight and wrote their page of protest in the world's history. think of it as we will, this we know, that the world cannot utterly ignore men who lay down their lives for any cause. men may write and agitate, they may scream never so shrilly about the wrongs of the world, but when they go forth to fight single-handed and to die for what they preach they have at least earned the right to demand of society an inquiry. what was it that drove these men to violence? was it the teachings of bakounin, of nechayeff, and of most? their writings have been read and pondered over by thousands of yearning and impressionable minds. they have been drink to the thirsty and food to the hungry. yet one anarchist at least denies that the writings of these terrorists have moved men to violence. "my contention is," says emma goldman, "that they were impelled, not by the teachings of anarchism, but by the tremendous pressure of conditions, making life unbearable to their sensitive natures."[ ] returning again to the same thought, she exclaims, "how utterly fallacious the stereotyped notion that the teachings of anarchism, or certain exponents of these teachings, are responsible for the acts of political violence."[ ] to this indefatigable propagandist of anarchist doctrine, those who have been led into homicidal violence are "high strung, like a violin string." "they weep and moan for life, so relentless, so cruel, so terribly inhuman. in a desperate moment the string breaks."[ ] yet, if it be true that doctrines have naught to do with the spread of terrorism, why is it that among many million socialists there are almost no terrorists, while among a few thousand anarchists there are many terrorists? the pressure of adverse social conditions is felt as keenly by the socialists as by the anarchists. the one quite as much as the other is a rebel against social ills. the indictment made by the socialists against political and economic injustice is as far-reaching as that of the anarchists. why then does not the socialist movement produce terrorists? is it not that the teachings of marx and of all his disciples dwell upon the folly of violence, the futility of riots, the madness of assassination, while, on the other hand, the teachings of bakounin, of nechayeff, of kropotkin, and of most advocate destructive violence as a creative force? "extirpate the wretches!" cries most. "make robbers our allies!" says nechayeff. "propagate the gospel by a deed!" urges kropotkin, and throughout bakounin's writings there appears again and again the plea for "terrible, total, inexorable, and universal destruction." both socialists and anarchists preach their gospel to the weary and heavy-laden, to the despondent and the outraged, who may readily be led to commit acts of despair. they have, after all, little to lose, and their life, at present unbearable, can be made little worse by punishment. yet millions of the miserable have come into the socialist movement to hear the fiercest of indictments against capitalism, and it is but rare that one becomes a terrorist. what else than the teachings of anarchism and of socialism can explain this difference? unquestionably, socialism and anarchism attract distinctly different types, who are in many ways alien to each other. their mental processes differ. their nervous systems jar upon each other. even physically they have been known to repel each other. born of much the same conditions, they fought each other in the cradle. from the very beginning they have been irreconcilable, and with perfect frankness they have shown their contempt for each other. about the kindest criticism that the socialist makes of the anarchist is that he is a child, while the anarchist is convinced that the socialist is a philistine and an inbred conservative who, should he ever get power, would immediately hang the anarchists.[j] they are traditional enemies, who seem utterly incapable of understanding each other. intellectually, they fail to grasp the meaning of each other's philosophy. it is but rare that a socialist, no matter how conscientious a student, will confess he fully understands anarchism. on the other hand, no one understands the doctrines of socialism so little as the anarchist. it is possible, therefore, that the same conditions which drive the anarchist to terrorist acts lead the socialist to altogether different methods, but the reasonable and obvious conclusion would be that teachings and doctrines determine the methods that each employ. the anarchist is, as emma goldman says, "high strung." his ear is tuned to hear unintermittently the agonized cry. to follow the imagery of shelley, he seems to be living in a "mind's hell,"[ ] wherein hate, scorn, pity, remorse, and despair seem to be tearing out the nerves by their bleeding roots. björnstjerne björnson, françois coppée, Émile zola, and many other great writers have sought to depict the psychology of the anarchist, but i think no one has approached the poet shelley, who had in himself the heart of the anarchist. he was a son-in-law and a disciple of william godwin, one of the fathers of anarchism. "prometheus unbound," "the revolt of islam," and "the mask of anarchy," are expressions of the very soul of godwin's philosophy. shelley was "cradled into poetry by wrong," as a multitude of other unhappy men are cradled into terrorism by wrong. he was "as a nerve o'er which do creep the else unfelt oppressions of this earth," and he "could moan for woes which others hear not." he, too, "could ... with the poor and trampled sit and weep."[ ] there is in nearly all anarchists this supersensitiveness, this hyperæsthesia that leads to ecstasy, to hysteria, and to fanaticism. it is a neuropathy that has led certain scientists, like lombroso and krafft-ebbing, to suggest that some anarchist crimes can only be looked upon as a means to indirect suicide. they are outbursts that lead to a spectacular martyr-like ending to brains that "too much thought expands," to hearts overladen, and to nerves all unstrung. life is a burden to them, though they lack the courage to commit suicide directly. such is the view of these students of criminal pathology, and they cite a long list of political criminals who can only be explained as those who have sought indirectly self-destruction. it is a type of insanity that leads to acts which seem sublime to others in a state of like torture both of mind and of nerves. this explains no doubt the acts of some terrorists, and at the same time it condemns the present attitude of society toward the terrorist. think of hanging the tormented soul who could say as he was taken to the gallows: "i went away from my native place because i was frequently moved to tears at seeing little girls of eight or ten years obliged to work fifteen hours a day for the paltry pay of twenty centimes. young women of eighteen or twenty also work fifteen hours daily for a mockery of remuneration.... "i have observed that there are a great many people who are hungry, and many children who suffer, while bread and clothes abound in the towns. i saw many and large shops full of clothing and woolen stuffs, and i also saw warehouses full of wheat and indian corn, suitable for those who are in want."[ ] when such a tortured spirit is driven to homicide, how is it possible for society to demand and take that life? shall we admit that there is a duel between society and these souls deranged by the wrongs of society? "in this duel," said vaillant, "i have only wounded my adversary, it is now his turn to strike me."[ ] it is tragic enough that a poor and desperate soul, like vaillant, should have felt himself in deadly combat with society, but how much more tragic it is for society to admit that fact, accept the challenge, and take that life! "if you cannonade us, we shall dynamite you," said louis lingg.[ ] and we answer, "if you dynamite us, we shall cannonade you." and in so far as this is our sole attitude toward these rebels, wherein are we superior? for lingg to say that was at least heroic. for us so to answer is not even heroic. our paid men see to it. it is done as a matter of course and forgotten. these men say that justice exists only for the powerful, that the poor are robbed, and that "the lamp of their soul" is put out. they beg us to listen, and we will not. they ask us to read, and we will not. "it takes a loud voice to make the deaf hear," said vaillant. they then give all they have to execute one dreadful deed of propaganda in order to awaken us. must even this fail? we can hang them, but can we forget them? after every deed of the anarchists the press, the police, and the pulpit carry on for weeks a frenzied discussion over their atrocities. the lives of these propagandists of the deed are then crushed out, and in a few months even their names are forgotten. there seems to be an innate dread among us to seek the causes that lie at the bottom of these distressing symptoms of our present social régime. we prefer, it seems, to become like that we contemplate. we seek to terrorize them, as they seek to terrorize us. as the anarchist believes that oppression may be ended by the murder of the oppressor, so society cherishes the thought that anarchism may be ended by the murder of the anarchist. are not our methods in truth the same, and can any man doubt that both are equally futile and senseless? both the anarchy of the powerful and the anarchy of the weak are stupid and abortive, in that they lead to results diametrically opposed to the ends sought. tennyson was never nearer a great social truth than when he wrote: "he that roars for liberty faster binds a tyrant's power; and the tyrant's cruel glee forces on the freer hour."[ ] no one perhaps is better qualified than lombroso to speak on the present punitive methods of society as a direct cause of terrorism. "punishment," he says, "far from being a palliative to the fanaticism and the nervous diseases of others, exalts them, on the contrary, by exciting their altruistic aberration and their thirst for martyrdom. in order to heal these anarchist wounds there is, according to some statesmen, nothing but hanging on the gallows and prison. for my part, i consider it just indeed to take energetic measures against the anarchists. however, it is not necessary to go so far as to take measures which are merely the result of momentary reactions, measures which thus become as impulsive as the causes which have produced them and in their turn a source of new violence. "for example, i am not an unconditional adversary of capital punishment, at least when it is a question of the criminal born, whose existence is a constant danger to worthy people. consequently, i should not have hesitated to condemn pini[k] and ravachol. on the other hand, i believe that capital punishment or severe or merely ignominious penalties are not suited to the crimes and the offenses of the anarchists in general. first, many of them are mentally deranged, and for these it is the asylum, and not death or the gallows, that is fitting. it is necessary also to take account, in the case of some of these criminals, of their noble altruism which renders them worthy of certain regard. many of these people are souls that have gone astray and are hysterical, like vaillant and henry, who, had they been engaged in some other cause, far from being a danger, would have been able to be of use in this society which they wished to destroy.... "as to indirect suicides, is it not to encourage them and to make them attain the end that they desire when we inflict on all those so disposed a spectacular death?... for many criminals by passion, unbalanced by an inadequate education, and whose feeling is aroused by either their own misery or at the sight of the misery of others, we would no more award the death penalty if the motive has been exclusively political, because they are much less dangerous than the criminal born. on the other hand, commitment to the asylum of the epileptic and the hysteric would be a practical measure, especially in france, where ridicule kills them. martyrs are venerated and fools are derided."[ ] of course, lombroso is endeavoring to prescribe a method of treatment for the terrorist that will not breed more terrorists. he sees in the present punitive methods an active cause of violence. however, it is perhaps impossible to hope that society will adopt any different attitude than that which it has taken in the past toward these unbalanced souls. in fact, it seems that a savage _lex talionis_ is wholly satisfying to the feudists on both sides. neither the one nor the other seeks to understand the forces driving them both. they are bent on destroying each other, and they will probably continue in that struggle for a long time to come. however, if we learn little from those actually engaged in the conflict, there are those outside who have labored earnestly to understand and explain the causes of terrorism. ethics, religion, psychology, criminal pathology, sociology, economics, jurisprudence--all contribute to the explanation. and, while it is not possible to go into the entire matter as exhaustively as one could wish, there are several points which seem to make clear the cause of this almost individual struggle between the anarchists above and the anarchists below. some of those who have written of the causes of terrorism have a partisan bias. there are those among the catholic clergy, for instance, who have sought to place the entire onus on the doctrines of modern socialism. this has, in turn, led august bebel to point out that the teachings of certain famous men in the church have condoned assassination. he reminds us of mariana, the jesuit, who taught under what circumstances each individual has a right to take the life of a tyrant. his work, _de rege et rege constitutione_, was famous in its time. lombroso tells us that "the jesuits ... who even to-day sustain the divine right of kings, when the kings themselves believe in it no longer, revolted at one time against the princes who were not willing to follow them in their _misonéique_ and retrograde fanaticism and hurled themselves into regicide. thus three jesuits were executed in england in for complicity in a conspiracy against the life of elizabeth, and two others in in connection with the powder plot. in france, père guignard was beheaded for high treason against henry iv. ( ). some jesuits were beheaded in holland for the conspiracies against maurice de nassau ( ); and, later in portugal, after the attempt to assassinate king joseph ( ), three of the jesuits were implicated; and in spain ( ) still others were condemned for their conspiracy against ferdinand iv. "during the same period two jesuits were hanged in paris as accomplices in the attempt against louis xv. when they did not take an active part in political crimes, they exercised indirectly their influence by means of a whole series of works approving regicide or tyrannicide, as they were pleased to distinguish it in their books. mariana, in his book, _de rege et rege constitutione_, praises clément and apologizes for regicide; and that, in spite of the fact that the council of constance had condemned the maxim according to which it was permitted to kill a tyrant."[l][ ] that the views of mariana were very similar to those of the terrorists will be seen by the following quotation from his famous book: "it is a question," he writes, in discussing the best means of killing a king, "whether it is more expedient to use poison or the dagger. the use of poison in the food has a great advantage in that it produces its effect without exposing the life of the one who has recourse to this method. but such a death would be a suicide, and one is not permitted to become an accomplice to a suicide. happily, there is another method available, that of poisoning the clothing, the chairs, the bed. this is the method that it is necessary to put into execution in imitation of the mauritanian kings, who, under the pretext of honoring their rivals with gifts, sent them clothes that had been sprinkled with an invisible substance, with which contact alone has a fatal effect."[ ] it has also been pointed out that, although catholics have rarely been given to revolutionary political and economic theories, the mafia and the camorra in italy, the fenians in ireland, and the molly maguires in america were all organizations of catholics which pursued the same terrorist tactics that we find in the anarchist movement. these are unquestionable facts, yet they explain nothing. certainly zenker is justified in saying, "the deeds of people like jacques clément, ravaillac, corday, sand, and caserio, are all of the same kind; hardly anyone will be found to-day to maintain that sand's action followed from the views of the _burschenschaft_, or clément's from catholicism, even when we learn that sand was regarded by his fellows as a saint, as was charlotte corday and clément, or even when learned jesuits like sa, mariana, and others, _cum licentia et approbatione superiorum_, in connection with clément's outrage, discussed the question of regicide in a manner not unworthy of nechayeff or most."[ ] it therefore ill becomes the catholic clergy to attack socialism on the ground of regicide, as not one socialist book or one socialist leader has ever yet been known to advocate even tyrannicide. on the other hand, while terrorism has been extraordinarily prevalent in catholic countries, such as france, italy, and spain, no socialist will seriously seek to lay the blame on the catholic church. the truth is that the forces which produce terrorism affect the catholic mind as they affect the protestant mind. in every struggle for liberty and justice against religious, political, or industrial oppression, some men are moved to take desperate measures regardless of whether they are catholics, protestants, or pagans. still other seekers after the causes of terrorism have pointed out that the ethics of our time appear to justify the terrorist and his tactics. history glorifies the deeds of numberless heroes who have destroyed tyrants. the story of william tell is in every primer, and every schoolboy is thrilled with the tale of the hero who shot from ambush gessler, the tyrant.[m] from the old testament down to even recent history, we find story after story which make immortal patriots of men who have committed assassination in the belief that they were serving their country. and can anyone doubt that booth when he shot president lincoln[n] or that czolgosz when he murdered president mckinley was actuated by any other motive than the belief that he was serving a cause? it was the idea of removing an industrial tyrant that actuated young alexander berkman when he shot henry c. frick, of the carnegie company. these latter acts are not recorded in history as heroic, simply and solely because the popular view was not in sympathy with those acts. yet had they been committed at another time, under different conditions, the story of these men might have been told for centuries to admiring groups of children. in carlyle's "hero worship" and in his philosophy of history, the progress of the world is summarized under the stories of great men. certain individuals are responsible for social wrongs, while other individuals are responsible for the great revolutions that have righted those wrongs. in the building up, as well as in the destruction of empires, the individual plays stupendous rôles. this egocentric interpretation of history has not only been the dominant one in explaining the great political changes of the past, it is now the reasoning of the common mind, of the yellow press, of the demagogue, in dealing with the causes of the evils of the present day. the republican party declared that president mckinley was responsible for prosperity; by equally sound reasoning czolgosz may have argued that he was responsible for social misery. according to this theory, rockefeller is the giant mind that invented the trusts; political bosses such as croker and murphy are the infamous creatures who fasten upon a helpless populace of millions of souls a tammany hall; bismarck created modern germany; lloyd george created social reform in england; while tom mann in england and samuel gompers in america are responsible for strikes; and keir hardie and eugene debs responsible for socialism. the individual who with great force of ability becomes the foremost figure in social, political, or industrial development is immediately assailed or glorified. he becomes the personification of an evil thing that must be destroyed or of a good thing that must be protected. it is a result of such reasoning that men ignorant of underlying social, political, or industrial forces seek to obstruct the processes of evolution by removing the individual. on this ground the anarchists have been led to remove hundreds of police officials, capitalists, royalties, and others. they have been poisoned, shot, and dynamited, in the belief that their removal would benefit humanity. yet nothing would seem to be quite so obvious as the fact that their removal has hardly caused a ripple in the swiftly moving current of evolution. others, often more forceful and capable, have immediately stepped into their places, and the course of events has remained unchanged. speaking on this subject, august bebel refers to the hero-worship of bismarck in germany: "there is no other person whom the social democracy had so much reason to hate as him, and the social democracy was not more hated by anybody than by just that bismarck. our love and our hatred were, as you see, mutual. but one would search in vain the entire social democratic press and literature for an expression of the thought that it would be a lucky thing if that man were removed.... but how often did the capitalist press express the idea that, were it not for bismarck, we would not, to this day, have a united germany? there cannot be a more mistaken idea than this. the unity of germany would have come without bismarck. the idea of unity and liberty was in the sixties so powerful among all the german people that it would have been realized, with or without the assistance of the hohenzollerns. the unity of germany was not only a political but an _economic necessity_, primarily in the interests of the capitalist class and its development. the idea of unity would have ultimately broken through with elementary force. at this juncture bismarck made use of the tendency, in _his own fashion, in the interest of the hohenzollern dynasty_, and at the same time _in the interest of the capitalist class and of the junkers_, the landed nobility. the offspring of this compromise is the constitution of the german empire, the provisions of which strive to reconcile the interests of these three factors. finally, even a man like bismarck had to leave his post. 'what a misfortune for germany!' cried the press devoted to him. well, what has happened to germany since then? even bismarck himself could not have ruled it much differently than it has been ruled since his days."[ ] this egoistic conception of history is carried to its most violent extreme by the anarchists. the principles of nechayeff are a series of prescriptions by which fearless and reckless individuals may destroy other individuals. ravachol, vaillant, and henry seemed obsessed with the idea that upon their individual acts rested the burden of deliverance. bonnot's last words were, "i am a celebrated man." from the gallows in chicago fischer declared, "this is the happiest moment of my life."[ ] "call your hangman!" exclaimed august spies. "truth crucified in socrates, in christ, in giordano bruno, in huss, in galileo, still lives--they and others whose name is legion have preceded us on this path. we are ready to follow!"[ ] fielden said: "i have loved my fellowmen as i have loved myself. i have hated trickery, dishonesty, and injustice. the nineteenth century commits the crime of killing its best friend."[ ] it is singularly impressive, in reading the literature of anarchism, to weigh the last words of men who felt upon their souls the individual responsibility of saving humanity. they have uttered memorable words because of their inherent sincerity, their devout belief in the individual, in his power for evil, and in his power to remove that evil. in many anarchists, however, this deification of the individual induces a morbid and diseased egotism which drives them to the most amazing excesses; among others, the yearning to commit some memorable act of revolt in order to be remembered. in fact, the ego in its worst, as well as in its best aspect, dominates the thought and the literature of anarchism. max stirner, considered by some the founder of philosophical anarchism, calls his book "the ego and his own." "whether what i think and do is christian," he writes, "what do i care? whether it is human, liberal, humane, whether unhuman, illiberal, inhuman, what do i ask about that? if only it accomplishes what i want, if only i satisfy myself in it, then overlay it with predicates as you will; it is all alike to me."[ ] "consequently my relation to the world is this: i no longer do anything for it 'for god's sake,' i do nothing 'for man's sake,' but what i do i do 'for my sake.'"[ ] "where the world comes in my way--and it comes in my way everywhere--i consume it to quiet the hunger of my egoism. for me you are nothing but--my food, even as i, too, am fed upon and turned to use by you."[ ] here society is conceived of as merely a collection of egos. the world is a history of gods and of devils. all the evils of the time are embodied in individual tyrants. some of these individuals control the social forces, others the political, still others the industrial forces. as individuals, they overpower and enslave their individual enemies. remove a man and you destroy the source of tyranny. a judge commits a man to death, and the judge is dynamited. a prime minister sends the army to shoot down striking workmen and the prime minister is shot. a law is passed violating the rights of free speech, and, following that, an emperor is shot. the rich exploit the poor, and a fanatic throws a bomb in the first café he passes to revenge the poor. wicked and unjust laws are made, and vaillant goes in person to the chamber of deputies to throw his bomb. the police of chicago murder some hungry strikers, and an avenger goes to the haymarket to murder the police. in all these acts we find a point of view in harmony with the dominant one of our day. it is the one taught in our schools, in our pulpits, on our political platforms, and in our press. it is the view, carried to an extreme, of that man or group of men who believes that the ideas of individuals determine social evolution. nothing could be more logical to the revolutionist who holds this view than to seek to remove those individuals who are responsible for the existing order of society. as a rule, the socialist stands almost alone in combating this ideological interpretation of history and of social evolution. there is something in the nature of poetic irony in the fact that the anarchist should take the very ethics of capitalism and reduce them to an absurdity. it is something in the nature of a satire, sordid and terrible, which the realism of things has here written. the very most cherished ethical ideals of our society are used by the bitterest enemies of that society to arouse the wronged to individual acts of revenge. quite a number of notable anarchists have been the product of misery and oppression. their souls were warped, and their minds distorted in childhood by hunger and brutality. they were wronged terribly by the world, and anarchism came to them as a welcome spirit, breathing revenge. it taught that the world was wrong, that injustice rode over it like a nightmare, that misery flourished in the midst of abundance, that multitudes labored with bent backs to produce luxuries for the few. their eyes were opened to the wrong of hunger, poverty, unemployment, of woman and child labor, and of all the miseries that press heavily upon human souls. and in their revolt they saw kings, judges, police officials, legislators, captains of industry, who were said to be directly responsible for these social ills. it was not society or a system or even a class that was to blame; it was mckinley, or carnot, or frick. and those whom some worshiped as heroes, these men loathed as tyrants. the powerful have thought to deprive the poor of souls. they have liked to think that they would forever bear their cross in peace. yet when anarchism comes and touches the souls of the poor it finds not dead blocks of wood or mere senseless cogs in an industrial machine; it finds the living, who can pray and weep, love and hate. no matter how scared their souls become, there is yet a possibility that their whole beings may revolt under wrong. when the anarchist deifies even the veriest wreck of society--this individual, "this god, though in the germ"--when he inflames it with dignity and with pride, when he fills its whole being with a thirst for awful and incredible vengeance, you have duval, lingg, ravachol, luccheni, and bonnot. add to their desire for revenge the philosophy of anarchism and of our schoolbooks, that individuals are the makers of history, and the result is terrorism. other students of terrorism have noted the prevalence of violence in those countries and times where the courts are corrupt, where the law is brutal and oppressive, or where men are convinced that no available machinery exists to execute the ends of justice. this latter is the explanation given for the numerous lynchings in america and also for the practices of "popular justice" that used to be a common feature of frontier life. in the absence of a properly constituted legal machinery groups of men undertake to shoot, hang, or burn those whom they consider dangerous to the public weal. in russia it was inevitable that a terrorist movement should arise. the courts were corrupt, the bureaucracy oppressive. furthermore, no form of freedom existed. men could neither speak nor write their views. they could not assemble, and until recently they did not possess the slightest voice in the affairs of government. borne down by a most hideous oppression, the terrorist was the natural product. the same conditions have existed to an extent in italy, and probably no other country has produced so many violent anarchists. caserio, luccheni, bresci, and angiolillo have been mentioned, but there are others, such as santoro, mantica, benedicti, although these latter are accused of being police agents. in italy the people have for centuries individually undertaken to execute their conception of equity. official justice was too costly to be available to the poor, and the courts were too corrupt to render them justice. for centuries, therefore, men have been considered justified in murdering their personal enemies. among all classes it has long been customary to deal individually with those who have committed certain crimes. the horrible legal conditions existing in both spain and italy have developed among these peoples the idea of "self-help." they have taken law into their own hands, and, according to their lights and passions, have meted out their rude justice. assassination has been defended in these countries, as lynching has been defended recently, as some will remember, by a most eminent american anarchist, the governor of south carolina. lombroso says in his exhaustive study of the causes of violence, _les anarchistes_: "history is rich in examples of the complicity of criminality and politics, and where one sees in turn political passion react on criminal instinct and criminal instinct on political passion. while pompey has on his side all honest people--cato, brutus, cicero; cæsar, more popular than he, has as his followers only degenerates--antony, a libertine and drunkard; curio, a bankrupt; clelius, a madman; dolabella, who made his wife die of grief and who wanted to annul all debts; and, above all, catiline and clodius. in greece the clefts, who are brigands in time of peace, have valiantly championed the independence of their country. in italy, in , the papacy and the bourbons hired brigands to oppose the national party and its troops; the mafia of sicily rose up with garibaldi; and the camorra of naples coöperated with the liberals. and this shameful alliance with the camorra of naples is not yet dissolved; the last parliamentary struggles relative to the acts of the government of naples have given us a sad echo of it--which, alas, proves that it still lasts without hope of change for the future. it is especially at the initial stages of revolutions that these sorts of people abound. it is then, indeed, that the abnormal and unhealthy spirits predominate over the faltering and the weak and drag them on to excesses by an actual epidemic of imitation."[ ] marx and engels saw very clearly the part that the criminal elements would play in any uprising, and as early as they wrote in the communist manifesto: "the 'dangerous class,' the social scum, that passively rotting mass thrown off by the lowest layers of old society, may, here and there, be swept into the movement by a proletarian revolution; its conditions of life, however, prepare it far more for the part of a bribed tool of reactionary intrigue."[ ] the truth of this statement has been amply illustrated in the numerous outbreaks that have occurred since it was written. the use by the bakouninists in spain of the criminal elements there, the repeated exploits of the police agents in discrediting every uprising by encouraging the criminal elements to outrageous acts, and the terrible barbarities of the criminal classes at the time of the paris commune are all examples of how useful to reaction the rotting layers of old society may become. even when they do not serve as a bribed tool of the reactionary elements, their atrocities, both cruel and criminal, repel the self-respecting and conscientious elements. they discredit the real revolutionists, who must bear the stigma that attaches to the inhuman acts of the "dangerous class." that the european governments have used the terrorists in exactly this manner in order to discredit popular movements, is not, i think, open to any question. the money of the anarchists' bitterest enemy has helped to make anarchy so well known. the politics of machiavelli is the politics of nearly every old established european government. it is the politics of families who have been trained in the profession of rulership. and this mastership, as william morris has said, has many shifts. and one that has been most useful to them is that of subsidizing those persons or elements who by their acts promote reaction. in russia it is an old custom to foment and provoke minor insurrections. police agents enter a discontented district and do all possible to irritate the troublesome elements and to force them "to come into the street." in this manner the agitators and leaders are brought to the front, where at one stroke they may all be shot. furthermore, the police agents themselves commit or provoke such atrocious crimes that the people are terrified and welcome the strong arm of the government. literally scores of instances might be given where, by well-planned work of this sort, the active leaders are cut down, the sources of agitation destroyed, and through the robberies, murders, and dynamite outrages of police agents the people are so terrified that they welcome the intervention of even tyranny itself. an immense sensation throughout europe was created by an address by jules guesde in the french chamber of deputies, the th of july, . the deeds of ravachol, vaillant, and henry were still the talk of europe, and, three weeks before, the president of the republic had been stabbed to death by caserio. it was in that critical period, amidst commotions, interruptions, protests, and exclamations of amazement, that guesde brought out his evidence that the chief of police of paris had paid regular subsidies to promote and extend both the preaching and the practice of violent anarchism. he introduced, in support of his remarks, portions from the memoirs of m. andrieux, our old friend of lyons and later the head of the paris police. "the anarchists," says andrieux, "wished to have a newspaper to spread their doctrines. if i fought their propaganda of the deed, i at least favored the spread of their doctrines by means of the press, and i have no reasons for depriving myself longer of their gratitude.[o] the companions were looking for some one to advance funds, but infamous capital was in no hurry to reply to their appeal. i shook it up and succeeded in persuading it that it was for its own interest to aid in the publication of an anarchist newspaper.... "but do not think that i boldly offered to the anarchists the encouragement of the prefect of police.... i sent a well-dressed bourgeois to one of the most active and intelligent of them. he explained that, having acquired a fortune in the drug business, he desired to devote a part of his income to help their propaganda. this bourgeois, anxious to be devoured, awakened no suspicion among the companions. through his hands, i deposited the caution money in the coffers of the state, and the paper, _la révolution sociale_, made its appearance.... every day, about the table of the editors, the authorized representatives of the party of action assembled; they looked over the international correspondence; they deliberated on the measures to be taken to end 'the exploitation of man by man'; they imparted to each other the recipes which science puts at the disposal of revolution. i was always represented in the councils, and i gave my advice in case of need.... the members had decided in the beginning that the palais-bourbon must be blown up. they deliberated on the question as to whether it would not be more expedient to commence with some more accessible monument. the bank of france, the _palais de l'Élysée_, the house of the prefect of police, the office of the minister of the interior were all discussed, then abandoned, by reason of the too careful surveillance of which they were the object."[ ] toward the end of his address, guesde turned to the reactionaries, and said: "i have shown you that everywhere, from the beginning of the anarchist epidemic in france, you find either the hand or the money of one of your prefects of police.... that is how you have fought in the past this anarchistic danger of which you make use to-day to commit, what shall i say?... real crimes, not only against socialism, but against the republic itself."[ ] for the last forty years police agents have swarmed into the socialist, the anarchist, and the trade-union movements for the purpose of provoking violence. the conditions grew so bad in russia that every revolutionist suspected his comrade. many loyal revolutionists were murdered in the belief that they were spies. in the belief that they were comrades, the faithful intrusted their innermost secrets to the agents of the police. every plan they made was known. every undertaking proved abortive, because the police knew everything in advance and frequently had in charge of every plot their own men. criminals were turned into the movement under the surveillance of the police.[p] all through the days of the international it was a common occurrence to expose police spies, and in every national party agents of the police have been discovered and driven out. it has become almost a rule, in certain sections of the socialist and labor movements, that the man who advocates violence must be watched, and there are numerous instances where such men have been proved to be paid agents of the police. joseph peukert was for many years one of the foremost leaders of the anarchists. he was in vienna with stellmacher and kammerer, and devoted much of his time to translating into german the works of foreign anarchists. it was only discovered toward the end of his life that during all this time he was in the employ of the austrian police. these and similar startling facts were brought out by august bebel in an address delivered in berlin, november , . luccheni had just murdered the empress of austria, and the german reactionaries attempted, of course, to connect him with the socialists. bebel created utter consternation in their camp when, as a part of his address, he showed the active participation of high officials in crimes of the anarchists. "and how often," said bebel, "police agents have helped along in the attempted or executed assassinations of the last decades. when bismarck was federal ambassador at frankfort-on-the-main he wrote to his wife: 'for lack of material the police agents lie and exaggerate in a most inexcusable manner.' these agents are engaged to discover contemplated assassinations. under these circumstances, the bad fellows among them ... come easily to the idea: 'if other people don't commit assassinations, then we ourselves must help the thing along.' for, if they cannot report that there is something doing, they will be considered superfluous, and, of course, they don't want that to happen. so they 'help the thing along' by 'correcting luck,' as the french proverb puts it. or they play politics on their own score. "to demonstrate this i need only to remind you of the 'reminiscences' of andrieux, the former chief of police of paris, in which he brags with the greatest cynicism of how he, by aid of police funds, subsidized extreme anarchist papers and organized anarchist assassinations, just to give a thorough scare to rich citizens. and then there is that notorious police inspector melville, of london, who also operated on these lines. that was revealed by the investigation of the so-called walsall attempt at assassination. among the assassinations committed by the fenians there were also some that were the work of the police, as was shown at the parnell trial. everybody remembers how much of such activity was displayed in belgium during the eighties by that prince of scoundrels, pourbaix. even the minister bernaard himself was compelled to admit before the parliament that pourbaix was paid to arrange assassinations in order to justify violent persecutions of the _social democracy_. likewise was baron von ungern-sternberg, nicknamed the 'bomb-baron,' unmasked as a police agent at the trial of the luttich anarchists. "and then--our own good friends at the time of the [anti-] socialist law. about them i myself could tell you some interesting stories, for i was among those who helped to unmask them. there is schroeder-brennwald, of zurich, the chap who was receiving from molkenmarkt, through police counsellor krueger, a monthly salary of at first and then marks. at every meeting in zurich this schroeder was stirring up people and putting them up to commit acts of violence. but to guard against expulsion from switzerland by the authorities of that country, he first acquired _citizenship in switzerland_, presumably by means of funds furnished by the police of prussia. during the summer of schroeder and the police-anarchist kaufman called and held in zurich a conference participated in by thirteen persons. schroeder acted as chairman. at that conference plans were laid for the assassinations which were later committed in vienna, stuttgart, and strassburg by stellmacher, kammerer, and kumitzsch. i am not informed that these unscrupulous scoundrels, although they were in the service of the police, had informed the police commissioner that those murders were being contemplated.... men like stellmacher and kammerer paid for their acts with their lives on the gallows. when [johann] most was serving a term in a prison in england, this same police spy schroeder had most's 'freiheit' published at schaffhausen, switzerland, at his own expense. the money surely did not come out of his own pocket. "that was a glorious time when [we unmasked this schroeder and the other police organizer of plots, haupt, to whom] the police counsellor krueger wrote that he knew the next attempt on the life of the czar of russia would be arranged in geneva, and he should send in reports. was this demand not remarkable in the highest degree? and now herr von ehrenberg, the former colonel of artillery of baden!... this fellow was unquestionably for good reason suspected of having betrayed to the general staff of italy the fortifications of switzerland at st. gotthard. when his residence was searched it was brought to light that herr von ehrenberg worked also in the employ of the prussian police. he gave regularly written reports of conversations which he claimed to have had with our comrades, including me. only in those alleged conversations the characters were reversed. we were represented as advocating the most reckless criminal plans, which in reality he himself suggested and defended, while he pictured himself in those reports as opposing the plans.... what would have happened if some day those reports had fallen into the hands of certain persons--and that was undoubtedly the purpose--and, if accused, we had no witnesses to prove the spy committed perfidy? thus, for instance, he attempted to convince me--but in his records claimed that it was i who proposed it--that it would be but child's play to find out the residences of the higher military officers in all the greater cities of germany, then, in one night, send out our best men and have all those officers murdered simultaneously. in four articles published in the 'arbeiterstimme,' of zurich, he explained in a truly classical manner how to conduct a modern street battle, what to do to get the best of artillery and cavalry. at meetings he urged the collection of funds to buy arms for our people. as soon as war broke out with france our comrades from switzerland, according to him, should break into baden and wuerttemberg, should there tear up the tracks and confiscate the contents of the postal and railroad treasuries. and this man, who urged me to do all that, was, as i said, in the employ of the prussian police. "another police preacher and organizer of violent plots was that well-known friedeman who was driven out of berlin, and, at the gatherings of comrades in zurich, appealed to them, in prose and poetry, to commit acts of violence. a certain weiss, a journeyman tinsmith, was arrested in the vicinity of basel for having put up posters in which the deeds of kammerer and stellmacher were glorified. he, too, was in the employ of the german police, as was afterward established during the court proceedings. "a certain schmidt, who had to disappear from dresden on account of his crooked conduct, came to zurich and urged the establishment of a _special fund for assassinations_, contributing twenty francs to start the fund. correspondence which he had carried on with chief of police weller, of dresden, and which later fell into our hands, proved that he was in the employ of the police, whom he kept informed of his actions. and then the unmasked secret police agent ihring-mahlow, here in berlin, who announced that he was prepared to teach the manufacture of explosives, for 'the parliamentary way is too slow.'"[ ] here certainly is a great source of violence and crime, and, in view of such revelations, no one can be sure that any anarchist outrage is wholly voluntary and altogether free from the manipulation of the secret police. with _agents provocateurs_ swarming over the movement and working upon the minds of the weak, the susceptible, and the criminal, there is reason to believe that their influence in the tragedies of terrorism is far greater than will ever be known. to discredit starving men on strike, to defeat socialists in an election, to promote a political intrigue, to throw the entire legislature into the hands of the reaction, to conceal corruption, or to take the public mind from too intently watching the nefarious schemes of a political-financial conspiracy--for all these and a multitude of other purposes thousands of secret police agents are at work. the sordid facts of this infamous commerce are no longer in doubt, and one wonders how the anarchists can delude themselves into the belief that they are serving the weak and lowly when they commit exactly the same crimes that professional assassins are hired to commit. this certainly _is_ madness. to be thus used by their bitterest enemies, the police and the state, to serve thus voluntarily the forces of intrigue, of reaction, and of tyranny--surely nothing can be so near to unreason as this. when bismarck's personal organ declared again and again, "there is nothing left to be done but to provoke the social democrats to commit acts of despair, to draw them out into the open street, and there to shoot them down,"[ ] a reasoning opponent would have seen that this was just what he would not allow himself to be drawn into. yet bismarck hardly says this and sets his police to work before the anarchist freely, voluntarily, and with tremendous exaltation of spirit attempts to carry it out. strange to say, the desire of the powerful to promote anarchy seems to be well enough understood by the anarchists themselves. kropotkin, in his "memoirs," tells of two cases where police agents were sent to him with money to help establish anarchist papers, and there was hardly a moment of his revolutionary career when there were not police agents about him. emma goldman also appreciates the fact that the police are always ready to lend a hand in anarchist outrages. "for a number of years," she says, "acts of violence had been committed in spain, for which the anarchists were held responsible, hounded like wild beasts, and thrown into prison. later it was disclosed that the perpetrators of these acts were not anarchists, but members of the police department. the scandal became so widespread that the conservative spanish papers demanded the apprehension and punishment of the gang leader, juan rull, who was subsequently condemned to death and executed. the sensational evidence, brought to light during the trial, forced police inspector momento to exonerate completely the anarchists from any connection with the acts committed during a long period. this resulted in the dismissal of a number of police officials, among them inspector tressols, who, in revenge, disclosed the fact that behind the gang of police bomb-throwers were others of far higher position, who provided them with funds and protected them. this is one of the many striking examples of how anarchist conspiracies are manufactured."[ ] with knowledge such as this, is it possible that a sane mind can encourage the despairing to undertake riots and insurrections? yet when we turn to the anarchists for our answer, they tell us "that the accumulated forces in our social and economic life, culminating in a political act of violence, are similar to the terrors of the atmosphere, manifested in storm and lightning. to thoroughly appreciate the truth of this view, one must feel intensely the indignity of our social wrongs; one's very being must throb with the pain, the sorrow, the despair millions of people are daily made to endure. indeed, unless we have become a part of humanity, we cannot even faintly understand the just indignation that accumulates in a human soul, the burning, surging passion that makes the storm inevitable."[ ] such explosions of rage one would expect from the unreasonable and the childlike. they are bursts of passion that end in the knocking of one's head against a stone wall. this may in truth be the psychology of the violent, yet it cannot be the psychology of a reasoning mind. this may explain the action of those who have lost all control over themselves or even the action of a class that has not advanced beyond the stages of futile outbursts of passion, of aimless and suicidal violence, and of self-destructive rage. but it is incredible that it should be considered by anyone as reasonable or intelligent, or, least of all, revolutionary. probably still other causes of terrorism exist, but certainly the chief are those above mentioned. the writings of bakounin, nechayeff, kropotkin, and most; the miserable conditions which surround the life of a multitude of impoverished people; the often savage repression of any attempts on the part of the workers to improve their conditions; corrupt courts and parliaments and unjust laws; a false conception of ethics; a high-wrought nervous tension combined with compassion; the egocentric philosophy which deifies the individual and would press its claims even to the destruction of all else in the world; these are no doubt the chief underlying causes of the terrorism of the last forty years. yet, as i have said, there is one force making for terrorism that throws a confusing light on the whole series of tragedies. why should the governments of europe subsidize anarchy? why should their secret police encourage outrages, plant dynamite, and incite the criminal elements to become anarchists, and in that guise to burn, pillage, and commit murder? why should that which assumes to stand for law and order work to the destruction of law and order? what is it that leads the corrupt, vicious, and reactionary elements in the official world to turn thus to its use even anarchy and terrorism? what end do the governments of europe seek? i have already suggested the answers to the above questions, but they will not be understood by the reader unless he realizes that throughout all of last century the democratic movement has been to the privileged classes the most menacing spectacle imaginable. again and again it arose to challenge existing society. in some form, however vague, it lay back of every popular movement. at moments the powerful seemed actually to fear that it was on the point of taking possession of the world, and repeatedly it has been pushed back, crushed, subdued, almost obliterated by their repressive measures. yet again and again it arose responsive to the actual needs of the time, and became toward the end of the century one of the most impressive movements the world has ever known. filled with idealism for a new social order, and determined to change fundamentally existing conditions, the working class has fought onward and upward toward a world state and a socialized industrial life. there can be no doubt that the amazing growth of the modern socialist movement has terrified the powers of industrial and political tyranny. to them it is an incomparable menace, and superhuman efforts have been made to turn it from its path. they have endeavored to divide it, to misinterpret it, to divert it, to corrupt it, and the greatest of all their efforts has been made toward forcing it to become a movement of terrorists, in order ultimately to discredit and destroy it. "we have always been of the opinion," declared an unknown opponent of socialism, "that it takes the devil to drive out beelzebub and that socialism must be fought with anarchy. as a corn louse and similar insects are driven out by the help of other insects that devour them and their eggs, so the government should cultivate and rear anarchists in the principal nests of socialism, leaving it to the anarchists to destroy socialism. the anarchists will do that work more effectively than either police or district attorneys."[ ] has this been the chief motive in helping to keep terrorism alive? footnotes: [j] kropotkin, in "the conquest of bread," p. , suggests that in the revolution the socialists will probably hang the anarchists. [k] pini declared that he had committed robberies amounting to over three hundred thousand francs from the bourgeoisie in order to avenge the oppressed. cf. lombroso, "_les anarchistes_," p. . [l] "the work of mariana was afterward approved by sola (_tractus de legibus_), by gretzer (_opera omnia_), by becano (_opuscula theologica summa theologicæ scholasticæ_). "père emanuel (_aphorismi confessariorum_), grégoire de valence (_comment. theolog._), keller (_tyrannicidium_), and suarez (_defentio fidei cathol._) hold similar ideas, while azor (_institut. moral._), lorin (_comm. in librum psalmorum_), comitolo (_responsa morala_), etc., recognized the right of every individual to kill the prince for his own defense."--_les anarchistes_, p. . [m] bakounin, when endeavoring to save nechayeff from being arrested by the swiss authorities and sent back to russia, defends him on precisely these grounds, claiming that nechayeff had taken the fable of william tell seriously. cf. _oeuvres_, vol. ii, p. . [n] booth wrote, a day or so after killing lincoln: "after being hunted like a dog through swamps and woods, and last night being chased by gunboats till i was forced to return, wet, cold, and starving, with every man's hand against me, i am here in despair. and why? for doing what brutus was honored for--what made william tell a hero; and yet i, for striking down an even greater tyrant than they ever knew, am looked upon as a common cutthroat." cf. "the death of lincoln," laughlin, p. . [o] kropotkin tells of the effort made by the agents of andrieux to persuade him and elisée reclus to collaborate in the publication of this so-called anarchist paper. he also says it was a paper of "unheard-of violence; burning, assassination, dynamite bombs--there was nothing but that in it."--"memoirs of a revolutionist," pp. - . [p] in "the terror in russia" kropotkin tells of bands of criminals who, under pretense of being revolutionists and wanting money for revolutionary purposes, forced wealthy people to contribute under menace of death. the headquarters of the bands were at the office of the secret police. part ii struggles with violence [illustration: karl marx] chapter vii the birth of modern socialism while terrorism was running its tragic course, the socialists grew from a tiny sect into a world-wide movement. and, as terrorist acts were the expression of certain uncontrollably rebellious spirits, so coöperatives, trade unions, and labor parties arose in response to the conscious and constructive effort of the masses. as a matter of fact, the terrorist groups never exercised any considerable influence over the actual labor movement, except for a brief period in spain and america. indeed, they did not in the least understand that movement. the followers of bakounin were largely young enthusiasts from the middle class, who were referred to scornfully at the time as "lawyers without cases, physicians without patients and knowledge, students of billiards, commercial travelers, and others."[ ] yet it cannot be denied that violence has played, and still in a measure plays, a part in the labor movement. i mean the violence of sheer desperation. it rises and falls in direct relation to the lawlessness, the repression, and the tyranny of the governments. furthermore, where labor organizations are weakest and the masses most ignorant and desperate, the very helplessness of the workers leads them into that violence. this is made clear enough by the historic fact that in the early days of the modern industrial system nearly every strike of the unorganized laborers was accompanied by riots, machine-breaking, and assaults upon men and property. no small part of this early violence was directly due to the brutal opposition of society to every form of labor organization. the workers were fought violently, and they answered violence with violence. it must not be forgotten that the trade unions and the socialist parties grew, in spite of every menace, in the very teeth of that which forbade them, and under the eye of that which sought to destroy them. and, like other living things in the midst of a hostile environment, they covered themselves with spurs to ward off the enemy. the early movements of labor were marked by a sullen, bitter, and destructive spirit; and some of the much persecuted propagandists of early trade unionism and socialism thought that "implacable destruction" was preferable to the tyranny which the workers then suffered. not the philosophy, but the rancor of bakounin, of nechayeff, and of most represented, three-quarters of a century ago, the feeling of great masses of workingmen. riots, insurrections, machine-breaking, incendiarism, pillage, and even murder were then more truly expressive of the attitude of certain sections of the brutalized poor toward the society which had disinherited them than most of us to-day realize. in every industrial center, previous to , the working-class movement, such as it was, yielded repeatedly to self-exhausting expressions of blind and sullen rage. the resentment of the workers was deep, and, without program or philosophy, a spirit of destruction often ran riot in nearly every movement of the workers. during the first fifty years, then, of last century, little building was done. a mob spirit prevailed, and the great body of toilers was divided into innumerable bands, who fought their battles without aim, and, after weeks of rioting, left nothing behind them. toward the middle of the century the real building of the labor movement commenced. in every country men soberly and seriously set to work, and everywhere throughout the entire industrial world the foundations were laid for the great movement that exists to-day. yet the present world-wide movement, so harmonious in its principles and methods and so united in doctrines, could not have been all that it is had there not come to its aid in its most critical and formative period several of the ablest and best-schooled minds of europe. at the period when the workers were finding their feet and beginning their task of organization on a large scale, there was also in europe much revolutionary activity in "intellectual" circles. the forties was a germinating period for many new social and economic theories. in france, germany, and england there were many groups discussing with heat and passion every theory of trade unionism, anarchism, and socialism. on the whole, they were middle-class "intellectuals," battling in their sectarian circles over the evils of our economic life, the problems of society, and the relations between the classes. suddenly the revolution was upon them--the moment which they all instinctively felt was at hand--but, when it came, most of them were able to play no forceful part in it. it was a movement of vast masses, over which the social revolutionists had little influence, and the various groups found themselves incapable of any really effective action. to be sure, many of those seeking a social revolution played a creditable part in the uprisings throughout europe during ' and ' , but the time had not yet arrived for the working classes to achieve any striking reforms of their own. the only notable result of the period, so far as the social revolutionary element was concerned, was that it lost once again, nearly everywhere, its press, its liberty of speech, and its right of association. it was driven underground; but there germinated, nevertheless, in the innumerable secret societies, some of the most important principles and doctrines upon which the international labor movement was later to be founded. in france socialist theories had never been wholly friendless from the time of the great revolution. the memory of the _enragés_ of and of babeuf and his conspiracy of had been kept green by buonarotti and maréchal. the ruling classes had very cunningly lauded liberty and fraternity, but they rarely mentioned the struggle for equality, which, of course, appeared to them as a regrettable and most dangerous episode in the great revolution. yet, despite that fact, this early struggle for economic equality had never been wholly forgotten. besides, there were fourier and saint-simon, who, with very great scholarly attainments, had rigidly analyzed existing society, exposed its endless disorders, and advocated an entire social transformation. there were also considérant, leroux, vidal, pecqueur, and cabet. all of these able and gifted men had kept the social question ever to the front, while louis blanc and blanqui had actually introduced into politics the principles of socialism. blanqui was an amazing character. he was an incurable, habitual insurrectionist, who came to be called _l'enfermé_ because so much of his life was spent in prison.[q] the authorities again and again released him, only to hear the next instant that he was leading a mob to storm the citadels of the government. his life was a series of unsuccessful assaults upon authority, launched in the hope that, if the working class should once install itself in power, it would reorganize society on socialist lines. he was a man of the street, who had only to appear to find an army of thousands ready to follow him. blanqui used to say--according to kropotkin--that there were in paris fifty thousand men ready at any moment for an insurrection. again and again he arose like an apparition among them, and on one occasion, at the head of two hundred thousand people, he offered the dictatorship of france to louis blanc. the latter was an altogether different person. his stage was the parliamentary one. he was a powerful orator, who, throughout the forties, was preaching his practical program of social reform--the right to work, the organization of labor, and the final extinction of capitalism by the growth of coöperative production fostered by the state. in he played a great rôle, and all europe listened with astonishment to the revolutionary proposals of this man who, for a few months, occupied the most powerful position in france. at the same time proudhon was developing the principles of anarchism and earning everlasting fame as the father of that philosophy. in truth, the whole gamut of socialist ideas and the entire range of socialist methods had been agitated and debated in peace and in war for half a century in france. in england the same questions had disturbed all classes for nearly fifty years. there had been no great revolutionary period, but from the beginning of the nineteenth century to the extinction of chartism in every doctrine of trade unionism, syndicalism, anarchism, and socialism had been debated passionately by groups of workingmen and their friends. the principles and methods of trade unionism were being worked out on the actual battlefield, amid riots, strikes, machine-breaking, and incendiarism. instinctively the masses were associating for mutual protection and, almost unconsciously, working out by themselves programs of action. nevertheless, joseph hume, francis place, robert owen, and a number of other brilliant men were lending powerful intellectual aid to the workers in their actual struggle. a group of radical economists was also defending the claims of labor. charles hall, william thompson, john gray, thomas hodgskin, and j. f. bray were all seeking to find the economic causes of the wrongs suffered by labor and endeavoring, in some manner, to devise remedies for the immense suffering endured by the working classes. together with robert owen, a number of them were planning labor exchanges, voluntary communities, and even at one time the entire reorganization of the world through the trade unions. in this ferment the coöperative movement also had its birth. the rochdale pioneers began to work out practically some of the coöperative ideas of robert owen. with £ a pathetic beginning was made that has led to the immensely rich coöperative movement of to-day. furthermore, the chartists were leading a vast political movement of the workers. in support of the suffrage and of parliamentary representation for workingmen, a wonderful group of orators and organizers carried on in the thirties and forties an immense agitation. william lovett, feargus o'connor, joseph rayner stephens, ernest jones, thomas cooper, and james bronterre o'brien were among the notable and gifted men who were then preaching throughout all england revolutionary and socialist ideas. such questions as the abolition of inheritances, the nationalization of land, the right of labor to the full product of its toil, the necessity of breaking down class control of parliament--these and other subversive ideas were germinating in all sections of the english labor movement. it was a heroic period--altogether the most heroic period in the annals of toil--in which the most advanced and varied revolutionary ideas were hurtling in the air. the causes of the ruin that overcame this magnificent beginning of a revolutionary working-class movement cannot be dwelt upon here. quarrels between the leaders, the incoherence of their policies, and divisions over the use of violence utterly wrecked a movement that anticipated by thirty years the social democracy of germany. the tragic fiasco in was the beginning of an appalling working-class reaction from years of popular excesses and mob intoxications, from which the wiser leadership of the german movement was careful to steer clear. and, after ' , solemn and serious men settled down to the quiet building of trade unions and coöperatives. revolutionary ideas were put aside, and everywhere in england the responsible men of the movement were pleading with the masses to confine themselves to the practical work of education and organization. although germany was far behind england in industrial development and, consequently, also in working-class organization, the beginnings of a labor and socialist movement were discernible. a brief but delightful description of the early communist societies is given by engels in his introduction to the _révélations sur le procès des communistes_. as early as there were secret societies in germany discussing socialist ideas. the "league of the just" became later the "league of the righteous," and that eventually developed into the "communist league." the membership cards read, "all men are brothers." karl schapper, heinrich bauer, and joseph moll, all workingmen, were among those who made an imposing impression upon engels. even more notable was weitling, a tailor, who traveled all over germany preaching a mixture of christian communism and french utopian socialism. he was a simple-hearted missionary, delivering his evangel. "the world as it is and as it might be" was the moving title of one of his books that attracted to him not only many followers among the workers, but also notable men from other classes. most of the communists were of course always under suspicion, and many of them were forced out of their own countries. as a result, a large number of foreigners--scandinavians, dutch, hungarians, germans, and italians--found themselves in paris and in london, and astonished each other by the similarity of their views. all europe in this period was discussing very much the same things, and not only the more intelligent among the workers but the more idealistic among the youth from the universities were in revolt, discussing fervently republican, socialist, communist, and anarchist ideas. in "young germany," george brandes gives a thrilling account of the spiritual and intellectual ferment that was stirring in all parts of the fatherland during the entire forties.[ ] it was in this agitated period that marx and engels, both mere youths, began to press their ideas in revolutionary circles. they met each other in paris in , and there began their lifelong coöperative labors. engels, although a german, was living in england, occupied in his father's cotton business at manchester. he had taken a deep interest in the condition of the laboring classes, and had followed carefully the terrible and often bloody struggles that so frequently broke out between capital and labor in england during the thirties and forties. arriving by an entirely different route, he had come to opinions almost identical with those of marx; and the next year he persuaded marx to visit the factory districts of lancashire, in order to acquaint himself actually with the enraged struggle then being fought between masters and men. engels had not gone to a university, although he seems somehow to have acquired, despite his business cares and active association with the men and movements of his time, a thorough education. on the other hand, marx was a university man, having studied at jena, bonn, and berlin. like most of the serious young men of the period, marx was a devoted hegelian. when his university days were over, he became the editor of the _rheinische zeitung_ of cologne, but at the age of twenty-four he found his paper suppressed because of his radical utterances. he went to paris, only to be expelled in . he found a refuge in belgium until , when the government evidently thought it wise that he should move on. shortly after, he returned to germany to take up his editorial work once more, but in , his _neue rheinische zeitung_ was suppressed, and he was forced to return to paris. the authorities, not wishing him there, sent him off to london, where he remained the rest of his life. by the irony of fate, even the governments of europe seemed to be conspiring to force marx to become the best equipped man of his time. to the leisure and travel enforced upon him by the european governments was due in no small measure his long schooling in economic theory, revolutionary political movements, and working-class methods of action. both he and engels penetrated into every nest of discontent. they came personally in touch with every group of dissidents. they spent many weary but invaluable weeks in the greatest libraries of europe, with the result that they became thoroughly schooled in philosophy, economics, science, and languages. they pursued, to the minutest detail, with an inexhaustible thirst, the theories not only of the "authorities" but also of nearly every obscure socialist, radical, and revolutionist in england, france, russia, and germany. in brussels, paris, and london, around the forties, a number of brilliant minds seemed somehow or other to come frequently in contact with each other. many of them had been driven out of their own countries, and, as exiles abroad, they had ample leisure to plan their great conspiracies or to debate their great theories. some of the notable radicals of the period were heine, freiligrath, herwegh, willich, kinkel, weitling, bakounin, ruge, ledru-rollin, blanc, blanqui, cabet, proudhon, ernest jones, eccarius, marx, engels, and liebknecht; and many of them came together from time to time and, in great excitement and passion, fought as "roman to roman" over their panaceas. marx and engels knew most of them and spent innumerable hours, not infrequently entire days and nights, at a sitting, in their intellectual battles. it was a most fortunate thing for marx that the french government should have driven him in to london. "capital" might never have been written had he not been forced to study for a long period the first land in all europe in which modern capitalism had obtained a footing. on his earlier visit in he had spent a few weeks with engels in the great factory centers, and he had been deeply impressed with this new industrialism and no less, of course, with the english labor movement. nothing to compare with it then existed in france or germany. as early as many of the trades were well organized, and repeated efforts had been made to bring them together into a national federation. how thoroughly engels knew this movement and its varied struggles to better the status of labor is shown in his book, "the condition of the working class in england in ." how thoroughly and fundamentally marx later came to know not only the actual working-class movement, but every economic theory from adam smith to john stuart mill, and every insurgent economist and political theorist from william godwin to bronterre o'brien, is shown in "capital." in fact, not a single phase of insurgent thought seemed to escape marx and engels, nor any trace of revolt against the existing order, whether political or industrial. in germany they were schooled in philosophy and science; in france they found themselves in a most amazing fermentation of revolutionary spirit and idealism; and in england they studied with the minutest care the coöperative movement and self-help, the trade-union movement with its purely economic aims and methods, the chartist movement with its political action, and the owenite movement, both in its purely utopian phases and in its later development into syndicalist socialism. this long and profound study placed marx and engels in a position infinitely beyond that of their contemporaries. possessed as they were of unusual mental powers, it was inevitable that such a training should have placed them in a position of intellectual leadership in the then rapidly forming working-class organizations of europe. the study of english capitalism convinced marx of the truthfulness of certain generalizations which he had already begun to formulate in . it became more and more evident to him that economic facts, to which history had hitherto attributed no rôle or a very inferior one, constituted, at least in the modern world, a decisive historic force. "they form the source from which spring the present class antagonisms. these antagonisms in countries where great industry has carried them to their complete development, particularly in england, are the bases on which parties are founded, are the sources of political struggles, are the reasons for all political history."[ ] although marx had arrived at this opinion earlier and had generalized this point of view in "french-german annals," his study of english economics swept away any possible doubt that "in general it was not the state which conditions and regulates civil society, but civil society which conditions and regulates the state, that it was then necessary to explain politics and history by economic relations, and not to proceed inversely."[ ] "this discovery which revolutionized historical science was essentially the work of marx," says engels, and, with his customary modesty, he adds: "the part which can be attributed to me is very small. it concerned itself directly with the working-class movement of the period. communism in france and germany and chartism in england appeared to be something more than mere chance which could just as well not have existed. these movements became now a movement of the oppressed class of modern times, the working class. henceforth they were more or less developed forms of the historically necessary struggle which this class must carry on against the ruling class, the bourgeoisie. they were forms of the struggle of the classes, but which were distinguished from all preceding struggles by this fact: the class now oppressed, the proletariat, cannot effect its emancipation without delivering all society from its division into classes, without freeing it from class struggles. _no longer did communism consist in the creation of a social ideal as perfect as possible; it resolved itself into a clear view of the nature, the conditions, and the general ends of the struggle carried on by the working class._"[ ] it was not the intention of marx and engels to communicate their new scientific results to the intellectual world exclusively by means of large volumes. on the contrary, they plunged into the political movement. besides having intercourse with well-known people, particularly in the western part of germany, they were also in contact with the organized working classes. "our duty was to found our conception scientifically, but it was just as important that we should win over the european, and especially the german, working classes to our convictions. when it was all clear in our eyes, we set to work."[ ] a new german working-class society was founded in brussels, and the support was enlisted of the _deutsche brüsseler zeitung_, which served as an organ until the revolution of february. they were in touch with the revolutionary faction of the english chartists under the leadership of george julian harney, editor of _the northern star_, to which engels contributed. they also had intercourse with the democrats of brussels and with the french social democrats of _la réforme_, to which engels contributed news of the english and german movements. in short, the relations that marx and engels had established with the radical and working-class organizations fully served the great purposes they had in mind. it was in the communist league that marx and engels saw their first opportunity to impress their ideas on the labor movement. at the urgent request of joseph moll, a watchmaker and a prominent member of the league, marx consented, in , to present to that organization his views, and the result was the famous communist manifesto. every essential idea of modern socialism is contained in that brief declaration. unfortunately, however, outside of germany, the communist league was an exotic organization that could make little use of such a program. its members were mostly exiles, who, by the very nature of their position, were hopelessly out of things. little groups, surrounded by a foreign people, exiles are rarely able to affect the movement at home or influence the national movement amid which they are thrust. there is little, therefore, noteworthy about the communist league. it had, to be sure, gathered together a few able and energetic spirits, and some of these in later years exercised considerable influence in the international. but, as a rule, the groups of the communist league were little more than debating societies whose members were filled with sentimental, visionary, and insurrectionary ideas. marx himself finally lost all patience with them, because he could not drive out of their heads the idea that they could revolutionize the entire world by some sudden dash and through the exercise of will power, personal sacrifice, and heroic action. the communist league, therefore, is memorable only because it gave marx and engels an opportunity for issuing their epoch-making manifesto, that even to-day is read and reread by the workers in all lands of the world. translated into every language, it is the one pamphlet that can be found in every country as a part of the basic literature of socialism. there are certain principles laid down in the communist manifesto which time cannot affect, although the greater part of the document is now of historic value only. the third section, for instance, is a critique of the various types of socialism then existing in europe, and this part can hardly be understood to-day by those unacquainted with those sectarian movements. it deals with reactionary socialism, feudal socialism, clerical socialism, petty bourgeois socialism, german socialism, conservative or bourgeois socialism, critical-utopian socialism, and communism. the mere enumeration of these types of socialist doctrine indicates what a chaos of doctrine and theory then existed, and it was in order to distinguish themselves from these various schools that marx and engels took the name of communists. beginning with the statement, "the history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles,"[ ] the manifesto treats at length the modern struggle between the working class and the capitalist class. after tracing the rise of capitalism, the development of a new working class, and the consequences to the people of the new economic order, marx and engels outline the program of the communists and their relation to the then existing working-class organizations and political parties. they deny any intention of forming a new sect, declaring that they throw themselves whole-heartedly into the working-class movement of all countries, with the one aim of encouraging and developing within those groups a political organization for the conquest of political power. they outline certain measures which, in their opinion, should stand foremost in the program of labor, all of them having to do with some modification of the institution of property. in order to achieve these reforms, and eventually "to wrest, by degrees, all capital from the bourgeoisie, to centralize all instruments of production in the hands of the state,"[ ] they urge the formation of labor parties as soon as proper preparations have been made and the time is ripe for effective class action. all through the manifesto runs the motif that every class struggle is a political struggle. again and again marx and engels return to that thought in their masterly survey of the historical conflicts between the classes. they show how the bourgeoisie, beginning as "an oppressed class under the sway of the feudal nobility," gradually ... "conquered for itself, in the modern representative state, exclusive political sway," until to-day "the executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie."[ ] tracing the rise of the modern working class, they tell of its purely retaliative efforts against the capitalists; how at first "they smash to pieces machinery, they set factories ablaze"; how they fight in "incoherent" masses, "broken up by their mutual competition";[ ] even their unions are not so much a result of their conscious effort as they are the consequence of oppression. furthermore, the workers "do not fight their enemies, but the enemies of their enemies."[ ] "now and then the workers are victorious, but only for a time. the real fruit of their battles lies not in the immediate result, but in the ever-expanding union of the workers."[ ] it is when their unions grow national in character and the struggle develops into a national struggle between the classes that it naturally takes on a political character. then begins the struggle for conquering political power. but, while "all previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the interests of minorities, the proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority."[ ] returning again to the underlying thought, it is pointed out that the working class must "win the battle of democracy."[ ] it must acquire "political supremacy." it must raise itself to "the position of ruling class," in order that it may sweep away "the conditions for the existence of class antagonisms, and of classes generally."[ ] such were the doctrines and tactics proclaimed by marx and engels in . the manifesto is said to have been received with great enthusiasm by the league, but, whatever happened at the moment, it is clear that the members never understood the doctrines manifested. in any case, various factions in the movement were still clamoring for insurrection and planning their conspiracies, wholly faithful to the revolution-making artifices of the period. two of the most prominent, willich and schapper, were carried away with revolutionary passion, and "the majority of the london workers," engels says, "refugees for the most part, followed them into the camp of the bourgeois democrats, the revolution-makers."[ ] they declined to listen to protests. "they wanted to go the other way and to make revolutions," continues engels. "we refused absolutely to do this and the schism followed."[ ] on the th of september, , marx decided to resign from the central council of the organization, and, feeling that such an act required some justification, he prepared the following written declaration: "the minority[r] [_i. e._, his opponents] have substituted the dogmatic spirit for the critical, the idealistic interpretation of events for the materialistic. simple will power, instead of the true relations of things, has become the motive force of revolution. while we say to the working people: 'you will have to go through fifteen, twenty, fifty years of civil wars and wars between nations not only to change existing conditions, but to change yourselves and make yourselves worthy of political power,' you, on the contrary, say, 'we ought to get power at once, or else give up the fight.' while we draw the attention of the german workman to the undeveloped state of the proletariat in germany, you flatter the national spirit and the guild prejudices of the german artisans in the grossest manner, a method of procedure without doubt the more popular of the two. just as the democrats made a sort of fetish of the words 'the people,' so you make one of the word 'proletariat.' like them, you substitute revolutionary phrases for revolutionary evolution."[ ] this statement of marx is one of the most significant documents of the period and certainly one of the most illuminating we possess of marx's determination to disavow the insurrectionary ideas then so prevalent throughout europe. although he had said the same thing before in other words, there could be no longer any doubt that he cherished no dreams of a great revolutionary cataclysm, nor fondled the then prevalent theory that revolutions could be organized, planned, and executed by will power alone. it is clear, therefore, that marx saw, as early as , little revolutionary promise in sectarian organizations, secret societies, and political conspiracies. the day was past for insurrections, and a real revolution could only arrive as a result of economic forces and class antagonisms. and it is quite obvious that he was becoming more and more irritated by the sentimentalism and dress-parade revolutionism of the socialist sects. he looked upon their projects as childish and theatrical, that gave as little promise of changing the world's history as battles between tin soldiers on some nursery floor. he seemed no longer concerned with ideals, abstract rights, or "eternal verities." those who misunderstood him or were little associated with him were horrified at what they thought was his cynical indifference to such glorious visions as liberty, fraternity, and equality. like darwin, marx was always an earnest seeker of facts and forces. he was laying the foundations of a scientific socialism and dissecting the anatomy of capitalism in pursuit of the laws of social evolution. the gigantic intellectual labors of marx from to are to-day receiving due attention, and, while one after another of the later economists has been forced reluctantly to acknowledge his genius, few now will take issue with professor albion w. small when he says, "i confidently predict that in the ultimate judgment of history marx will have a place in social science analogous with that of galileo in physical science."[ ] in exile, and often desperate poverty, marx worked out with infinite care the scientific basis of the generalization--first given to the world in the communist manifesto--that social and political institutions are the product of economic forces. in all periods there have been antagonistic economic classes whose relative power is determined by struggles between them. "freedman and slave," he says, "patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended either in a revolutionary reconstruction of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes."[ ] here is a summary of that conflict which professor small declares "is to the social process what friction is to mechanics."[ ] it may well be that "the fact of class struggle is as axiomatic to-day as the fact of gravitation,"[ ] yet, when marx first elaborated his theory, it was not only a revolutionary doctrine among the socialist sects, but like darwin's theory of evolution it was assailed from every angle by every school of economists. the important practical question that arises out of this scientific work, and which particularly concerns us here, is that this theory of the class struggle forever destroyed the old ideas of revolution, scrap-heaped conspiracies and insurrections, and laid the theoretical foundations for the modern working-class movement. actually, it was utopian socialism that was destroyed by this new theory. it expressed itself in at least three diverse ways. there were groups of conspirators and revolutionists who believed that the world was on the eve of a great upheaval and that the people should prepare for the moment when suddenly they could seize the governments of europe, destroy ancient institutions, and establish a new social order. another form of utopianism was the effort to persuade the capitalists themselves to abolish dividends, profits, rent, and interest, to turn the factories over to the workers, to become themselves toilers, and to share equally, one with another, the products of their joint labor. still another form of utopian socialism was that of owen, fourier, and cabet, who contemplated the establishment of ideal communities in which a new world should be built, where all should be free and equal, and where fraternity would be based upon a perfect economic communism. some really noble spirits in france, england, and america had devoted time, love, energy, and wealth to this propaganda and in actual attempts to establish these utopias. but after ' the upper classes were despaired of. their brutal reprisals, their suppression of every working-class movement, their ferocious repression of the unions, of the press, and of the right of assembly--all these materially aided marx's theory in disillusioning many of the philanthropic and tender-hearted utopians. and from then on the hope of every sincere advocate of fundamental social changes rested on the working class--on its organizations, its press, and its labors--for the establishment of the new order. the most striking characteristic of the period which follows was the attempt of all the socialist and anarchist sects to inject their ideas into the rising labor movement. with the single exception of robert owen in england, the earlier socialists had ignored the working classes. all their appeals were made to well-to-do men, and some of them even hoped that the monarchs of europe might be induced to take the initiative. but marx and engels made their appeal chiefly to the working class. the profound reaction which settled over europe in the years following ' ended all other dreams, and from this time on every proposal for a radical change in the organization of society was presented to the workers as the only class that was really seeking, by reason of its economic subjection, basic alterations in the institutions of property and the constitution of the state. the working classes of germany, france, england, and other countries had already begun to form groups for the purpose of discussing political questions, and the ideas of marx began to be propagated in all the centers of working-class activity. the blending of labor and socialism in most of the countries of europe was not, however, a work of months, but of decades. the first great effort to accomplish that task occurred in , when the international working men's association was launched in st. martin's hall in london. during the years from ' to ' , marx and engels, with their little coterie in london and their correspondents in other countries, spent most of their time in study, reading, and writing, with little opportunity to participate in the actual struggles of labor. marx was at work on "capital" and schooling, in his leisure hours, a few of the notable men who were later to become leaders of the working class in europe. it was a dull period, wearisome and vexatious enough to men who were boldly prophesying that industrial conditions would create a world-wide solidarity of labor. the first glimmer of hope came with the london international exhibition of , which brought together by chance groups of workingmen from various countries. the visit to london enabled them to observe the british trade unions, and they left deeply impressed by their strength. furthermore, the exhibition brought the english workers and those of other nationalities into touch with each other. how much this meant was shown in . when the polish uprising was being suppressed, the english workers sent to their french comrades a protest, in answer to which the paris workmen sent a delegation to london. this gathering in sympathy with poland laid the foundations for the international. nearly every important revolutionary sect in europe was represented: the german communists, the french blanquists and proudhonians, and the italian mazzinians; but the only delegates who represented powerful working-class organizations were the english trade unionists. the other organizations, even as late as this, were still little more than coteries, of hero-worshiping tendencies, fast developing into sectarian organizations that seemed destined to divide hopelessly and forever the labor movement. it was perhaps inevitable that the more closely the sects were brought together, the more clearly they should perceive their differences, although marx had exercised every care to draft a policy that would allay strife. mazzini and his followers could not long endure the policies of the international, and they soon withdrew. the proudhonians never at any time sympathized with the program and methods adopted by the international. the german organizations were not able to affiliate, by reason of the political conditions in that country, although numerous individuals attended the congresses. nearly all the germans were supporters of the policies of marx, while most of the leading trade unionists of england completely understood and sympathized with marx's aim of uniting the various working-class organizations of europe into an international association. they all felt that such a movement was an historic and economic necessity and that the time for it had arrived. they intended to set about that work and to knit together the innumerable little organizations then forming in all countries. they sought to institute a meeting ground where the social and political program of the workers could be formulated, where their views could be clarified, and their purposes defined. it was not to be a secret organization, but entirely open and above board. it was not for conspiratory action, but for the building up of a great movement. it was not intended to encourage insurrection or to force ahead of time a revolution. in the opinion of marx, as we know, a social revolution was thought to be inevitable, and the international was to bide its time, preparing for the day of its coming, in order to make that revolution as peaceable and as effective as possible. the preamble of the provisional rules of the international--entirely the work of marx--expresses with sufficient clearness the position of the international. it was there declared: "that the emancipation of the working classes must be conquered by the working classes themselves; that the struggle for the emancipation of the working classes means not a struggle for class privileges and monopolies, but for equal rights and duties, and the abolition of all class rule; "that the economic subjection of the man of labor to the monopolizer of the means of labor, that is, the sources of life, lies at the bottom of servitude in all its forms, of all social misery, mental degradation, and political dependence; "that the economic emancipation of the working classes is therefore the great end to which every political movement ought to be subordinate as a means; "that all efforts aiming at that great end have hitherto failed from the want of solidarity between the manifold divisions of labor in each country, and from the absence of a fraternal bond of union between the working classes of different countries; "that the emancipation of labor is neither a local nor a national, but a social problem, embracing all countries in which modern society exists, and depending for its solution on the concurrence, practical and theoretical, of the most advanced countries; "that the present revival of the working classes in the most industrial countries of europe, while it raises a new hope, gives solemn warning against a relapse into the old errors and calls for the immediate combination of the still disconnected movements."[ ] in this brief declaration we find the essence of marxian socialism: that the working classes must themselves work out their own salvation; that their servitude is economic; and that all workers must join together in a political movement, national and international, in order to achieve their emancipation. unfortunately, the proudhonian anarchists were never able to comprehend the position of marx, and in the first congress at geneva, in , the quarrels between the various elements gave marx no little concern. he did not attend that congress, and he afterward wrote to his young friend, dr. kugelmann: "i was unable to go, and i did not wish to do so, but it was i who wrote the program of the london delegates. i limited it on purpose to points which admit of an immediate understanding and common action by the workingmen, and which give immediately strength and impetus to the needs of the class struggle and to the organization of the workers as a class. the parisian gentlemen had their heads filled with the most empty proudhonian phraseology. they chatter of science, and know nothing of it. they scorn all revolutionary action, that is to say, proceeding from the class struggle itself, every social movement that is centralized and consequently obtainable by legislation through political means (as, for example, the legal shortening of the working day)."[ ] these words indicate that marx considered the chief work of the international to be the building up of a working-class political movement to obtain laws favorable to labor. furthermore, he was of the opinion that such work was of a revolutionary nature. the clearest statement, perhaps, of marx's idea of the revolutionary character of political activity is to be found in the address which he prepared at the request of the public meeting that launched the international. he traces there briefly the conditions of the working class in england. after depicting the misery of the masses, he hastily reviews the growth of the labor movement that ended with the chartist agitation. although from to was a period when the english working class seemed, he says, "thoroughly reconciled to a state of political nullity,"[ ] nevertheless two encouraging developments had taken place. one was the victory won by the working classes in carrying the ten hours bill. it was "not only a great practical success; it was the victory of a principle; it was the first time that in broad daylight the political economy of the middle class succumbed to the political economy of the working class."[ ] the other victory was the growth of the coöperative movement. "the value of these great social experiments cannot be overrated," he says. "by deed, instead of by argument, they have shown that production on a large scale, and in accord with the behests of modern science, may be carried on without the existence of a class of masters employing a class of hands."[ ] arguing that coöperative labor should be developed to national dimensions and be fostered by state funds, he urges working-class political action as the means to achieve this end. "to conquer political power has therefore become the great duty of the working classes."[ ] this is the conclusion of marx concerning revolutionary methods; and it is clear that his conception of "revolutionary action" differed not only from that of the proudhonians and mazzinians, but also from that of "the bourgeois democrats, the revolution-makers,"[ ] who "extemporized revolutions."[ ] at the end of marx's letter to kugelmann, he tells of the beginning already made by the international in london in actual political work. "the movement for electoral reform here," he writes, "which our general council (_quorum magna pars_) created and launched, has assumed dimensions that have kept on growing until now they are irresistible."[ ] the general council threw itself unreservedly into this agitation. an electoral reform conference was held in february, , attended by two hundred delegates from all parts of england, scotland, and ireland. later, gigantic mass meetings were held throughout the country to bring pressure upon the government. frederic harrison and professor e. s. beesly, well known for their sympathy with labor, were appealing to the working classes to throw their energies into the fight. "nothing will compel the ruling classes," wrote harrison in , "to recognize the rights of the working classes and to pay attention to their just demands until the workers have obtained political power."[ ] professor beesly, the intimate friend of marx, was urging the unions to enter politics as an independent force, on the ground that the difference between the tories and the liberals was only the difference between the upper and nether millstones. in all this agitation marx saw, of course, the working out of his own ideas for the upbuilding of a great independent political organization of the working class. all the energies of the general council of the international were, therefore, devoted to the political struggle of the british workers. however, in all this campaign, emphasis was placed upon the central idea of the association--that political power was wanted, in order, peaceably and legally, to remedy economic wrongs. the wretched condition of the workers in the industrial towns and the even greater misery of the irish peasants and english farm laborers were the bases of all agitation. while occupied at this time chiefly with the economic and political struggles in britain, the general council was also keeping a sharp eye on similar conditions in europe and america. when lincoln was chosen president for the second time, a warm address of congratulation was sent to the american people, expressing joy that the sworn enemy of slavery had been again chosen to represent them. more than once the international communicated with lincoln, and perhaps no words more perfectly express the ideal of the labor movement than those that lincoln once wrote to a body of workingmen: "_the strongest bond of human sympathy, outside of the family relation, should be one uniting all working people, of all nations, and tongues, and kindreds._"[ ] to unite thus the workers of all lands and to organize them into great political parties were the chief aims of marx in the international. and in it seemed that this might actually be accomplished in a few years. in france, belgium, switzerland, germany, austria, italy, and other countries the international was making rapid headway. nearly all the most important labor bodies of europe were actually affiliated, or at least friendly, to the new movement. at all the meetings held there was enthusiasm, and the future of the international seemed very promising indeed. it was recognized as the vehicle for expressing the views of labor throughout europe. it had formulated its principles and tactics, and had already made a creditable beginning in the gigantic task before it of systematically carrying on its agitation, education, and organization. marx's energies were being taxed to the utmost. nearly all the immense executive work of the international fell on him, and nearly every move made was engineered by him. yet at that very time he was on the point of publishing the first volume of "capital," the result of gigantic researches into industrial history and economic theory. this great work was intended to be, in its literal sense, the bible of the working class, as indeed it has since become. certainly, jaurès' tribute to marx is well deserved and fairly sums up the work accomplished by him in the period - . "to marx belongs the merit," he says, " ... of having drawn together and unified the labor movement and the socialist idea. in the first third of the nineteenth century labor struggled and fought against the crushing power of capital; but it was not conscious itself toward what end it was straining; it did not know that the true objective of its effort was the common ownership of property. and, on the other hand, socialism did not know that the labor movement was the living form in which its spirit was embodied, the concrete practical force of which it stood in need. marx was the most clearly convinced and the most powerful among those who put an end to the empiricism of the labor movement and the utopianism of the socialist thought, and this should always be remembered to his credit. by a crowning application of the hegelian method, he united the idea and the fact, thought and history. he enriched the practical movement by the idea, and to the theory he added practice; he brought the socialist thought into proletarian life, and proletarian life into socialist thought. from that time on socialism and the proletariat became inseparable."[ ] footnotes: [q] the dramatic story of his life is wonderfully told in _l'enfermé_ by gustave geffroy. (paris, .) [r] in the authority cited below this appears as "the minority," but i notice that in jaurès' "studies in socialism," p. , it appears as "the majority." chapter viii the battle between marx and bakounin at the moment when the future of the international seemed most promising and the political ideas of marx were actually taking root in nearly all countries, an application was received by the general council in london to admit the alliance of social democracy. this, we will remember, was the organization that bakounin had formed in and was the popular section of that remarkable secret hierarchy which he had endeavored to establish in . the general council declined to admit the alliance, on grounds which proved later to be well founded, namely, that schisms would undoubtedly be encouraged if the international should permit an organization with an entirely different program and policies to join it in a body. nevertheless, the general council declared that the members of the alliance could affiliate themselves as individuals with the various national sections. after considerable debate, bakounin and his followers decided to abandon the alliance and to join the international. whether the alliance was in fact abolished is still open to question, but in any case bakounin appeared in the international toward the end of the sixties, to challenge all the theories of marx and to offer, in their stead, his own philosophy of universal revolution. anarchism as the end and terrorism as the means were thus injected into the organization at its most formative period, when the laboring classes of all europe had just begun to write their program, evolve their principles, and define their tactics. with great force and magnetism, bakounin undertook his war upon the general council, and those who recall the period will realize that nothing could have more nearly expressed the occasional spirit of the masses--the very spirit that marx and engels were endeavoring to change--than exactly the methods proposed by bakounin. whether it were better to move gradually and peacefully along what seemed a never-ending road to emancipation or to begin the revolution at once by insurrection and civil war--this was in reality the question which, from that moment on, agitated the international. it had always troubled more or less the earlier organizations of labor, and now, aided by bakounin's eloquence and fiery revolutionism, it became the great bone of contention throughout europe. the struggles in the international between those who became known later as the anarchists and the socialists remind one of certain greek stories, in which the outstanding figures seem to impersonate mighty forces, and it is not impossible that one day they may serve as material for a social epic. we all know to-day the interminable study that engages the theologians in their attempts to describe the battles and schisms in the early christian church. and there can be no doubt that, if socialism fulfills the purpose which its advocates have in mind, these early struggles in its history will become the object of endless research and commentary. the calumnies, the feuds, the misunderstandings, the clashing of doctrines, the antagonism of the ruling spirits, the plots and conspiracies, the victories and defeats--all these various phases of this war to the death between socialists and anarchists--will in that case present to history the most vital struggle of this age. but, whatever may be the outcome of the socialist movement, it is hardly too much to say that to both anarchists and socialists these struggles seemed, at the time they were taking place, of supreme importance to the destinies of humanity. the contending titans of this war were, of course, karl marx and michael bakounin. it is hardly necessary to go into the personal feud that played so conspicuous a part in the struggle between them. perhaps no one at this late day can prove what marx and his friends themselves were unable to prove--although they never ceased repeating the allegations--that bakounin was a spy of the russian government, that his life had been thrice spared through the influence of that government, that he was treacherous and dishonest, and that his sole purpose was to disrupt and destroy the international working men's association. nor is it necessary to consider the charges made against marx--some of them time has already taken care of--that he was domineering, malicious, and ambitious, that his spirit was actuated by intrigue, and that, when he conceived a dislike for anyone, he was merciless and conscienceless in his warfare on that one. incompatibility of temperament and of personality played its part in the battles between these two, but, even had there been no mutual dislike, the differences between their principles and tactics would have necessitated a battle _à outrance_. for twenty years before the birth of the international, marx and bakounin had crossed and recrossed each other's circle. they had always quarreled. there was a mutual fascination, due perhaps to an innate antagonism, that brought them again and again together at critical periods. at times there seemed a chance of reconciliation, but they no more touched each other than immediately there flared forth the old animosity. when bakounin left russia in , he met proudhon and marx in paris. at that period the doctrines of all three were germinating. bakounin had already written, "the desire for destruction is at the same time a creative desire."[ ] proudhon had begun to formulate the principles of anarchism, and marx the principles of socialism. "he was much more advanced than i was," wrote bakounin of marx at this period. "i knew nothing then of political economy, i was not yet freed from metaphysical abstraction, and my socialism was only instinctive.... it was precisely at this epoch that he elaborated the first fundamentals of his present system. we saw each other rather often, for i respected him deeply for his science and for his passionate and serious devotion, although always mingled with personal vanity, to the cause of the proletariat, and i sought with eagerness his conversation, which was always instructive and witty--when it was not inspired with mean hatred, which, too often, alas, was the case. never, however, was there frank intimacy between us. our temperaments did not allow that. he called me a sentimental idealist, and he was right; i called him a vain man, perfidious and artful, and i was right also."[ ] this mutual dislike and even distrust subsisted to the end. certain events in widened the gulf between them. at the news of the outbreak of the revolution in paris, hundreds of the restless spirits hurried there to take a hand in the situation. and after the proclamation of the republic they began to consider various projects of carrying the revolution into their own countries. plans were being discussed for organizing legions to invade foreign countries, and a number of the german communists entered heartily into the plan of herwegh, the erratic german poet--"the iron lark"--who led a band of revolutionists into baden. "we arose vehemently against these attempts to play at revolution," says engels, speaking for himself and marx. "in the state of fermentation which then existed in germany, to carry into our country an invasion which was destined to import the revolution by force, was to injure the revolution in germany, to consolidate the governments, and ... to deliver the legions over defenseless to the german troops."[ ] wilhelm liebknecht, then twenty-two years of age, who was in favor of herwegh's project, wrote afterward of marx's opposition. marx "understood that the plan of organizing 'foreign legions' for the purpose of carrying the revolution into other countries emanated from the french bourgeois-republicans, and that the 'movement' had been artificially inspired with the twofold intention of getting rid of troublesome elements and of carrying off the foreign laborers whose competition made itself doubly felt during this grave business crisis."[ ] undeterred by marx, herwegh marshaled his "legions" and entered baden, to be utterly crushed, exactly as marx had foreseen. a quarrel then arose between marx and bakounin over herwegh's project. far from changing marx's mind, however, it made him suspect bakounin as perhaps in the pay of the reactionaries. in any case, he made no effort to prevent the _neue rheinische zeitung_ from printing shortly after the following: "yesterday it was asserted that george sand was in possession of papers which seriously compromised the russian who has been banished from here, _michael bakounin_, and represented him as an instrument or an _agent of russia_, newly enrolled, to whom is attributed the leading part in the recent arrest of the unfortunate poles. george sand has shown these papers to some of her friends."[ ] marx later printed bakounin's answer to these charges--which were, in fact, groundless--and in his letters to the new york _tribune_ ( ) even commended bakounin for his services in the dresden uprising of .[ ] nevertheless, there is no doubt that to the end marx believed bakounin to be a tool of the enemy. these quarrels are important only as they are prophetic in thus early disclosing the gulf between marx and bakounin in their conception of revolutionary activity. although profoundly revolutionary, marx was also rigidly rational. he had no patience, and not an iota of mercy, for those who lost their heads and attempted to lead the workers into violent outbreaks that could result only in a massacre. on this point he would make no concessions, and anyone who attempted such suicidal madness was in marx's mind either an imbecile or a paid _agent provocateur_. the failure of herwegh's project forced bakounin to admit later that marx had been right. yet, as we know, with bakounin's advancing years the passion for insurrections became with him almost a mania. if this quarrel between bakounin and marx casts a light upon the causes of their antagonism, a still greater illumination is shed by the differences between them which arose in . bakounin, in that year, had written a brochure in which he developed a program for the union of the revolutionary slavs and for the destruction of the three monarchies, russia, austria, and prussia. he advocated pan-slavism, and believed that the slavic people could once more be united and then federated into a great new nation. when marx saw the volume, he wrote in the _neue rheinische zeitung_ (february , ), "aside from the poles, the russians, and perhaps even the slavs of turkey, no slavic people has a future, for the simple reason that there are lacking in all the other slavs the primary conditions--historical, geographical, political, and industrial--of independence and vitality."[ ] this cold-blooded statement infuriated bakounin. he absolutely refused to look at the facts. possessed of a passion for liberty, he wanted all nations, all peoples--civilized, semi-civilized, or savage--to be entirely free. what had historical, geographical, political, or industrial conditions to do with the matter? all this is typical of bakounin's revolutionary sentimentalism. he clashed again with marx on very similar grounds when the latter insisted that only in the more advanced countries is there a possibility of a social revolution. modern capitalist production, according to marx, must attain a certain degree of development before it is possible for the working class to hope to carry out any really revolutionary project. bakounin takes issue with him here. he declares his own aim to be "the complete and real emancipation of all the proletariat, not only of some countries, but of all nations, civilized and non-civilized."[ ] in these declarations the differences between marx and bakounin stand forth vividly. marx at no time states what he wishes. he expresses no sentiment, but confines himself to a cold statement of the facts as he sees them. bakounin, the dreamer, the sentimentalist, and the revolution-maker, wants the whole world free. whether or not marx wants the same thing is not the question. he rigidly confines himself to what he believes is possible. he says certain conditions must exist before a people can be free and independent. among them are included historical, geographical, political, and industrial conditions. marx further states that, before the working-class revolution can be successful, certain economic conditions must exist. marx is not stating here conclusions which are necessarily agreeable to him. he states only the results of his study of history, based on his analysis of past events. in the one case we find the idealist seeking to set the world violently right; in the other case we find the historian and the scientist--influenced no doubt, as all men must be, by certain hopes, yet totally regardless of personal desire--stating the antecedent conditions which must exist previous to the birth of a new historic or economic period. in speaking of the antagonism between marx and bakounin in this earlier period, i do not mean to convey the impression that it was the cause of the dissensions that arose later. the slightest knowledge of bakounin's philosophy and methods is enough to make one realize that neither the international nor any considerable section of the labor or socialist movements had anything in common with those ideas. certainly the thought and policies of marx were directly opposed to everything from first to last that bakounin stood for. nothing could be more grotesque than the idea that marxism and bakouninism could be blended, or indeed exist together, in any semblance of harmony. every thought, policy, and method of the two clashed furiously. it would be impossible to conceive of two other minds that were on so many points such worlds apart. both bakounin and marx instinctively felt this essential antagonism, yet the former wrote marx, in december, , when he was preparing to enter the international, assuring him that he had had a change of heart and that "my country, now, _c'est l'internationale_, of which you are one of the principal founders. you see then, dear friend, that i am your disciple and i am proud to be it."[ ] he then signs himself affectionately, "your devoted m. bakounin."[ ] with an olive branch such as that arrived the new "disciple" of marx. he then set to work without a moment's delay to capture the international congress which was to be held at basel, september, . and it was there that the first battle occurred. from the very moment that the congress opened it was clear that on every important question there was to be a division. most unexpectedly, the first struggle arose over a question that seemed not at all fundamental at the time, but which, as the later history of socialism shows, was really basic. the father of direct legislation, rittinghausen, was a delegate to the congress from germany. he begged the congress for an opportunity to present his ideas, and he won the support, quite naturally, of the marxian elements. in his preliminary statement to the congress he said: "you are going to occupy yourselves at length with the great social reforms that you think necessary in order to put an end to the deplorable situation of the labor world. is it then less necessary for you to occupy yourselves with methods of execution by which you may accomplish these reforms? i hear many among you say that you wish to attain your end by _revolution_. well, comrades, revolution, as a matter of fact, accomplishes nothing. if you are not able to formulate, after the revolution, by legislation, your legitimate demands, the revolution will perish miserably like that of . you will be the prey of the most violent reaction and you will be forced anew to suffer years of oppression and disgrace. "what, then, are the means of execution that democracy will have to employ in order to realize its ideas? legislation by an individual functions only to the advantage of that individual and his family. legislation by a group of capitalists, called representatives, serves only the interests of this class. it is only by taking their interests into their own hands, by direct legislation, that the people can ... establish the reign of social justice. i insist, then, that you put on the program of this congress the question of direct legislation by the people."[ ] the forces led by bakounin and professor hins, of belgium, opposed any consideration of this question. the latter, in elaborating the remarks of bakounin, declared: "they wish, they say, to accomplish, by representation or direct legislation, the transformation of the present governments, the work of our enemies, the bourgeois. they wish, in order to do this, to enter into these governments, and, by persuasion, by numbers, and by new laws, to establish a new state. comrades, do not follow this line of march, for we would perish in following it in belgium or in france as elsewhere. rather let us leave these governments to rot away and not prop them up with our morality. this is the reason: the international is and must be a state within states. let these states march on as they like, even to the point where our state is the strongest. then, on their ruins, we will place ours, all prepared, all made ready, such as it exists in each section."[ ] the result of this debate was that the father of direct legislation was not allowed time to present his views, and it is significant that this first clash of the congress resulted in a victory for the anarchists, despite all that could be done by liebknecht and the other socialists. the chief question on the program was the consideration of the right of inheritance. this was the main economic change desired by the alliance. for years bakounin had advocated the abolition of the right of inheritance as the most revolutionary of his economic demands. "the right of inheritance," declared bakounin, "after having been the natural consequence of the violent appropriation of natural and social wealth, became later the basis of the political state and of the legal family.... it is necessary, therefore, to vote the abolition of the right of inheritance."[ ] it was left to george eccarius, delegate of the association of tailors of london, to present to that congress the views of marx and the general council. the report of the general council was, of course, prepared in advance, but bakounin's views were well known, and it was intended as a crushing rejoinder. "_inheritance_," it declared, "does not _create_ that power of transferring the produce of one man's labor into another man's pocket--it only relates to the change in the individuals who yield (_sic_) that power. like all other civil legislation, the laws of inheritance are not the _cause_, but the _effect_, the _juridical consequence_ of the _existing economical organization of society_, based upon private property in the means of production, that is to say, in land, raw material, machinery, etc. in the same way the right of inheritance in the slave is not the cause of slavery, but, on the contrary, slavery is the cause of inheritance in slaves.... to proclaim the abolition of the _right of inheritance_ as the _starting point_ of the social revolution would only tend to lead the working class away from the true point of attack against present society. it would be as absurd a thing as to abolish the laws of contract between buyer and seller, while continuing the present state of exchange of commodities. it would be a thing false in theory and reactionary in practice."[ ] despite the opposition of the marxians at the congress, the proposition of bakounin received thirty-two votes as against twenty-three given to the proposition of the general council. as thirteen of the delegates abstained from voting, bakounin's resolution did not obtain an absolute majority, and the question was thus left undecided. another important discussion at the congress was on landed property. some of the delegates were opposed to the collective ownership of land, believing that it should be divided into small sections and left to the peasants to cultivate. others advocated a kind of communism, in which associations of agriculturists were to work the soil. still others believed that the state should own the land and lease it to individuals. indeed, almost every phase of the question was touched, including the means of obtaining the land from the present owners and of distributing it among the peasants or of owning it collectively while allowing them the right to cultivate it for their profit. on this subject, again, eccarius presented the views of marx. to bakounin, who expressed his terror of the state, no matter of what character, eccarius said "that his relations with the french have doubtless communicated to him this conception (for it appears that the french workingmen can never think of the state without seeing a napoleon appear, accompanied by a flock of cannon), and he replied that the state can be reformed by the coming of the working class into power. all great transformations have been inaugurated by a change in the form of landed property. the allodial system was replaced by the feudal system, the feudal system by modern private ownership, and the social transformation to which the new state of things tends will be inaugurated by the abolition of individual property in land. as to compensations, that will depend on the circumstances. if the transformation is made peacefully, the present owners will be indemnified.... if the owners of slaves had yielded when lincoln was elected, they would have received a compensation for their slaves. their resistance led to the abolition of slavery without compensation...."[ ] the congress, after debating the question at length, contented itself with voting the general proposition that "society has the right to abolish private property in land and to make land the property of the community."[ ] the last important question considered by the congress was that dealing with trade unions. the debate aroused little interest, although liebknecht opened the discussion. he pointed out the great extension of trade-union organization in england, germany, and america, and he tried to impress upon the congress the necessity for vastly extending this form of solidarity. and, indeed, it seems to have been generally admitted that trade-union organization was necessary. no practical proposals were, however, made for actually developing such organizations. the interesting part of the discussion came upon the function of trade unionism in future society. the socialists were little concerned as to what might happen to the trade unions in future society, but professor hins outlined at that congress the program of the modern syndicalists. it is, therefore, especially interesting to read what professor hins said as early as : "societies _de résistance_ (trade unions) will subsist after the suppression of wages, not in name, but in deed. they will then be the organization of labor, ... operating a vast distribution of labor from one end of the world to the other. they will replace the ancient political systems: in place of a confused and heterogeneous representation, there will be the representation of labor. "they will be at the same time agents of decentralization, for the centers will differ according to the industries which will form, in some manner, each one a separate state, and will prevent forever the return to the ancient form of centralized state, which will not, however, prevent another form of government for local purposes. as is evident, if we are reproached for being indifferent to every form of government, it is ... because we detest them all in the same way, and because we believe that it is only on their ruins that a society conforming to the principles of justice can be established."[s][ ] the congress at basel was the turning point in the brief history of the international. although the marxists were reluctant to admit it, the bakouninists had won a complete victory on every important issue. some of the decisions future congresses might remedy, but in refusing even to discuss the question of direct legislation many of the delegates clearly showed their determination to have nothing to do with politics or with any movement aiming at the conquest of political power. in all the discussions the anarchist tendencies of the congress were unmistakable, and the immense gulf between the marxists and the bakouninists was laid bare. the very foundation principles upon which the international was based had been overturned. political action was to be abandoned, while the discussion on trade unions introduced for the first time in the international the idea of a purely economic struggle and a conception of future society in which groups of producers, and not the state or the community, should own the tools of production. this syndicalist conception of socialism was not new. developed for the first time by robert owen in , it had led the working classes into the most violent and bitter strikes, that ended in disaster for all participants. born again in , it was destined to lie dormant for thirty years, then to be taken up once more--this time with immense enthusiasm--by the french trade unions. needless to say, the decisive victory of the bakouninists at basel was excessively annoying and humiliating to marx. he did not attend in person, but it was evident before the congress that he fully expected that his forces would, on that occasion, destroy root and branch the economic and political fallacies of bakounin. he rather welcomed the discussion of the differences between the program of the alliance and that of the international, in order that eccarius, liebknecht, and others might demolish, once and for all, the reactionary proposals of bakounin. to marx, much of the program of the alliance seemed a remnant of eighteenth-century philosophy, while the rest was pure utopianism, consisting of unsound and impractical reforms, mixed with atheism and schoolboy declamation. altogether, the policies and projects of bakounin seemed so vulnerable that the general council evidently felt that little preparation was necessary in order to defeat them. they seemed to have forgotten, for the moment, that bakounin was an old and experienced conspirator. in any case, he had left no stone unturned to obtain control of the congress. week by week, previous to the congress, _l'egalité_, the organ of the swiss federation, had published articles by bakounin which, while professedly explaining the principles of the international, were in reality attacking them; and most insidiously bakounin's own program was presented as the traditional position of the organization. liberty, fraternity, and equality were, of course, called into service. the treason of certain working-class politicians was pointed out as the natural and inevitable result of political action, while to those who had given little thought to economic theory the abolition of inheritances seemed the final word. nor did bakounin limit his efforts to his pen. all sections of the alliance undertook to see that friends of bakounin were sent as delegates to the congress, and it was charged that credentials were obtained in various underhanded ways. however that may have been, the "practical," "cold-blooded" marx was completely outwitted by his "sentimental" and "visionary" antagonist. instead of a great victory, therefore, the marxists left the congress of basel utterly dejected, and eccarius is reported to have said, "marx will be terribly annoyed."[ ] that marx was annoyed is to put it with extraordinary moderation, and from that moment the fight on bakouninism, anarchism, and terrorism developed to a white heat. immediately after the adjournment of the congress, moritz hess, a close friend of marx and a delegate to the congress, published in the _réveil_ of paris what he called "the secret history" of the congress, in which he declared that "between the collectivists of the international and the russian communists [meaning the bakouninists] there was all the difference which exists between civilization and barbarism, between liberty and despotism, between citizens condemning every form of violence and slaves addicted to the use of brutal force."[ ] even this gives but a faint idea of the bitterness of the controversy. marx, engels, liebknecht, hess, outine, the general council in london, and every newspaper under the control of the marxists began to assail bakounin and his circle. they no longer confined themselves to a denunciation of the "utopian and bourgeois" character of the anarchist philosophy. they went into the past history of bakounin, revived all the accusations that had been made against him, and exposed every particle of evidence obtainable concerning his "checkered" career as a revolutionist. it will be remembered that it was in that nechayeff appeared in switzerland. when the marxists got wind of him and his doctrine, their rage knew no bounds. and later they obtained and published in _l'alliance de la démocratie socialiste_ the material from which i have already quoted extensively in my first chapter. no useful purpose, however, would be served in dealing with the personal phases of the struggle. bakounin became so irate at the attacks upon him, several of which happened to have been written by jews, that he wrote an answer entitled "study upon the german jews." he feared to attack marx; and this "study," while avoiding a personal attack, sought to arouse a racial prejudice that would injure him. he writes to herzen, a month after the congress at basel, that he fully realizes that marx is "the instigator and the leader of all this calumnious and infamous polemic."[ ] he was reluctant, however, to attack him personally, and even refers to marx and lassalle as "these two jewish giants," but besides them, he adds, "there was and is a crowd of jewish pigmies."[ ] "nevertheless," he writes, "it may happen, and very shortly, too, that i shall enter into conflict with him, not over any personal offense, of course, but over a question of principle, regarding state communism, of which he himself and the english and german parties which he directs are the most ardent partisans. then it will be a fight to the finish. but there is a time for everything, and the hour for this struggle has not yet sounded.... do you not see that all these gentlemen who are our enemies are forming a phalanx, which must be disunited and broken up in order to be the more easily routed? you are more erudite than i; you know, therefore, better than i who was the first to take for principle: _divide and rule_. if at present i should undertake an open war against marx himself, three-quarters of the members of the international would turn against me, and i would be at a disadvantage, for i would have lost the ground on which i must stand. but by beginning this war with an attack against the rabble by which he is surrounded, i shall have the majority on my side.... but, ... if he wishes to constitute himself the defender of their cause, it is he who would then declare war openly. in this case, i shall take the field also and i shall play the star rôle."[ ] this was written in october, , a month after the basel congress. on the st of january, , the general council at london sent a private communication to all sections of the international, and on the th of march it was followed by another. these, together with various circulars dealing with questions of principle, but all consisting of attacks upon bakounin personally or upon his doctrines, finally goaded him into open war upon marx, the general council, all their doctrines, and even upon the then forming socialist party of germany, with bebel and liebknecht at its head. during the year bakounin was preparing for the great controversy, but his friends of lyons interrupted his work by calling him there to take part in the uprising of that year. he hastened to lyons, but, as we know, he was soon forced to flee and conceal himself in marseilles. it was there, in the midst of the blackest despair, that bakounin wrote: "i have no longer any faith in the revolution in france. this nation is no longer in the least revolutionary. the people themselves have become doctrinaire, as insolent and as bourgeois as the bourgeois.... the bourgeois are loathsome. they are as savage as they are stupid--and as the police blood flows in their veins--they should be called policemen and attorneys-general in embryo. i am going to reply to their infamous calumnies by a good little book in which i shall give everything and everybody its proper name. i leave this country with deep despair in my heart."[ ] he then set to work at last to state systematically his own views and to annihilate utterly those of the socialists. many of these documents are only fragmentary. some were started and abandoned; others ended in hopeless confusion. with the most extraordinary gift of inspirited statement, he passes in review every phase of history, leaping from one peak to another of the great periods, pointing his lessons, issuing his warnings, but all the time throwing at the reader such a niagara of ideas and arguments that he is left utterly dazed and bewildered as by some startling military display or the rushing here and there of a military maneuver. in _lettres à un français_; _manuscrit de pages, écrit à marseille_; _lettre à esquiros_; _préambule pour la seconde livraison de l'empire knouto-germanique_; _avertissement pour l'empire knouto-germanique_; _au journal la liberté, de bruxelles_; and _fragment formant une suite de l'empire knouto-germanique_, he returns again and again to the charge, always seeking to deal some fatal blow to marxian socialism, but never apparently satisfying himself that he has accomplished his task. he touches the border of practical criticism of the socialist program in the fragment entitled _lettres à un français_. it ends, however, before the task is done. again he takes it up in the _manuscrit écrit à marseille_. but here also, as soon as he arrives at the point of annihilating the socialists, his task is discontinued. in truth, he himself seems to have realized the inconclusive character of his writings, as he refused in some cases to complete them and in other cases to publish them. nevertheless, we find in various places of his fragmentary writings not only a statement of his own views, but his entire critique upon socialism. as i have made clear enough, i think, in my first chapter, there are in bakounin's writings two main ideas put forward again and again, dressed in innumerable forms and supported by an inexhaustible variety of arguments. these ideas are based upon his antagonism to religion and to government. it was always _dieu et l'etat_ that he was fighting, and not until both the ideas and the institutions which had grown up in support of "these monstrous oppressions" had been destroyed and swept from the earth could there arise, thought bakounin, a free society, peopled with happy and emancipated human souls. when one has once obtained this conception of bakounin's fundamental views, there is little necessity for dealing with the infinite number of minor points upon which he was forced to attack the men and movements of his time. on the one hand, he was assailing mazzini, whose every move in life was actuated by his intense religious and political faith, while, on the other hand, he was attacking marx as the modern moses handing down to the enslaved multitudes his table of infamous laws as the foundation for a new tyranny, that of state socialism. in bakounin ceased all maneuvering. bringing out his great guns, he began to bombard both mazzini and marx. never has polemic literature seen such another battle. with a weapon in each hand, turning from the one to the other of his antagonists, he battled, as no man ever before battled, to crush "these enemies of the entire human race." there is, of course, no possibility of adequately summarizing, in such limited space as i have allotted to it, the thought of one who traversed the history of the entire world of thought and action in pursuit of some crushing argument against the socialism of marx. this perverted form of socialism, bakounin maintained, contemplated the establishment of a _communisme autoritaire_, or state socialism. "the state," he says, "having become the sole owner--at the end of a certain period of transition which will be necessary in order to transform society, without too great economic and political shocks, from the present organization of bourgeois privilege to the future organization of official equality for all--the state will also be the sole capitalist, the banker, the money lender, the organizer, the director of all the national work, and the distributor of its products. such is the ideal, the fundamental principle of modern communism."[ ] this is, of all bakounin's criticisms of socialism, the one that has had the greatest vitality. it has gone the round of the world as a crushing blow to socialist ideals. the same thought has been repeated by every politician, newspaper, and capitalist who has undertaken to refute socialism. and every socialist will admit that of all the attempts to misrepresent socialism and to make it abhorrent to most people the idea expressed in these words of bakounin has been the most effective. to state thus the ideal of socialism is sufficient in most cases to end all argument. add to this program military discipline for the masses, barracks for homes, and a ruling bureaucracy, and you have complete the terrifying picture that is held up to the workers of every country, even to-day, as the nefarious, world-destroying design of the socialists. it is, therefore, altogether proper to inquire if these were in reality the aims of the marxists. many sincere opponents of socialism actually believe that these are the ends sought, while the casual reader of socialist literature may see much that appears to lead directly to the dreadful state tyranny that bakounin has pictured. but did marx actually advocate state socialism? in the communist manifesto marx proposed a series of reforms that the state alone was capable of instituting. he urged that many of the instruments of production should be centralized in the hands of the state. moreover, nothing is clearer than his prophecy that the working class "will use its political supremacy to wrest, by degrees, all capital from the bourgeoisie, to centralize all instruments of production in the hands of the state."[ ] indeed, in this program, as in all others that have developed out of it, the end of socialism would seem to be state ownership. "with trusts or without," writes engels, "the official representative of capitalist society--the state--will ultimately have to undertake the direction of production." commenting himself upon this statement, he adds in a footnote: "i say 'have to.' for only when the means of production and distribution have actually outgrown the form of management by joint-stock companies, and when, therefore, the taking them over by the state has become economically inevitable, only then--even if it is the state of to-day that effects this--is there an economic advance, the attainment of another step preliminary to the taking over of all productive forces by society itself." "this necessity," he continues, "for conversion into state property is felt first in the great institutions for intercourse and communication--the post-office, the telegraphs, the railways."[ ] here is the entire position in a nutshell. but engels says the state will "have to." thus engels and marx are not stating necessarily what they desire. and it must not be forgotten that in all such statements both were outlining only what appeared to them to be a natural and inevitable evolution. in state ownership they saw an outcome of the necessary centralization of capital and its growth into huge monopolies. society would be forced to use the power of the state to control, and eventually to own, these menacing aggregations of capital in the hands of a few men. both marx and engels saw clearly enough that state monopoly does not destroy the capitalistic nature of the productive forces. "the modern state, no matter what its form, is essentially a capitalist machine.... the more it proceeds to the taking over of productive forces, ... the more citizens does it exploit. the workers remain wage workers--proletarians. the capitalist relation is not done away with. it is rather brought to a head. but, brought to a head, it topples over. _state ownership of the productive forces is not the solution of the conflict, but concealed within it are the technical conditions that form the elements of that solution._"[ ] state ownership, then, was not considered by marx and engels in itself a solution of the problem. it is only a necessary preliminary to the solution. the essential step, either subsequent or precedent, is the capture of political power by the working class. by this act the means of production are freed "from the character of capital they have thus far borne, ..." and their "socialized character" is given "complete freedom to work itself out."[ ] "socialized production upon a predetermined plan becomes henceforth possible. the development of production makes the existence of different classes of society thenceforth an anachronism. in proportion as anarchy in social production vanishes, the political authority of the state dies out. man, at last the master of his own form of social organization, becomes at the same time the lord over nature, his own master--free. "to accomplish this act of universal emancipation is the historical mission of the modern proletariat. to thoroughly comprehend the historical conditions and thus the very nature of this act, to impart to the new oppressed proletarian class a full knowledge of the conditions and of the meaning of the momentous act it is called upon to accomplish, this is the task of the theoretical expression of the proletarian movement, scientific socialism."[ ] engels declares that the state, such as we have known it in the past, will die out "as soon as there is no longer any social class to be held in subjection; as soon as class rule, and the individual struggle for existence based upon our present anarchy in production, with the collisions and excesses arising from these, are removed, nothing more remains to be repressed, and a special repressive force, a state, is no longer necessary. the first act by virtue of which the state really constitutes itself the representative of the whole of society--the taking possession of the means of production in the name of society--this is, at the same time, its last independent act as a state. state interference in social relations becomes, in one domain after another, superfluous, and then dies out of itself; the government of persons is replaced by the administration of things, and by the conduct of processes of production. the state is not 'abolished.' _it dies out._ this gives the measure of the value of the phrase 'a free state,' both as to its justifiable use at times by agitators, and as to its ultimate scientific insufficiency; and also of the demands of the so-called anarchists for the abolition of the state out of hand."[ ] this conception of the rôle of the state is one that no anarchist can comprehend. he is unwilling to admit that social evolution necessarily leads through state socialism to industrial democracy, or even that such an evolution is possible. to him the state seems to have a corporeal, material existence of its own. it is a tyrannical machine that exists above all classes and wields a legal, military, and judicial power all its own. that the state is only an agency for representing in certain fields the power of a dominant economic class--this is something the anarchist will not admit. in fact, bakounin seems to have been utterly mystified when eccarius answered him at basel in these words: "the state can be reformed by the coming of the working class into power."[ ] that the state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the capitalist class can neither be granted nor understood by the anarchists. nor can it be comprehended that, when the capitalist class has no affairs of its own to manage, the coercive character of the state will gradually disappear. state ownership undermines and destroys the economic power of private capitalists. when the railroads, the mines, the forests, and other great monopolies are taken out of their hands, their control over the state is by this much diminished. the only power they possess to control the state resides in their economic power, and anything that weakens that tends to destroy the class character of the state itself. the inherent weakness of bakounin's entire philosophy lay in this fact, that it begins with the necessity of abolishing god and the state, and that it can never get beyond that or away from that. and, as a necessary consequence, bakounin had to oppose every measure that looked toward any compromise with the state, or that might enable the working class to exercise any influence in or through the state. when, therefore, the german party at its congress at eisenach demanded the suffrage and direct legislation, when it declared that political liberty is the most urgent preliminary condition for the economic emancipation of the working class, bakounin could see nothing revolutionary in such a program. when, furthermore, the party declared that the social question is inseparable from the political question and that the problems of our economic life could be solved only in a democratic state, bakounin, of course, was forced to oppose such heresies with all his power. and these were indeed the really vital questions, upon which the anarchists and the socialists could not be reconciled. it is in his _lettres à un français_, written just after the failure of his own "practical" efforts at lyons, that bakounin undertakes his criticism of the program of the german socialists. preparatory to this task, he first terrifies his french readers with the warning that if the german army, then at their doors, should conquer france, it would result in the destruction of french socialism (by which he means anarchism), in the utter degradation and complete slavery of the french people, and make it possible for the knout of germany and russia to fall upon the back of all europe. "if, in this terrible moment, ... [france] does not prefer the death of all her children and the destruction of all her goods, the burning of her villages, her cities, and of all her houses to slavery under the yoke of the prussians, if she does not destroy, by means of a popular and revolutionary uprising, the power of the innumerable german armies which, victorious on all sides up to the present, threaten her dignity, her liberty, and even her existence, if she does not become a grave for all those six hundred thousand soldiers of german despotism, if she does not oppose them with the one means capable of conquering and destroying them under the present circumstances, if she does not reply to this insolent invasion by the social revolution no less ruthless and a thousand times more menacing--it is certain, i maintain, that then france is lost, her masses of working people will be slaves, and french socialism will have lived its life."[ ] approaching his subject in this dramatic manner, bakounin turns to examine the degenerate state of socialism in italy, switzerland, and germany to see "what will be the chances of working-class emancipation in all the rest of europe."[ ] in the first country socialism is only in its infancy. the italians are wholly ignorant of the true causes of their misery. they are crushed, maltreated, and dying of hunger. they are "led blindly by the liberal and radical bourgeois."[ ] altogether, there is no immediate hope of socialism there. in switzerland the people are asleep. "if the human world were on the point of dying, the swiss would not resuscitate it."[ ] only in germany is socialism making headway, and bakounin undertakes to examine this socialism and to put it forward as a horrible example. to be sure, the german workers are awakening, but they are under the leadership of certain cunning politicians, who have abandoned all revolutionary ideas, and are now undertaking to reform the state, hoping that that could be done as a result of "a great peaceful and legal agitation of the working class."[ ] the very name liebknecht had taken for his paper, the _volksstaat_, was infamous in bakounin's eyes, while all the leaders of the labor party had become merely appendages to "their friends of the bourgeois _volkspartei_."[ ] he then passes in review the program of the german socialists, and points to their aim of establishing a democratic state by the "direct and secret suffrage for all men" and its guidance by direct legislation, as the utter abandonment of every revolutionary idea. he dwells upon the folly of the suffrage and of every effort to remodel, recast, and change the state, as "purely political and bourgeois."[ ] democracies and republics are no less tyrannical than monarchies. the suffrage cannot alter them. in england, switzerland, and america, he declares, the masses now have political power, yet they remain in the deepest depths of misery. universal suffrage is only a new superstition, while the referendum, already existing in switzerland, has failed utterly to improve the condition of the people. the working-class slaves, even in the most democratic countries, "have neither the instruction; nor the leisure, nor the independence necessary to exercise freely and with full knowledge of the case their rights as citizens. they have, in the most democratic countries, which are governed by representatives elected by all the people, a ruling day or rather a day of saturnalian celebration: that is election day. then the bourgeois, their oppressors, their every-day exploiters, and their masters, come to them, with hats off, talk to them of equality and of fraternity, and call them the ruling people, of whom they (the bourgeois) are only very humble servants, the representatives of their will. this day over, fraternity and equality evaporate in smoke, the bourgeois become bourgeois once more, and the proletariat, the sovereign people, remain slaves. "such is the real truth about the system of representative democracy, so much praised by the radical bourgeois, even when it is amended, completed, and developed, with a popular intention, by the _referendum_ or by that 'direct legislation of the people' which is extolled by a german school that wrongly calls itself socialist. for very nearly two years, the _referendum_ has been a part of the constitution of the canton of zurich, and up to this time it has given absolutely no results. the people there are called upon to vote, by yes or by no, on all the important laws which are presented to them by the representative bodies. they could even grant them the initiative without real liberty winning the least advantage."[ ] it is a discouraging picture that bakounin draws here of the ignorance and stupidity of the people as they are led in every election to vote their enemies into power. what, then, is to be done? what shall these hordes of the illiterate and miserable do? if by direct legislation they cannot even vote laws in their own interest, how, then, will it be possible for them ever to improve their condition? such questions do not in the least disturb bakounin. he has one answer, revolution! as he said in the beginning, so he repeats: "to escape its wretched lot, the populace has three ways, two imaginary and one real. the first two are the rum shop and the church, ... the third is the social revolution."[ ] "a cure is possible only through the social revolution,"[ ] that is, through "the destruction of all institutions of inequality, and the establishment of economic and social equality."[ ] however, if bakounin's idea of the social revolution never altered, the methods by which it was to be carried out suffered a change as a result of his experience in the international. in he no longer advocated, openly at any rate, secret conspiracies, the "loosening of evil passions," or some vague "unchaining of the hydra." he begins then to oppose to political action what he calls economic action.[ ] in the fragment--not published during bakounin's life--the _protestation de l'alliance_, he covers for the hundredth time his arguments against the _volksstaat_, which is a "ridiculous contradiction, a fiction, a lie."[ ] "the state ... will always be an institution of domination and of exploitation ... a permanent source of slavery and of misery."[ ] how, then, shall the state be destroyed? bakounin's answer is "first, by the organization and the federation of strike funds and the international solidarity of strikes; secondly, by the organization and international federation of trade unions; and, lastly, by the spontaneous and direct development of philosophical and sociological ideas in the international.... "let us now consider these three ways in their special action, differing one from another, but, as i have just said, inseparable, and let us commence with the organization of strike funds and strikes. "strike funds have for their sole object to provide the necessary money in order to make possible the costly organization and maintenance of strikes. and the strike is the beginning of the social war of the proletariat against the bourgeoisie, while still within the limits of legality.[t] strikes are a valuable weapon in this twofold connection; first, because they electrify the masses, give fresh impetus to their moral energy, and awaken in their hearts the profound antagonism which exists between their interests and those of the bourgeoisie, by showing them ever clearer the abyss which from this time irrevocably separates them from that class; and, second, because they contribute in large measure to provoke and to constitute among the workers of all trades, of all localities, and of all countries the consciousness and the fact itself of solidarity: a double action, the one negative and the other positive, which tends to constitute directly the new world of the proletariat by opposing it, almost absolutely, to the bourgeois world."[ ] in another place he says: "once this solidarity is seriously accepted and firmly established, it brings forth all the rest--all the principles--the most sublime and the most subversive of the international, the most destructive of religion, of juridical right, and of the state, of authority divine as well as human--in a word, the most revolutionary from the socialist point of view, being nothing but the natural and necessary developments of this economic solidarity. and the immense practical advantage of the trade sections over the central sections consists precisely in this--that these developments and these principles are demonstrated to the workers not by theoretical reasoning, but by the living and tragic experience of a struggle which each day becomes larger, more profound, and more terrible. in such a way that the worker who is the least instructed, the least prepared, the most gentle, always dragged further by the very consequences of this conflict, ends by recognizing himself to be a revolutionist, an anarchist, and an atheist, without often knowing himself how he has become such."[ ] this is as far as bakounin gets in the statement of his new program of action, as this article, like many others, was discontinued and thrown aside at the moment when he comes to clinching his argument. the mountain, however, had labored, and this was its mouse. it is chiefly remarkable as a forecast of the methods adopted by the syndicalists a quarter of a century later. nevertheless, one cannot escape the thought that bakounin's advocacy of a purely economic struggle was only a last desperate effort on his part to discover some method of action, aside from his now discredited riots and insurrections, that could serve as an effective substitute for political action. in reality, bakounin found himself in a vicious circle. again and again he tried to find his way out, but invariably he returned to his starting point. in despair he tore to pieces his manuscript, immediately, however, to start a new one; then once more to rush round the circle that ended nowhere. marx and engels ignored utterly the many and varied assaults that bakounin made upon their theoretical views. they were not the least concerned over his attacks upon _their_ socialism. they had not invented it, and economic evolution was determining its form. it was not, indeed, until that engels deals with the tendencies to state socialism, and then it was in answer to dr. eugene duehring, _privat docent_ at berlin university, who had just announced that he had become "converted" to socialism. like many another distinguished convert, he immediately began to remodel the whole theory and to create what he supposed were new and original doctrines of his own. but no sooner were they put in print than they were found to be a restatement of the old and choicest formulas of proudhon and bakounin. engels therefore took up the cudgels once again, and, no doubt to the stupefaction of duehring, denied that property is robbery,[ ] that slaves are kept in slavery by force,[ ] and that the root of social and economic inequality is political tyranny.[ ] furthermore, he deplored this method of interpreting history, and pointed out that capitalism would exist "if we exclude the possibility of force, robbery, and cheating absolutely...." furthermore, "the monopolization of the means of production ... in the hands of a single class few in numbers ... rests on purely economic grounds without robbery, force, or any intervention of politics or the government being necessary." to say that property rests on force "_merely serves to obscure the understanding of the real development of things_."[ ] i mention engels' argument in answer to dr. duehring, because word for word it answers also bakounin. of course, bakounin was a much more difficult antagonist, because he could not be pinned down to any systematic doctrines or to any clear and logical development or statement of his thought. indeed, marx and engels seemed more amused than concerned and simply treated his essays as a form of "hyper-revolutionary dress-parade oratory," to use a phrase of liebknecht's. they ridiculed him as an "amorphous pan-destroyer," and made no attempt to refute his really intangible social and economic theories. however, they met bakounin's attacks on the international at every point. on the method of organization which bakounin advocated, namely, that of a federalism of autonomous groups, which was to be "in the present a faithful image of future society," marx replied that nothing could better suit the enemies of the international than to see such anarchy reign amidst the workers. furthermore, when bakounin advocated insurrections, uprisings, and riots, or even indeed purely economic action as a substitute for political action, marx undertook extraordinary measures to deal finally with bakounin and his program of action. a conference was therefore called of the leading spirits of the international, to be held in london in september, . the whole of bakounin's activity was there discussed, and a series of resolutions was adopted by the conference to be sent to every section of the international movement. a number of these resolutions dealt directly with bakounin and the alliance, which it was thought still existed, despite bakounin's statement that it had been dissolved.[u] but by far the most important work of the conference was a resolution dealing with the question of political action. it is perhaps as important a document as was issued during the life of the international, and it stands as the answer of marx to what bakounin called economic action and to what the syndicalists now call direct action. the whole international organization is here pleaded with to maintain its faith in the efficacy of political means. political action is pointed out as the fundamental principle of the organization, and, in order to give authority to this plea, the various declarations that had been made during the life of the international were brought together. once again, the old motif of the communist manifesto appeared, and every effort was made to give it the authority of a positive law. although rather long, the resolution is too important a document not to be printed here almost in full. "considering the following passage of the preamble to the rules: 'the economic emancipation of the working classes is the great end to which every political movement ought to be subordinate _as a means_;' "that the inaugural address of the international working men's association ( ) states: 'the lords of land and the lords of capital will always use their political privileges for the defense and perpetuation of their economic monopolies. so far from promoting, they will continue to lay every possible impediment in the way of the emancipation of labor.... to conquer political power has therefore become the great duty of the working classes;' "that the congress of lausanne ( ) has passed this resolution: 'the social emancipation of the workmen is inseparable from their political emancipation;' "that the declaration of the general council relative to the pretended plot of the french internationals on the eve of the plébiscite ( ) says: 'certainly by the tenor of our statutes, all our branches in england, on the continent, and in america have the special mission not only to serve as centers for the militant organization of the working class, but also to support, in their respective countries, every political movement tending toward the accomplishment of our ultimate end--the economic emancipation of the working class;' * * * * * "considering that against this collective power of the propertied classes the working class cannot act, as a class, except by constituting itself into a political party, distinct from, and opposed to, all old parties formed by the propertied classes; "that this constitution of the working class into a political party is indispensable in order to insure the triumph of the social revolution and its ultimate end--the abolition of classes; "that the combination of forces which the working class has already effected by its economic struggles ought at the same time to serve as a lever for its struggles against the political power of landlords and capitalists. "the conference recalls to the members of the _international_: "that, in the militant state of the working class, its economic movement and its political action are indissolubly united."[ ] from the congress at basel in to the conference at the hague in , little was done by the international to realize its great aim of organizing politically the working class of europe. it had been completely sidetracked, and all the energies of its leading spirits were wasted in controversy and in the various struggles of the factions to control the organization. it was a period of incessant warfare. nearly every local conference was a scene of dissension; many of the branches were dissolved; and disruption in the latin countries was gradually obliterating whatever there was of actual organization. it all resolved itself into a question of domination between bakounin and marx. the war between germany and france prevented an international gathering, and it was not until september, , that another congress of the international was held. it was finally decided that it should gather at the hague. the commune had flashed across the sky for a moment. insurrection had broken out and had been crushed in various places in europe. strikes were more frequent than had ever been known before. and, because of these various disturbances, the international had become the terror of europe. its strength and influence were vastly overestimated by the reactionary powers. its hand was seen in every act of the discontented masses. it became the "red spectre," and all the powers of europe were now seeking to destroy it. looming thus large to the outside world, those within the international knew how baseless were the fears of its opponents. they realized that internecine war was eating its heart out. during all this time, when it was credited and blamed for every revolt in europe, there were incredible plotting and intrigue between the factions. endless documents were printed, assailing the alleged designs of this or that group, and secret circulars were issued denouncing the character of this or that leader. sections were formed and dissolved in the maneuvers of the two factions to control the approaching congress. and, when finally the congress gathered at the hague, there was a gravity among the delegates that foreboded what was to come. the marxists were in absolute control. on the resolution to expel michael bakounin from the international the vote stood twenty-seven for and six against, while seven abstained. the expulsion of bakounin, however, occurred only after a long debate upon his entire history and that of his secret alliance. nearly all the amazing collection of "documentary proof," afterward published in _l'alliance de la démocratie socialiste_, was submitted to the congress, and a resolution was passed that all the documents should be published, together with such others as might tend to enlighten the membership concerning the purposes of bakounin's organization. two other important actions were taken at the congress. one was to introduce into the actual rules of the association part of the resolution, which was passed by the conference in london the year before, dealing with political action, and this was adopted by thirty-six votes against five. the other action was to remove the seat of the general council from london to new york. although this was suggested by marx, it was energetically fought on the ground that it meant the destruction of the international. by a very narrow vote the resolution was carried, twenty-six to twenty-three, a number of marx's oldest and most devoted followers voting against the proposition. no really satisfactory explanation is given for this extraordinary act, although it has been thought since that marx had arrived at the decision, perhaps the hardest of his life, to destroy the international in order to save it from the hands of the anarchists. to be sure, bakounin was now out of it, and there was little to be feared from his faction, segregated and limited to certain places in the latin countries; but everywhere the name of the international was being used by all sorts of elements that could only injure the actual labor movement. the exploits of nechayeff, of bakounin, and of certain spanish and italian sections had all conveyed to the world an impression of the international which perhaps could never be altogether erased. furthermore, in germany and other countries the seeds of an actual working-class political movement had been planted, and there was already promise of a huge development in the national organizations. what moved marx thus to destroy his own child, the concrete thing he had dreamed of in his thirty years of incessant labor, profound study, and ceaseless agitation, will perhaps never be fully known, but in any case no act of marx was ever of greater service to the cause of labor. it was a form of surgery that cut out of the socialist movement forever an irreconcilable element, and from then on the distinction between anarchist and socialist was indisputably clear. they stood poles apart, and everyone realized that no useful purpose would be served in trying to bring them together again. largely because of bakounin, the international as an organization of labor never played an important rôle; but, as a melting pot in which the crude ideas of many philosophies were thrown--some to be fused, others to be cast aside, and all eventually to be clarified and purified--the international performed a memorable service. during its entire life it was a battlefield. in the beginning there were many separate groups, but at the end there were only two forces in combat--socialists and anarchists. when the quarrel began there was among the masses no sharply dividing line; their ideas were incoherent; and their allegiance was to individuals rather than to principles. without much discrimination, they called themselves "communists," "internationalists," "collectivists," "anarchists," "socialists." even these terms they had not defined, and it was only toward the end of the international that the two combatants classified their principles into two antagonistic schools, socialism and anarchism. anarchism was no longer a vague, undefined philosophy of human happiness; it now stood forth, clear and distinct from all other social theories. after this no one need be in doubt as to its meaning and methods. on the other hand, no thoughtful person need longer remain in doubt as to the exact meaning and methods of socialism. this work of definition and clarification was the immense service performed by the international in its eight brief years of life. throughout europe and america, after , these two forces openly declared that they had nothing in common, either in method or in philosophy. to them at least the international had been a university. footnotes: [s] in the english report of the discussion professor hins's remarks are summarized as follows: "hins said he could not agree with those who looked upon trade societies as mere strike and wages' societies, nor was he in favor of having central committees made up of all trades. the present trades unions would some day overthrow the present state of political organization altogether; they represented the social and political organization of the future. the whole laboring population would range itself, according to occupation, into different groups, and this would lead to a new political organization of society. he wanted no intermeddling of the state; they had enough of that in belgium already. as to the central committees, every trade ought to have its central committee at the principal seat of manufacture. the central committee of the cotton trades ought to be at manchester; that of the silk trades at lyons, etc. he did not consider it a disadvantage that trade unions kept aloof more or less from politics, at least in his country. by trying to reform the state, or to take part in its councils, they would virtually acknowledge its right of existence. whatever the english, the swiss, the germans, and the americans might hope to accomplish by means of the present political state the belgians repudiated theirs."--pp. - . [t] these are almost the exact words that aristide briand uses in his argument for the general strike. see "_la grève générale_," compiled by lagardelle, p. . [u] one of the resolutions prohibited the formation of sectarian groups or separatist bodies within the international, such as the _alliance de la démocratie socialiste_, that pretended "to accomplish special missions, distinct from the common purposes of the association." another resolution dealt with what was called the "split" among the workers in the french-speaking part of switzerland. still another resolution formally declared that the international had nothing in common with the infamies of nechayeff, who had fraudulently usurped and exploited the name of the international. furthermore, outine was instructed to prepare a report from the russian journals on the work of nechayeff. cf. _resolutions_ ii, xvii, xiii, xiv, respectively, of the conference of delegates of the international working men's association, assembled at london from th to d september, . chapter ix the fight for existence after the hague congress the socialists and anarchists, divided into separate and antagonistic groups--with principles as well as methods of organization that were diametrically opposed to each other--were forced to undergo a terrific struggle for existence. marx had clearly enough warned the followers of bakounin that their methods were suicidal. "the alliance proceeds the wrong way," he declared. "it proclaims anarchy in the working-class ranks as the surest means of destroying the powerful concentration of social and political forces in the hands of the exploiters. on this pretext it asks the international, at the moment when the old world is striving to crush it, to replace its organization by anarchy."[ ] and, as strange as it may seem, this was in fact what bakounin was actually striving for. in the name of liberty he was demanding that the international be broken up into thousands of isolated, autonomous groups, which were to do whatever they pleased, in any way they pleased, at any time they pleased. this may have been, and doubtless was, in perfect harmony with the philosophy of anarchism, but it had nothing in harmony with the idea of a solidified, international organization of workingmen that marx was striving to bring into existence. anarchism when advocated as an ideal for some distant social order of the future, concerned marx and engels very little; indeed, they did not even discuss it from this point of view. it was only when bakounin counseled anarchy as a method of working-class organization that both marx and engels protested, on the ground that such tactics could lead only to self-destruction. neither bakounin nor his followers were convinced, however, and they set out bravely after to put into practice their ideas. their revolt against authority was carried to its ultimate extreme. how far the anarchists were prepared to go in their revolt is indicated by a letter which bakounin wrote to _la liberté_ of brussels a few days after his expulsion from the international. although not finished, and consequently not sent to that journal, it is especially interesting because he attacks the general council as a new incarnation of the state. here his lively imagination pictures the international as the germ of a new despotic social order, already fallen under the domination of a group of dictators, and he exclaims: "a state, a government, a universal dictatorship! the dream of gregory vii., of boniface viii., of charles v., and of napoleon is reproduced in new forms, but ever with the same pretensions, in the camp of social democracy."[ ] this is an altogether new point of view as to the character of the state. we now learn that it means any form of centralized organization; a committee, a chairman, an executive body of any sort is a state. the general council in london was a state. marx and engels were a state. any authority--no matter what its form, nor how controlled, appointed, or elected--is a state. i am not sure that this marks the birth of the repugnance of the anarchists to even so innocent a form of authority as that of a chairman. nor am i certain that this was the origin of those ideas of organization that make of an anarchist meeting a modern babel, wherein all seems to be utter confusion. in any case, the bakouninists, after the hague congress, undertook to revive the international and to base this new organization on these ideas of anarchism. after a conference at saint-imier in the jura, where bakounin and his friends outlined the policies of a new international, a call was sent out for a congress to be held in geneva in . the congress that assembled there was not a large one, but, with no exaggeration whatever, it was one of the most remarkable gatherings ever held. for six entire days and nights the delegates struggled to create by some magic means a world-wide organization of the people, without a program, a committee, a chairman, or a vote. no longer oppressed by the "tyranny" of marx, or baffled by his "abominable intrigues," they set out to create their "faithful image" of the new world--an organization that was not to be an organization; a union that was to be made up of fleeting and constantly shifting elements, agreeing at one moment to unite, at the next moment to divide. this was the insolvable problem that now faced the first congress of the anarchists. there were only two heretics among them. both had come from england; but hales was a "voice crying in the wilderness," while eccarius sat silent throughout the congress. the first great debate took place upon whether there should be any central council. the english delegates believed that there should be one, but that its power should be limited. other delegates believed that there might be various commissions to perform certain necessary executive services. john hales declared, in support of a central commission, that it will promote economy and facilitate the work, and that it will be easy to prevent such a commission from usurping power.[ ] paul brousse, guillaume, and others opposed this view with such heat, however, that hales was forced to respond: "i combat anarchy because the word and the thing that it represents are the synonyms of dissolution. anarchy spells individualism, and individualism is the basis of the existing society that we desire to destroy.... let us suppose, for example, a strike. can one hope to triumph with an anarchist organization? under this régime each one, being able to do what he pleases, can, according to his will, work or not work. the general interest will be sacrificed to individual caprice. the veritable application of the anarchist principle would be the dissolution of the international, and this congress has precisely an opposite end, which is to reorganize the international. one should not confound authority and organization. we are not authoritarians, but we must be organizers. far from approving anarchy, which is the present social state, we ought to combat it by the creation of a central commission and by the organization of collectivism. anarchy is the law of death; collectivism, that of life."[ ] this was, as hales soon discovered, the very essence of heresy, and, when the vote was taken, he was overwhelmed by those opposed to any centralized organization. the anarchists were not, however, content merely with having no central council, and they began to discuss whether or not the various federations should vote upon questions of principle. the commission that was dealing with the revision of the by-laws recommended that views should be harmonized by discussion and that any decisions made by the congress should be enforced only among those federations which accepted its decisions. costa of italy approved of these ideas. "for that which concerns theory, we can only discuss and seek to persuade each other, ... but we cannot enforce, for example, ... a certain political program."[ ] brousse vigorously opposed the process of voting in any form. it appeared to him that the true means of action was to obtain the opinion of everyone. "the vote," he declared, "simply divides an assembly into a majority and a minority.... the only truly practical means of obtaining a consensus of opinions is to have them placed in the minutes without voting."[ ] that view seemed to prevail, and the amendment to this question suggested by hales of england was _voted down by the majority_! these two decisions of the congress will convey an idea of the anarchist conception of organization. there was to be no executive or administrative body. nor were the decisions of the congress to have any authority. anybody could join, believing anything he liked and doing anything he liked. only those federations which voluntarily accepted the decisions of the congress were expected to obey them. matters of principle were in no-wise to be voted upon, and each individual was allowed to accept or reject them according to his wishes. the actual rules, adopted unanimously, ran as follows: "federations and sections, composing the association, will conserve their complete autonomy, that is to say, the right to organize themselves according to their will, to administer their own affairs without any exterior interference, and to determine themselves the path they wish to follow in order to arrive at the emancipation of labor."[ ] it was fully expected that, in addition to its work of reorganization, if we may so speak of it, the congress would definitely devise some method, other than a political one, for the emancipation of labor. the general strike had been put down upon the agenda for discussion. in the report of the jura section it was declared: "if the workers affiliated with the association could fix a certain day for the general strike, not only to obtain a reduction of hours and a diminution[v] of wages, but also to find the means of living in the coöperative workshops, by groups and by colonies, we could not decline to lend them our assistance, and we would make appeal to the members of all nations to lend them both moral and material aid."[ ] unfortunately, the congress had little time to discuss this part of its program. in the _compte-rendu officiel_ there is no report of whatever discussion took place. but guillaume, in his _documents et souvenirs_, gives us a brief account of what occurred. after two resolutions had been put on the subject they were withdrawn because of opposition, and finally guillaume introduced the following: "whereas partial strikes can only procure for the workers momentary and illusory relief, and whereas, by their very nature, wages will always be limited to the strictly necessary means of subsistence in order to keep the worker from dying of hunger, "the congress, without believing in the possibility of completely renouncing partial strikes, recommends the workers to devote their efforts to achieving an international organization of trade bodies, which will enable them to undertake some day a general strike, the only really efficacious strike to realize the complete emancipation of labor."[ ] all the delegates approved the resolution, excepting hales, who voted against it, and van den abeele, who abstained from voting because the matter would be later discussed in holland. it was of course inevitable that such an "organization" should soon disappear. vigorous efforts were made by a few of the devoted to keep the movement alive, but it is easy to see that an aggregation so loosely united, and without any really definite purpose, was destined to dissolution. during the next few years various small congresses were held, but they were merely beating a corpse in the effort to keep it alive. and, while the bakouninists were engaged in this critical struggle with death, the spirit that had animated all their battles with marx withdrew himself. bakounin was tired and discouraged, and he left his friends of the jura without advice or assistance in their now impossible task. thus precipitately ended the efforts of the anarchists to build up a new international. george plechanoff illuminates the insolvable problem of the anarchists with his powerful statement: "error has its logic as well as truth. once you reject the political action of the working class, you are fatally driven--provided you do not wish to serve the bourgeois politicians--to accept the tactics of the vaillants and the henrys."[ ] that this is terribly true is open to no question whatever. and the anarchists now found themselves in a veritable _cul-de-sac_. like the poor in sidney lanier's poem, they were pressing "against an inward-opening door that pressure tightens evermore." the more they fretted and stormed and crushed each other, the more hopelessly impossible became the chance of egress. the more desperately they threw themselves against that door, the more securely they imprisoned themselves. it was the very logic of their tactics that they could not circumvent so small an obstacle as that inward-opening door. it meant self-destruction. and that, of course, was exactly what happened, as we know, to those who followed the vicious round of logic from which bakounin could not extricate himself. their struggle for an organized existence was brief, and at the end of the seventies it was entirely over. naturally, the complete failure of all their projects did not improve their temper, and they lost no opportunity to assail the marxists. the jura _bulletin_ of december , , translated an article entitled _poco à poco_, written by andrea costa, who labeled the "pacific" socialists "apostles of conciliation and ambiguity." they wish, said costa, to march slowly on the road of progress. "otherwise, indeed, what would become of them and their newspapers? for them the field of fruitful study and of profound observations on the phenomena of industrial life would be closed. for the journalists the means of earning money would have likewise disappeared.... finding the satisfaction of their own aspirations in the present state of misery, they end by becoming, often without wishing it, profoundly egotistic and bad.... while calling themselves socialists, they are more dangerous than the declared enemies of the popular cause."[ ] about this time a new journal appeared at florence under the name of _l'anarchia_ and announced the following program: "we are not _armchair (katheder) socialists_. we will speak a simple language in order that the proletariat may understand once for all what road it must follow in order to arrive at its complete emancipation. _l'anarchia_ will fight without truce not only the exploiting bourgeoisie, but also _the new charlatans of socialism_, for the latter are the most dangerous enemies of the working class."[ ] the following year kropotkin wrote two articles in the _bulletin_, july and , which vigorously attacked socialist parliamentary tactics. "at what price does one succeed in leading the people to the ballot boxes?" he asks in the first article. "have the frankness to acknowledge, gentlemen politicians, that it is by inculcating this illusion, that in sending members to parliament the people will succeed in freeing themselves and in bettering their lot, that is to say, by telling them what one knows to be an absolute lie. it is certainly not for the pleasure of getting their education that the german people give their pennies for parliamentary agitation. it is because, from hearing it repeated each day by hundreds of 'agitators,' they come to believe that truly by this method they will be able to realize, in part at least, if not completely, their hopes. acknowledge it for once, politicians of to-day, formerly socialists, that we may say aloud what you think in silence: 'you are liars!' yes, liars, i insist upon the word, since you lie to the people when you tell them that they will better their lot by sending you to parliament. you lie, for you yourselves, but a few years since, have maintained absolutely the contrary."[ ] what infuriated the anarchists was the amazing growth of the socialist political parties. it was only after the hague congress that the socialist movement was in reality free to begin its actual work. with ideas diametrically opposed to those of the anarchists, the socialists set out to build up their national movements by uniting the various elements in the labor world. there were now devoted disciples of marx in every country of europe, and in the next few years, in france, belgium, holland, norway, sweden, and germany, the foundations were laid for the great national movements that exist to-day. in france, jules guesde, paul lafargue, and gabriel deville launched a socialist labor party in . a danish socialist labor party was formed the same year by an agreement with the trade unions. in the early eighties the social-democratic federation was founded in england, and in a congress of various groups of radicals, socialists, and republicans launched a political movement in italy. in germany the socialists had already built up a great political organization. this had been done directly under the guidance of marx and engels through liebknecht and bebel. marx's ideas were there perfectly worked out, and nothing so much as that living, growing thing incensed the anarchists. indeed, they seemed to be convinced that there was more of menace to the working class in these growing organizations of the socialists than in the power of the bourgeoisie itself. the controversial literature of this period is not pleasant reading. the socialists and anarchists were literally at each other's throats, and the spirit of malignity that actuated many of their assaults upon each other is revolting to those of to-day who cannot appreciate the intensity of this battle for the preservation of their most cherished ideas. and in all this period the socialist and labor movement was overrun with _agents provocateurs_, and every variety of paid police agents sent to disrupt and destroy these organizations. and, as has always been the case, these "reptiles," as they were called, were advocating among the masses those deeds which the chief anarchists were proclaiming as revolutionary methods. riots, insurrections, dynamite outrages, the shooting of individuals, and all forms of violence were being preached to the poor and hungry men who made up the mass of the labor movement. under the guise of anarchists, these "reptiles" were often looked upon as heroic figures, and everywhere, even when they did not succeed in winning the confidence of the masses, they were able to awaken suspicion and distrust that demoralized the movement. the socialists were assailed as traitors to the cause of labor, because they were preaching peaceable methods. they were accused of alliances with other parties, because they sought to elect men to parliament. they were denounced as in league with the government and even the police, because they disapproved of dynamite. on the other hand, the socialists were equally bitter in their attacks upon the anarchists. they denounced their methods as suicidal and the propaganda of the deed as utter madness. in _la période tragique_, when duval, decamps, ravachol, and the other anarchists in france were committing the most astounding crimes, jules guesde and other socialist leaders condemned these outrages and protested against being associated in the public mind with those who advocated theft and murder as a method of propaganda. indeed, the anarchists in the late seventies and in the eighties lost many who had been formerly friendly to them. guesde and plechanoff, both of whom had been influenced in their early days by the bakouninists, had broken with them completely. later paul brousse and andrea costa left them. and, in fact, the anarchists were now incapable of any effective action or even education. without committees, executives, laws, votes, or chairmen, they could not undertake any work which depended on organized effort, and, except as they managed from time to time to gain a prominent position in some labor or radical organization built up by others, they had no influence over any large body of people. they were fighting desperately to prevent extinction, and in their struggle a number of extraordinarily brilliant and daring characters came to the front. but during the next decade their tragic desperation, instead of advancing anarchism, served only to strengthen the reactionary elements of europe in their effort to annihilate the now formidable labor and socialist movements. turning now to the struggle for existence of the socialist parties of the various countries, there is one story that is far too important in the history of socialism to be passed over. it was a magnificent battle against the terrorists above and the terrorists below, that ended in complete victory for the socialists. strangely enough, the greatest provocation to violence that has ever confronted the labor movement and the greatest opportunity that was ever offered to anarchy occurred in precisely that country where it was least expected. nowhere else in all europe had socialism made such advances as in germany; and nowhere else was the movement so well organized, so intelligently led, or so clear as to its aims and methods. an immense agitation had gone on during the entire sixties, and working-class organizations were springing up everywhere. besides possessing the greatest theorists of socialism, marx and engels, the german movement was rich indeed in having in its service three such matchless agitators as lassalle, bebel, and liebknecht. lassalle certainly had no peer, and those who have written of him exhaust superlatives in their efforts to describe this prodigy. he, also, was a product of that hero-producing period of ' . he had been arrested in düsseldorf at the same time that marx and his circle had been arrested at cologne. he was then only twenty-three years of age. yet his defense of his actions in court is said to have been a masterpiece. even the critic george brandes has spoken of it as the most wonderful example of manly courage and eloquence in a youth that the history of the world has given us. precocious as a child, proud and haughty as a youth, gifted with a critical, penetrating, and brilliant mind, and moved by an ambition that knew no bounds, lassalle, with all his powerful passion and dramatic talents, could not have been other than a great figure. when a man possesses qualities that call forth the wonder of heine, humboldt, bismarck, and brandes, when bakounin calls him a "giant," and even george meredith turns to him as a personality almost unequaled in fiction and makes a novel out of his career, the plain ordinary world may gain some conception of this "father of the german labor movement." this is no place to deal with certain deplorable and contradictory phases of his life nor even with some of his mad dreams that led bismarck, after saying that "he was one of the most intellectual and gifted men with whom i have ever had intercourse, ..." to add "and it was perhaps a matter of doubt to him whether the german empire would close with the hohenzollern dynasty or the lassalle dynasty."[ ] such was the proud, unruly, ambitious spirit of the man, who, in , came actively to voice the claims of labor. setting out to regenerate society and appealing directly to the working classes, lassalle lashed them with scorn. "you german workingmen are curious people," he said. "french and english workingmen have to be shown how their miserable condition may be improved; but you have first to be shown that you _are_ in a miserable condition. so long as you have a piece of bad sausage and a glass of beer, you do not notice that you want anything. that is a result of your accursed absence of needs. what, you will say, is this, then, a virtue? yes, in the eyes of the christian preacher of morality it is certainly a virtue. absence of needs is the virtue of the indian pillar saint and of the christian monk, but in the eyes of the student of history and the political economist it is quite a different matter. ask all political economists what is the greatest misfortune for a nation? the absence of wants. for these are the spurs of its development and of civilization. the neapolitan lazaroni are so far behind in civilization, because they have no wants, because they stretch themselves out contentedly and warm themselves in the sun when they have secured a handful of macaroni. why is the russian cossack so backward in civilization? because he eats tallow candles and is happy when he can fuddle himself on bad liquor. to have as many needs as possible, but to satisfy them in an honorable and respectable way, that is the virtue of the present, of the economic age! and, so long as you do not understand and follow that truth, i shall preach in vain."[ ] other nations may be slaves, he added, recalling the words of ludwig börne; they may be put in chains and be held down by force, but the germans are flunkies--it is not necessary to lay chains on them--they may be allowed to wander free about the house. yet, while thus shaming the working classes, he pleaded their cause as no other one has pleaded it, and, after humiliating them, he held them spellbound, as he traced the great rôle the working classes were destined to play in the regeneration of all society. the socialism of lassalle had much in common with that of louis blanc, and his theory of coöperative enterprises subsidized by the state was almost identical. chiefly toward this end he sought to promote working-class organization, although he also believed that the working classes would eventually gain control of the entire state and, through it, reorganize production. he agitated for universal suffrage and even plotted with bismarck to obtain it. he was confident that an industrial revolution was inevitable. the change "will either come in complete legality," he said, "and with all the blessings of peace--if people are only wise enough to resolve that it shall be introduced in time and from above--or it will one day break in amid all the convulsions of violence, with wild, flowing hair, and iron sandals upon its feet. in one way or the other it will come at all events, and when, shutting myself from the noise of the day, i lose myself in history--then i hear its tread. but do you not see, then, that, in spite of this difference in what we believe, our endeavors go hand in hand? you do not believe in revolution, and therefore you want to prevent it. good, do that which is your duty. but i do believe in revolution, and, because i believe in it, i wish, not to precipitate it--for i have already told you that according to my view of history the efforts of a tribune are in this respect necessarily as impotent as the breath of my mouth would be to unfetter the storm upon the sea--but in case it should come, and from below, i will humanize it, civilize it beforehand." [ ] thus lassalle saw that "to wish to make a revolution is the foolishness of immature men who have no knowledge of the laws of history."[ ] yet he stated also that, if a revolution is imminent, it is equally childish for the powerful to think they can stem it. "revolution is an overturning, and a revolution always takes place--whether it be with or without force is a matter of no importance ... when an entirely new principle is introduced in the place of the existing order. reform, on the other hand, takes place when the principle of the existing order is retained, but is developed to more liberal or more consequent and just conclusions. here, again, the question of means is of no importance. a reform may be effected by insurrection and bloodshed, and a revolution may take place in the deepest peace."[ ] through the agitation of lassalle, the universal german working men's association was organized, and it was his work for that body that won him fame as the founder of the german labor movement. not a laborer himself, nor indeed speaking to them as one of themselves, he led a life that would probably have ended disastrously, even to the cause itself, had it not been for his dramatic ending through the love affair and the duel. fate was kind to lassalle in that he lived only so long as his influence served the cause of the workers, and in that death took him before life shattered another idol of the masses. "one of two things," said lassalle once before his judges. "either let us drink cyprian wine and kiss beautiful maidens--in other words, indulge in the most common selfishness of pleasure--or, if we are to speak of the state and morality, let us dedicate all our powers to the improvement of the dark lot of the vast majority of mankind, out of whose night-covered floods we, the propertied class, only rise like solitary pillars, as if to show how dark are those floods, how deep is their abyss."[ ] with such marvelous pictures as this lassalle created a revolution in the thought and even in the action of the working classes of germany. at times he drank cyprian wines, and what might have happened had he lived no one can tell. but he was indeed at the time a "solitary pillar," rising out of "night-covered floods," a heroic figure, who is even to-day an unforgettable memory. bebel and liebknecht appeared in the german movement as influential figures only after the disappearance of lassalle. and, while the labor movement was already launched, it was in a deplorable condition when these two began their great work of uniting the toilers and organizing a political party. one of the first difficult tasks placed before them was to root out of the labor movement the corruption which bismarck had introduced into it. that great and rising statesman was a practical politician not excelled even in america. in the most cold-blooded manner he sought to buy men and movements. for various reasons of his own he wanted the support of the working-class; and, as early as , he employed lothar bucher, an old revolutionist who had been intimately associated with marx. possessed of remarkable intellectual gifts and an easy conscience, bucher was of invaluable service to bismarck, both in his knowledge of the inside workings of the labor and socialist movement and as a go-between when the iron chancellor had any dealings with the socialists. through bucher, bismarck tried to bribe even marx, and offered him a position on the government official newspaper, the _staats anzeiger_. bucher was also an intimate friend of lassalle's, and it was doubtless through him that bismarck arranged his secret conferences with lassalle. the latter left no account of their relations, and it is difficult now to know how intimate they were or who first sought to establish them. about all that is known is what bismarck himself said in the reichstag when bebel forced him to admit that he had conferred frequently with lassalle: "lassalle himself wanted urgently to enter into negotiations with me."[ ] it is known that lassalle sent to the chancellor numerous communications, and that one of his letters to the secretary of the universal association reads, "the things sent to bismarck should go in an envelope" marked "personal."[ ] liebknecht later exposed august brass as in the employ of bismarck, although he was a "red republican," who had started a journal and had obtained liebknecht's coöperation. furthermore, when he was tried for high treason in , liebknecht declared that bismarck's agents had tried to buy him. "bismarck takes not only money, but also men, where he finds them. it does not matter to what party a man belongs. that is immaterial to him. he even prefers renegades, for a renegade is a man without honor and, consequently, an instrument without will power--as if dead--in the hands of the master."[ ] "i do not need to say ... that i repelled bismarck's offers of corruption with the scorn which they merited," liebknecht continues. "if i had not done so, if i had been infamous enough to sacrifice my principles to my personal interest, i would be in a brilliant position, instead of on the bench of the accused where i have been sent by those who, years ago, tried in vain to buy me."[ ] as early as marx and engels had to withdraw from their collaboration with von schweitzer in his journal, the _sozialdemokrat_, because it was suspected that he had sold out to bismarck. this was followed by bebel's and liebknecht's war on von schweitzer because of his relations to bismarck. von schweitzer, as the successor of lassalle at the head of the universal working men's association, occupied a powerful position, and the quarrels between the various elements in the labor movement were at this time almost fatal to the cause. however, various representatives of the working class already sat in parliament, and among them were bebel and liebknecht. the exposures of liebknecht and bebel proved not only ruinous to von schweitzer, but excessively annoying to bismarck, and as early as he wanted to begin a war upon the marxian socialists. in he actually began his attempts to crush what he could no longer corrupt or control. he became more and more enraged at the attitude of the socialists toward him personally. moreover, they were no longer advocating coöperative associations subsidized by the state; they were now propagating everywhere republican and socialist ideas. he tried in various ways to rid the country of the two chief malcontents, bebel and liebknecht, but even their arrests seemed only to add to their fame and to spread more throughout the masses their revolutionary views. he says himself that he was awakened to the iniquity of their doctrines when they defended the republican principles of the paris workmen in . at his trial in liebknecht stated with perfect frankness his republican principles. "gentlemen judges and jurors, i do not disown my past, my principles, and my convictions. i deny nothing; i conceal nothing. and, in order to show that i am an adversary of monarchy and of present society, and that when duty calls me i do not recoil before the struggle, there was truly no need of the foolish inventions of the policemen of giessen. i say here freely and openly: _since i have been capable of thinking i have been a republican, and i shall die a republican._[ ] ... if i have had to undergo unheard of persecutions and if i am poor, that is nothing to be ashamed of--no, i am proud of it, for that is the most eloquent witness of my political integrity. yet, once more, i am not a conspirator by profession. _call me, if you will, a soldier of the revolution--i do not object to that._ "from my youth a double ideal has soared above me: germany free and united and the emancipation of the working people, that is to say, the suppression of class domination, which is synonymous with the liberation of humanity. for this double end i have struggled with all my strength, and for this double end i will struggle as long as a breath of life remains in me. duty wills it!"[ ] such doctrines must of course be suppressed, and the exposure of those who had relations with bismarck made it impossible for him longer to deal even with a section of the labor movement. the result was that persecutions were begun on both the lassalleans and the marxists. and it was largely this new policy of repression that forced the warring labor groups in to meet in conference at gotha and to unite in one organization. in the following election, , the united party polled nearly five hundred thousand votes, or about ten per cent. of all the votes cast in germany. it now had twelve members in the reichstag, and bismarck saw very clearly that a force was rising in germany that threatened not only him but his beloved hohenzollern dynasty itself. for years most of its opponents comforted themselves with the belief that socialism was merely a temporary disturbance which, if left alone, would run its course and eventually die out. again and again its militant enemies had discussed undertaking measures against it, but the wiser heads prevailed until , when the socialists polled a great vote. and, of course, when it was once decided that socialism must be stamped out, a really good pretext was soon found upon which repressive measures might be taken. i have already mentioned that on may , , emperor william was shot at by hödel. it was, of course, natural that the reactionaries should make the most possible of this act of the would-be assassin, and, when photographs of several prominent socialists were found on his person, a great clamor arose for a coercive law to destroy the social democrats. the question was immediately discussed in the reichstag, but the moderate forces prevailed, and the bill was rejected. hardly, however, had the discussion ended before a second attempt was made on the life of the aged sovereign. this time it was dr. karl nobiling who, on june , , fired at the emperor from an upper window in the main street of berlin. in this case, the emperor was severely wounded, and, in the panic that ensued, even the moderate elements agreed that social democracy must be suppressed. various suggestions were made. some proposed the blacklisting of all workmen who avowed socialist principles, while others suggested that all socialists should be expelled from the country. to exile half a million voters was, however, a rather large undertaking, and, in any case, bismarck had his own plans. first he precipitated a general election, giving the socialists no time to prepare their campaign. as a result, their members in the reichstag were diminished in number, and their vote throughout the country decreased by over fifty thousand. when the reichstag again assembled, bismarck laid before it his bill against "the publicly dangerous endeavors of social-democracy." the statement accompanying the bill sought to justify its repressive measures by citing in the preamble the two attempts made upon the emperor, and by stating the conviction of the federal government that extraordinary measures must be taken. a battle royal occurred in the reichstag between bismarck on the one side and bebel and liebknecht on the other. nevertheless, the bill became a law in october of that year. the anti-socialist law was intended to cut off every legal and peaceable means of advancing the socialist cause. it was determined that the german social democrats must be put mentally, morally, and physically upon the rack. even the briefest summary of the provisions of the anti-socialist law will illustrate how determined the reactionaries were to annihilate utterly the socialist movement. the chief measures were as follows: _i. prohibitory_ . the formation or existence of organizations which sought by social-democratic, socialistic, or communistic movements to subvert the present state and social order was prohibited. the prohibition was also extended to organizations exhibiting tendencies which threatened to endanger the public peace and amity between classes. . the right of assembly was greatly restricted. all meetings in which social-democratic, socialistic, or communistic tendencies came to light were to be dissolved. public festivities and processions were regarded as meetings. . social-democratic, socialistic, and communistic publications of all kinds were to be interdicted, the local police dealing with home publications and the chancellor with foreign ones. . stocks of prohibited works were to be confiscated, and the type, stones, or other apparatus used for printing might be likewise seized, and, on the interdict being confirmed, be made unusable. . the collection of money in behalf of social-democratic, socialistic, or communistic movements was forbidden, as were public appeals for help. _ii. penal_ . any person associating himself as member or otherwise with a prohibited organization was liable to a fine of marks or three months' imprisonment, and a similar penalty was incurred by anyone who gave a prohibited association or meeting a place of assembly. . the circulation or printing of a prohibited publication entailed a fine not exceeding one thousand marks or imprisonment up to six months. . convicted agitators might be expelled from a certain locality or from a governmental district, and foreigners be expelled from federal territory. . innkeepers, printers, booksellers, and owners of lending libraries and reading rooms who circulated interdicted publications might, besides being imprisoned, be deprived of their vocations. . persons who were known to be active socialists, or who had been convicted under this law, might be refused permission publicly to circulate or sell publications, and any violation of the provision against the circulation of socialistic literature in inns, shops, libraries, and newsrooms was punishable with a fine of one thousand marks or imprisonment for six months. _iii. power conferred upon authorities._ . meetings may only take place with the previous sanction of the police, but this restriction does not extend to meetings held in connection with elections to the reichstag or the diets. . the circulation of publications may not take place without permission in public roads, streets, squares, or other public places. . persons from whom danger to the public security or order is apprehended may be refused residence in a locality or governmental district. . the possession, carrying, introduction, and sale of weapons within the area affected are forbidden, restricted, or made dependent on certain conditions. all ordinances issued on the strength of this section were to be notified at once to the reichstag and to be published in the official _gazette_.[ ] when this law went into effect, the outlook for the labor movement seemed utterly black and hopeless. every path seemed closed to it except that of violence. immediately many places in germany were put under martial law. societies were dissolved, newspapers suppressed, printing establishments confiscated, and in a short time fifty agitators had been expelled from berlin alone. a reign of official tyranny and police persecution was established, and even the employers undertook to impoverish and to blacklist men who were thought to hold socialist views. within a few weeks every society, periodical, and agitator disappeared, and not a thing seemed left of the great movement of half a million men that had existed a few weeks before. there have been many similar situations that have faced the socialist and labor movements of other countries. england and france had undergone similar trials. even to-day in america we find, at certain times and in certain places, a situation altogether similar. in colorado during the recent labor wars and in west virginia during the early months of every tyranny that existed in germany in was repeated here. infested with spies seeking to encourage violence, brutally maltreated by the officials of order, their property confiscated by the military, masses thrown into prison and other masses exiled, even the right of assemblage and of free speech denied them--these are the exactly similar conditions which have existed in all countries when efforts have been made to crush the labor movement. and in all countries where such conditions exist certain minds immediately clamor for what is called "action." they want to answer violence with violence; they want to respond to the terrorism of the government with a terrorism of their own. and in germany at this time there were a number who argued that, as they were in fact outlaws, why should they not adopt the tactics of outlaws? should men peaceably and quietly submit to every insult and every form of tyranny--to be thrown in jail for speaking the dictates of their conscience and even to be hung for preaching to their comrades the necessity of a nobler and better social order? if bismarck and his police forces have the power to outlaw us, have we not the right to exercise the tactics of outlaws? "all measures," cried most from london, "are legitimate against tyrants;"[ ] while hasselmann, his friend, advised an immediate insurrection, which, even though it should fail, would be good propaganda. it was inevitable that in the early moments of despair some of the german workers should have listened gladly to such proposals. and, indeed, it may seem somewhat of a miracle that any large number of the german workers should have been willing to have listened to any other means of action. what indeed else was there to do? it is too long a story to go into the discussions over this question. perhaps a principle of bebel's gives the clearest explanation of the thought which eventually decided the tactics of the socialists. bebel has said many times that he always considered it wise in politics to find out what his opponent wanted him to do, and then not to do it. and, to the minds of bebel, liebknecht, and others of the more clear-headed leaders, there was no doubt whatever that bismarck was trying to force the socialists to commit crimes and outrages. again and again bismarck's press declared: "what is most necessary is to provoke the social-democrats to commit acts of despair, to draw them into the open street, and there to shoot them down."[ ] well, if this was actually what bismarck wanted, he failed utterly, because, as a matter of fact, and despite every provocation, no considerable section of the socialist party wavered in the slightest from its determination to carry on its work. there was a moment toward the end of ' when the situation seemed to be getting out of hand, and a secret conference was held the next year at wyden in switzerland to determine the policies of the party. in the report published by the congress no names were given, as it was, of course, necessary to maintain complete secrecy. however, it seemed clear to the delegates that, if they resorted to terrorist methods, they would be destroyed as the russians, the french, the spanish, and the italians had been when similar conditions confronted them. in view of the present state of their organization, violence, after all, could be merely a phrase, as they were not fitted in strength or in numbers to combat bismarck. one of the delegates considered that johann most had exercised an evil influence on many, and he urged that all enlightened german socialists turn away from such men. "between the people of violence and the true revolutionists there will always be dissension."[ ] another speaker maintained that most could be no more considered a socialist. he is at best a blanquist and, indeed, one in the worst sense of the word, who had no other aim than to pursue the bungling work of a revolution. it is, therefore, necessary that the congress should declare itself decidedly against most and should expel him from the party.[ ] the word "revolution" has been misunderstood, and the socialist members of the reichstag have been reproved because they are not revolutionary. as a matter of fact, every socialist is a revolutionist, but one must not understand by revolution the expression of violence. the tactics of desperation, as the nihilists practice them, do not serve the purpose of germany.[ ] as a result of the wyden congress, most and hasselmann were ejected from the party, and the tactics of bebel and liebknecht were adopted. after there developed an underground socialist movement that was most baffling and disconcerting to the police. socialist papers, printed in other countries, were being circulated by the thousands in all parts of germany. funds were being raised in some mysterious manner to support a large body of trusted men in all parts of the country who were devoting all their time to secret organization and to the carrying on of propaganda. the socialist organizations, which had been broken up, seemed somehow or other to maintain their relations. and, despite all that could be done by the authorities, socialist agitation seemed to be going on even more successfully than ever before. there was one loophole which bismarck had not been able to close, and this of course was developed to the extreme by the socialists. private citizens could not say what they pleased, nor was it allowed to newspapers to print anything on socialist lines. nevertheless, parliamentary speeches were privileged matter, and they could be sent anywhere and be published anywhere. bismarck of course tried to suppress even this form of propaganda, and two of the deputies were arrested on the ground that they were violating the new law. however, the reichstag could not be induced to sanction this interference with the freedom of deputies. bismarck then introduced a bill into the reichstag asking for power to punish any member who abused his parliamentary position. there was to be a court established consisting of thirteen deputies, and this was to have power to punish refractory delegates by censuring them, by obliging them to apologize to the house, and by excluding them from the house. it was also proposed that the reichstag should in certain instances prevent the publicity of its proceedings. this bill of bismarck's aroused immense opposition. it was called "the muzzle bill," and, despite all his efforts, it was defeated. the anti-socialist law had been passed as an exceptional measure, and it was fully expected that at the end of two years there would be nothing left of the socialists in germany. but, when the moment came for the law to expire, emperor alexander ii. of russia was assassinated by nihilists. the german emperor wrote to the chancellor urging him to do his utmost to persuade the governments of europe to combine against the forces of anarchy and destruction. prince bismarck immediately opened up negotiations with russia, austria, france, switzerland, and england. the russian government, being asked to take the initiative, invited the powers to a council at brussels. as england did not accept the invitation, france and switzerland also declined. austria later withdrew her acceptance, with the result that germany and russia concluded an extradition and dynamite treaty for themselves, while on march , , the anti-socialist law was reënacted for another period. in the niederwald plot against the imperial family was discovered. various arrests were made, and three men avowedly anarchists were sentenced to death in december, . in a high police official at frankfort was murdered, and an anarchist named lieske was executed as an accomplice. these terrorist acts materially aided bismarck in his warfare on the social democrats. again and again large towns were put in a minor state of siege, with the military practically in control. meetings were dispersed, suspected papers suppressed, and all tyranny that can be conceived of exercised upon all those suspected of sympathy with the socialists. yet everyone had to admit that the socialists had not been checked. not only did their organization still exist, but it was all the time carrying on a vigorous agitation, both by meetings and by the circulation of literature. papers printed abroad were being smuggled into the country in great quantities; socialist literature was even being introduced into the garrisons; and there seemed to be no dealing with associations, because no more was one dissolved than two arose to take its place. von puttkamer himself reported to the reichstag in , "it is undoubted that it has not been possible by means of the law of october, , to wipe social-democracy from the face of the earth or even to shake it to the center."[ ] indeed, liebknecht was bold enough to say in : "you have not succeeded in destroying our organization, and i am convinced that you will never succeed. i believe, indeed, it would be the greatest misfortune for you if you did succeed. the anarchists, who are now carrying on their work in austria, have no footing in germany--and why? because in germany the mad plans of those men are wrecked on the compact organization of social-democracy, because the german proletariat, in view of the fruitlessness of your socialist law, has not abandoned hope of attaining its ends peacefully by means of socialistic propaganda and agitation. if--and i have said this before--if your law were not _pro nihilo_, it would be _pro nihilismo_. if the german proletariat no longer believed in the efficacy of our present tactics; if we found that we could no longer maintain intact the organization and cohesion of the party, what would happen? we should simply declare--we have no more to do with the guidance of the party; we can no longer be responsible. the men in power do not wish that the party should continue to exist; it is hoped to destroy us--well, no party allows itself to be destroyed, for there is above all things the law of self-defense, of self-preservation, and, if the organized direction fails, you will have a condition of anarchy, in which everything is left to the individual. and do you really believe--you who have so often praised the bravery of the germans up to the heavens, when it has been to your interest to do so--do you really believe that the hundreds of thousands of german social-democrats are cowards? do you believe that what has happened in russia would not be possible in germany if you succeeded in bringing about here the conditions which exist there?"[ ] both bebel and liebknecht taunted the chancellor with his failure to drive the socialists to commit acts of violence. "the government may be sure," said liebknecht in , "that we shall not, now or ever, go upon the bird-lime, that we shall never be such fools as to play the game of our enemies by attempts ... the more madly you carry on, the sooner you will come to the end; the pitcher goes to the well until it breaks."[ ] at the end of this year the reports given from the several states of the working out of the anti-socialist law were most discouraging to the chancellor. from everywhere the report came that agitation was unintermittent, and being carried on with zeal and success. and bebel said publicly that nowhere was the socialist party more numerous or better organized than in the districts where the minor state of siege had been proclaimed. the year was a sensational one. nine of the socialists, including bebel, dietz, auer, von vollmar, frohme--all deputies--were charged with taking part in a secret and illegal organization. all the accused were sentenced to imprisonment for six or nine months, bebel and his parliamentary associates receiving the heavier penalty. the reichstag asked for reports upon the working of the law. again the discouraging news came that the movement seemed to be growing faster than ever before. the crushing by repressive measures did not, however, exhaust bismarck's plans for annihilating the socialists. at the same time he outlined an extraordinary program for winning the support of the working classes. early in the eighties he proposed his great scheme of social legislation, intended to improve radically the lot of the toilers. compulsory insurance against accident, illness, invalidity, and old age was instituted as a measure for giving more security in life to the working classes. insurance against unemployment was also proposed, and bismarck declared that the state should guarantee to the toilers the right to work. this began an era of immense social reforms that actually wiped out some of the worst slums in the great industrial centers, replaced them with large and beautiful dwellings for the working classes, and made over entire cities. the discussions in the reichstag now seemed to be largely concerned with the problem of the working classes and with devising plans to obliterate the influence of the socialists over the workers and to induce them once more to ally themselves to the monarchy and to the _junkers_. for some reason wholly mysterious to bismarck, all his measures against the socialists failed. every assault made upon them seemed to increase their power, while even the great reforms he was instituting seemed somehow to be credited to the agitation of the socialists. instead of proving the good will of the ruling class, these reforms seemed only to prove its weakness; and they were looked upon generally as belated efforts to remedy old and grievous wrongs which, in fact, made necessary the protests of the socialists. the result was that tens of thousands of workingmen were flocking each year into the camp of the socialists, and at each election the socialist votes increased in a most dreadful and menacing manner. when the anti-socialist law was put into effect, the party polled under , votes. after twelve years of underground work as outlaws, the party polled , , votes. despite all the efforts of bismarck and all the immense power of the government, socialism, instead of being crushed, was , , souls stronger after twelve years of suffering under tyranny than it was in the beginning. this of course would not do at all, and everyone saw it clearly enough except the iron chancellor. infuriated by his own failure and unwilling to confess defeat, he pleaded once more, in , for the reënactment of the anti-socialist law and, indeed, that it should be made a permanent part of the penal code of the empire. he even sought further powers and asked the reichstag to give him a law that would enable him to expel not only from districts proclaimed to be in a state of siege, but from germany altogether, those who were known to hold socialist views. the reichstag, however, refused to grant him either request, and on september , , just twelve years after its birth, the anti-socialist law was repealed. that night was a glorious one for the socialists, as well as a very dreadful one for bismarck and those others who had made prodigious but futile efforts to destroy socialism. berlin was already a socialist stronghold, and its entire people that night came into the streets to sing songs of thanksgiving. streets, parks, public places, cafés, theaters were filled with merrymakers, rejoicing with songs, with toasts to the leading socialists, and with boisterous welcomes to the exiles who were returning. all night long the red flag waved, and the marseillaise was sung, as all that passion of love, enthusiasm, and devotion for a great cause, which, for twelve long years, had been brutally suppressed, burst forth in floods of joy. "he [bismarck] has had at his entire disposal for more than a quarter of a century," said liebknecht, "the police, the army, the capital, and the power of the state--in brief, all the means of mechanical force. _we had only our just right, our firm conviction, our bared breasts to oppose him with, and it is we who have conquered! our arms were the best. in the course of time brute power must yield to the moral factors, to the logic of things._ bismarck lies crushed to the earth--and social democracy is the strongest party in germany!... _the essence of revolution lies not in the means, but in the end. violence has been, for thousands of years, a reactionary factor._"[ ] certainly, the moral victory was immense. there had been a twelve-years-long torture of a great party, in which every man who was known to be sympathetic was looked upon as a criminal and an outlaw. yet, despite every effort made to drive the socialists into outrages, they never wavered the slightest from their grim determination to depend solely upon peaceable methods. it is indeed marvelous that the german socialists should have stood the test and that, despite the most barbarous persecution, they should have been able to hold their forces together, to restrain their natural anger, and to keep their faith in the ultimate victory of peaceable, legal, and political methods. prometheus, bound to his rock and tortured by all the furies of a malignant jupiter, did not rise superior to his tormentor with more grandeur than did the social democracy of germany. violence does indeed seem to be a reactionary force. the use of it by the anarchists against the existing régime seems to have deprived them of all sympathy and support. more and more they became isolated from even those in whose name they claimed to be fighting. so the violence of bismarck, intended to uproot and destroy the deepest convictions of a great body of workingmen, deprived him and his circle of all popular sympathy and support. year by year he became weaker, and the futility of his efforts made him increasingly bitter and violent. at last even those for whom he had been fighting had to put him aside. on the other hand, those he fought with his poisoned weapons became stronger and stronger, their spirit grew more and more buoyant, their confidence in success more and more certain. and, when at last the complete victory was won, it was heralded throughout the world, and from thousands of great meetings, held in nearly every civilized country, there came to the german social democracy telegrams and resolutions of congratulation. the mere fact that the germany party polled a million and a half votes was in itself an inspiration to the workers of all lands, and in the elections which followed in france, italy, belgium, denmark, sweden, and other countries the socialists vastly increased their votes and more firmly established their position as a parliamentary force. in france polled nearly half a million votes, little belgium followed with three hundred and twenty thousand, while in denmark and switzerland the strength of the socialists was quadrupled. instead of a mere handful of theorists, the socialists were now numbered by the million. their movement was world-wide, and the program of every political party in the various countries was based upon the principles laid down by marx. the doctrines which he had advocated from ' to ' , and fought desperately to retain throughout all the struggles with bakounin, were now the foundation principles of the movement in germany, france, italy, austria, switzerland, belgium, holland, denmark, norway, sweden, britain, and even in other countries east and west of europe. footnote: [v] probably intended for "increase of wages," but this is as it reads in the official report. chapter x the newest anarchism at the beginning of the nineties the socialists were jubilant. their great victory in germany and the enormous growth of the movement in all countries assured them that the foundations had at last been laid for the great world-wide movement that they had so long dreamed of. internal struggles had largely disappeared, and the mighty energies of the movement were being turned to the work of education and of organization. great international socialist congresses were now the natural outgrowth of powerful and extensive national movements. yet, almost at this very moment there was forming in the latin countries a new group of dissidents who were endeavoring to resurrect what bakounin called in french socialism, and what our old friend guillaume recognized to be a revival of the principles and methods of the anarchist international.[w] and, indeed, in , what may perhaps be best described as the renascence of anarchism appeared in france under an old and influential name. up to that time syndicalism signified nothing more than trade unionism, and the french _syndicats_ were merely associations of workmen struggling to obtain higher wages and shorter hours of labor. but in the term began to have a different meaning, and almost immediately it made the tour of the world as a unique and dreadful revolutionary philosophy. it became a new "red specter," with a menacing and subversive program, that created a veritable furore of discussion in the newspapers and magazines of all countries. rarely has a movement aroused such universal agitation, awakened such world-wide discussions, and called forth such expressions of alarm as this one, that seemed suddenly to spring from the depths of the underworld, full-armed and ready for battle. everywhere syndicalism was heralded as an entirely new philosophy. nothing like it had ever been known before in the world. multitudes rushed to greet it as a kind of new revelation, while other multitudes instinctively looked upon it with suspicion as something that promised once more to introduce dissension into the world of labor. what is syndicalism? whence came it and why? the first question has been answered in a hundred books written in the last ten years. in all languages the meaning of this new philosophy of industrial warfare has been made clear. there is hardly a country in the world that has not printed several books on this new movement, and, although the word itself cannot be found in our dictionaries, hardly anyone who reads can have escaped gaining some acquaintance with its purport. the other question, however, has concerned few, and almost no one has traced the origin of syndicalism to that militant group of anarchists whom the french government had endeavored to annihilate. after the series of tragedies which ended with the murder of carnot, the french police hunted the anarchists from pillar to post. their groups were broken up, their papers suppressed, and their leaders kept constantly under the surveillance of police agents. every man with anarchist sympathies was hounded as an outlaw, and in they were broken, scattered, and isolated. scorning all relations with the political groups and indeed excluded from them, as from other sections of the labor movement, by their own tactics, they found themselves almost alone, without the opportunity even of propagating their views. facing a blank wall, they began then to discuss the necessity of radically changing their tactics, and in that year one of the most militant of them, Émile pouget, who had been arrested several times for provoking riots, undertook to persuade his associates to enter actively into the trade unions. in his peculiar argot he wrote in _père peinard_: "if there is a group into which the anarchists should thrust themselves, it is evidently the trade union. the coarse vegetables would make an awful howl if the anarchists, whom they imagine they have gagged, should profit by the circumstance to infiltrate themselves in droves into the trade unions and spread their ideas there without any noise or blaring of trumpets."[ ] this plea had its effect, and more and more anarchists began to join the trade unions, while their friends, already in the unions, prepared the way for their coming. pelloutier, a zealous and efficient administrator, had already become the dominant spirit in one entire section of the french labor movement, that of the _bourses du travail_. in another section, the carpenter tortellier, a roving agitator and militant anarchist, had already persuaded a large number of unions to declare for the general strike as the _sole_ effective weapon for revolutionary purposes. moreover, guérard, griffuelhes, and other opponents of political action were preparing the ground in the unions for an open break with the socialists. by the strength of the anarchists in the trade unions was so great that the french delegates to the international socialist congress at london were divided into two sections: one in sympathy with the views of the anarchists, the other hostile to them. such notable anarchists as tortellier, malatesta, grave, pouget, pelloutier, delesalle, hamon, and guérard were sent to london as the representatives of the french trade unions. although the anarchists had been repeatedly expelled from socialist congresses, and the rules prohibited their admittance, these men could not be denied a hearing so long as they came as the representatives of _bona fide_ trade unions. as a result, the anarchists, speaking as trade unionists, fought throughout the congress against political action. a typical declaration was that of tortellier, when he said: "if only those in favor of political action are admitted to congresses, the latin races will abandon the congresses. the italians are drifting away from the idea of political action. properly organized, the workers can settle their affairs without any intervention on the part of the legislature."[ ] guérard, of the railway workers, holding much the same views, urged the congress to adopt the general strike, on the ground that it is "the most revolutionary weapon we have."[ ] despite their threats and demands, the anarchists were completely ignored, although they were numerous in the french, italian, spanish, and dutch delegations. at last it became clear to the anarchists that the international socialist congresses would not admit them, if it were possible to keep them out, nor longer discuss with them the wisdom of political action. consequently, the anarchists left london, clear at last on this one point, that the socialists were firmly determined to have no further dealings with them. the same decision had been made at the hague in , again in at the international congress at paris, then in at brussels, again in at zurich, and finally at london in . the anarchists that returned to paris from the london congress were not slow in taking their revenge. they had already threatened in london to take the workers of the latin countries out of the socialist movement, but no one apparently had given much heed to their remarks. in reality, however, they were in a position to carry out their threats, and the insults which they felt they had just suffered at the hands of the socialists made them more determined than ever to induce the unions to declare war on the socialist parties of france, italy, spain, and holland. plans were also laid for the building up of a trade-union international based largely on the principles and tactics of what they now called "revolutionary syndicalism." the year before ( ) the general confederation of labor had been launched at limoges. except for its declaration in favor of the general strike as a revolutionary weapon, the congress developed no new syndicalist doctrines. it was at tours, in , that the french unions, dominated by the anarchists, declared they would no longer concern themselves with reforms; they would abandon childish efforts at amelioration; and instead they would constitute themselves into a conscious fighting minority that was to lead the working class with no further delay into open rebellion. in their opinion, it was time to begin the bitter, implacable fight that was not to end until the working class had freed itself from wage slavery. the state was not worth conquering, parliaments were inherently corrupt, and, therefore, political action was futile. other means, more direct and revolutionary, must be employed to destroy capitalism. as the very existence of society depends upon the services of labor, what could be more simple than for labor to cease to serve society until its rights are assured? thus argued the french trade unionists, and the strike was adopted as the supreme war measure. partial strikes were to broaden into industrial strikes, and industrial strikes into general strikes. the struggle between the classes was to take the form of two hostile camps, firmly resolved upon a war that would finish only when the one or the other of the antagonists had been utterly crushed. when john brown marched with his little band to attack the slave-owning aristocracy of the south, he became the forerunner of our terrible civil war. it was the same spirit that moved the french trade unionists. although pitiably weak in numbers and poor in funds, they decided to stop all parleyings with the enemy and to fire the first gun. the socialist congress in london was held in july, and the french trade-union congress at tours was held in september of the same year. the anarchists were out in their full strength, prepared to make reprisals on the socialists. it was after declaring: "the conquest of political power is a chimera,"[ ] that guérard launched forth in his fiery argument for the revolutionary general strike: "the partial strikes fail because the workingmen become demoralized and succumb under the intimidation of the employers, protected by the government. the general strike will last a short while, and its repression will be impossible; as to intimidation, it is still less to be feared. the necessity of defending the factories, workshops, manufactories, stores, etc., will scatter and disperse the army.... and then, in the fear that the strikers may damage the railways, the signals, the works of art, the government will be obliged to protect the , kilometers of railroad lines by drawing up the troops all along them. the , men of the active army, charged with the surveillance of million meters, will be isolated from one another by meters, and this can be done only on the condition of abandoning the protection of the depots, of the stations, of the factories, etc. ... and of abandoning the employers to themselves, thus leaving the field free in the large cities to the rebellious workingmen. the principal force of the general strike consists in its power of imposing itself. a strike in one branch of industry must involve other branches. the general strike cannot be decreed in advance; it will burst forth suddenly; a strike of the railway men, for instance, if declared, will be the signal for the general strike. it will be the duty of militant workingmen, when this signal is given, to make their comrades in the trade unions leave their work. those who continue to work on that day will be compelled, or forced, to quit.... the general strike will be the revolution, peaceful or not."[ ] here is a new program of action, several points of which are worthy of attention. it is clear that the general strike is here conceived of as a panacea, an unfailing weapon that obviates the necessity of political parties, parliamentary work, or any action tending toward the capture of political power. it is granted that it must end in civil war, but it is thought that this war cannot fail; it must result in a complete social revolution. even more significant is the thought that it will burst forth suddenly, without requiring any preliminary education, extensive preparations, or even widespread organization. in one line it is proposed as an automatic revolution; in another it is said that the militant workingmen are expected to force the others to quit work. out of , , toilers in france, about , , are organized. out of this million, about , belong to the confederation, and, out of this number, it is doubtful if half are in favor of a general strike. the proposition of guérard then presents itself as follows: that a minority of organized men shall force not only the vast majority of their fellow unionists but twenty times their number of unorganized men to quit work in order to launch the war for emancipation. under the compulsion of , men, a nation of , , is to be forced immediately, without palaver or delay, to revolutionize society. the next year, at toulouse, the french unions again assembled, and here it was that pouget and delesalle, both anarchists, presented the report which outlined still another war measure, that of sabotage. the newly arrived was there baptized, and received by all, says pouget, with warm enthusiasm. this sabotage was hardly born before it, too, made a tour of the world, creating everywhere the same furore of discussion that had been aroused by syndicalism. it presents itself in such a multitude of forms that it almost evades definition. if a worker is badly paid and returns bad work for bad pay, he is a _saboteur_. if a strike is lost, and the workmen return only to break the machines, spoil the products, and generally disorganize a factory, they are _saboteurs_. the idea of sabotage is that any dissatisfied workman shall undertake to break the machine or spoil the product of the machines in order to render the conduct of industry unprofitable, if not actually impossible. it may range all the way from machine obstruction or destruction to dynamiting, train wrecking, and arson. it may be some petty form of malice, or it may extend to every act advocated by our old friends, the terrorists. the work of one other congress must be mentioned. at lyons ( ) it was decided that an inquiry should be sent out to all the affiliated unions to find out exactly how the proposed great social revolution was to be carried out. for several years the confederation had sought to launch a revolutionary general strike, but so many of the rank and file were asking, "what would we do, even if the general strike were successful?" that it occurred to the leaders it might be well to find out. as a result, they sent out the following list of questions: "( ) how would your union act in order to transform itself from a group for combat into a group for production? "( ) how would you act in order to take possession of the machinery pertaining to your industry? "( ) how do you conceive the functions of the organized shops and factories in the future? "( ) if your union is a group within the system of highways, of transportation of products or of passengers, of distribution, etc., how do you conceive of its functioning? "( ) what will be your relations to your federation of trade or of industry after your reorganization? "( ) on what principle would the distribution of products take place, and how would the productive groups procure the raw material for themselves? "( ) what part would the _bourses du travail_ play in the transformed society, and what would be their task with reference to the statistics and to the distribution of products?"[ ] the report dealing with the results of this inquiry contains such a variety of views that it is not easy to summarize it. it seems, however, to have been more or less agreed that each group of producers was to control the industry in which it was engaged. the peasants were to take the land. the miners were to take the mines. the railway workers were to take the railroads. every trade union was to obtain possession of the tools of its trade, and the new society was to be organized on the basis of a trade-union ownership of industry. in the villages, towns, and cities the various trades were then to be organized into a federation whose duty would be to administer all matters of joint interest in their localities. the local federations were then to be united into a general confederation, to whose administration were to be left only those public services which were of national importance. the general confederation was also to serve as an intermediary between the various trades and locals and as an agency for representing the interests of all the unions in international relations. this is in brief the meaning of syndicalism. it differs from socialism in both aim and methods. the aim of the latter is the control by the community of the means of production. the aim of syndicalism is the control by autonomous trade unions of that production carried on by those trades. it does not seek to refashion the state or to aid in its evolution toward social democracy. it will have nothing to do with political action or with any attempt to improve the machinery of democracy. the masses must arise, take possession of the mines, factories, railroads, fields, and all industrial processes and natural resources, and then, through trade unions or industrial unions, administer the new economic system. furthermore, the syndicalists differ from the socialists in their conception of the class struggle. to the socialist the capitalist is as much the product of our economic system as the worker. no socialist believes that the capitalist is individually to blame for our economic ills. the syndicalist dissents from this view. to him the capitalist is an individual enemy. he must be fought and destroyed. there is no form of mediation or conciliation possible between the worker and his employer. conditions must, therefore, be made intolerable for the capitalist. work must be done badly. machines must be destroyed. industrial processes must be subjected to chaos. every worker must be inspired with the one end and aim of destruction. without the coöperation of the worker, capitalist production must break down. therefore, the revolutionary syndicalist will fight, if possible, openly through his union, or, if that is impossible, by stealth, as an individual, to ruin his employer. the world of to-day is to be turned into incessant civil war between capital and labor. not only the two classes, but the individuals of the two classes, must be constantly engaged in a deadly conflict. there is to be no truce until the fight is ended. the loyal workman is to be considered a traitor. the union that makes contracts or participates in collective bargaining is to be ostracized. and even those who are disinclined to battle will be forced into the ranks by compulsion. "those who continue to work will be compelled to quit," says guérard. the strike is not to be merely a peaceable abstention from work. the very machines are to be made to strike by being rendered incapable of production. these are the methods of the militant revolutionary syndicalists.[x] toward the end of the nineties another element came to the aid of the anarchists. it is difficult to class this group with any certainty. they are neither socialists nor anarchists. they remind one of those bakouninists that marx once referred to as "lawyers without cases, physicians without patients and knowledge, students of billiards, etc."[ ] "they are good-natured, gentlemanly, cultured people," says sombart; "people with spotless linen, good manners and fashionably dressed wives; people with whom one holds social intercourse as with one's equals; people who would at first sight hardly be taken as the representatives of a new movement whose object it is to prevent socialism from becoming a mere middle-class belief."[ ] in a word, they appear to be individuals wearied with the unrealities of life and seeking to overcome their _ennui_ by, at any rate, discussing the making of revolutions. with their "myths," their "reflections on violence," their appeals to physical vigor and to the glory of combat, as well as with their incessant attacks on the socialist movement, they have given very material aid to the anarchist element in the syndicalist movement. for a number of years i have read faithfully _le mouvement socialiste_, but i confess that i have not understood their dazzling metaphysics, and i am somewhat comforted to see that both levine[ ] and lewis[ ] find them frequently incomprehensible. without injustice to this group of intellectuals, i think it may be truthfully said that they have contributed nothing essential to the doctrines of syndicalism as developed by the trades unionists themselves; and edward berth, in _les nouveaux aspects du socialisme_, has partially explained why, without meaning to do so. "it has often been observed," he says, "that the anarchists are by origin artisan, peasant, or aristocrat. rousseau represents, obviously, the anarchism of the artisan. his republic is a little republic of free and independent craftsmen.... proudhon is a peasant in his heart ... and, if we finally take tolstoi, we find here an anarchism of worldly or aristocratic origin. tolstoi is a _blasé_ aristocrat, disgusted with civilization by having too much eaten of it."[ ] whether or not this characterization of tolstoi is justified, there can be no question that many of this type rushed to the aid of syndicalism. its savage vigor appeals to some artists, decadents, and _déclassés_. neurotic as a rule, they seem to hunger for the stimulus which comes by association with the merely physical power and vigor of the working class. the navvy, the coalheaver, or "yon rower ... the muscles all a-ripple on his back,"[ ] awakens in them a worshipful admiration, even as it did in the effete cleon. such a theory as syndicalism, declares sombart, "could only have grown up in a country possessing so high a culture as france; that it could have been thought out only by minds of the nicest perception, by people who have become quite _blasé_, whose feelings require a very strong stimulus before they can be stirred; people who have something of the artistic temperament, and, consequently, look disdainfully on what has been called 'philistinism'--on business, on middle-class ideals, and so forth. they are, as it were, the fine silk as contrasted with the plain wool of ordinary people. they detest the common, everyday round as much as they hate what is natural; they might be called 'social sybarites.' such are the people who have created the syndicalist system."[ ] on one point sombart is wrong. all the essential doctrines of revolutionary syndicalism, as a matter of fact, originated with the anarchists in the unions, and the most that can be said for the "sybarites" is that they elaborated and mystified these doctrines. there are those, of course, who maintain that syndicalism is wholly a natural and inevitable product of economic forces, and, so far as the actual syndicalist movement is concerned, that is unquestionably true. but in all the maze of philosophy and doctrine that has been thrown about the actual french movement, we find the traces of two extraneous forces--the anarchists who availed themselves of the opportunity that an awakening trade unionism gave them, and those intellectuals of leisure, culture, and refinement who found the methods of political socialism too tame to satisfy their violent revolt against things bourgeois. and the philosophical syndicalism that was born of this union combines utopianism and anarchism. the yearning esthetes found satisfaction in the rugged energy and physical daring of the men of action, while the latter were astonished and flattered to find their simple war measures adorned with metaphysical abstractions and arousing an immense furore among the most learned and fashionable circles of europe. however, something in addition to personality is needed to explain the rise of syndicalist socialism in france. like anarchism, syndicalism is a natural product of certain french and italian conditions. it is not strange that the latin peoples have in the past harbored the ideas of anarchism, or that now they harbor the ideas of syndicalism. the enormous proportion of small property owners in the french nation is the economic basis for a powerful individualism. anything which interferes with the liberty of the individual is abhorred, and nothing awakens a more lively hatred than centralization and state power. the vast extent of small industry, with the apprentice, journeyman, and master-workman, has wielded an influence over the mentality of the french workers. berth, for instance, follows proudhon in conceiving of the future commonwealth as a federation of innumerable little workshops. gigantic industries, such as are known in germany, england, and america, seem to be problems quite foreign to the mind of the typical latin worker. he believes that, if he can be left alone in his little industry, and freed from exploitation, he, like the peasant, will be supreme, possessing both liberty and abundance. he will, therefore, tolerate willingly neither the interference of a centralized state nor favor a centralized syndicalism. industry must be given into the hands of the workers, and, when he speaks of industry, he has in mind workshops, which, in the socialism of the germans, the english, and the americans, might be left for a long time to come in private hands. in harmony with the above facts, we find that the strongest centers of syndicalism in france, italy, and spain are in those districts where the factory system is very backward. where syndicalism and anarchism prevail most strongly, we find conditions of economic immaturity which strikingly resemble those of england in the time of owen. in all these districts trade unionism is undeveloped. when it exists at all, it is more a feeling out for solidarity than the actual existence of solidarity. it is the first groping toward unity that so often brings riots and violence, because organization is absent and the feeling of power does not exist. carl legien, the leader of the great german unions, said at the international socialist congress at stuttgart ( ): "as soon as the french have an actual trade-union organization, they will cease discussing blindly the general strike, direct action, and sabotage."[ ] vliegen, the dutch leader, went even further when he declared at the previous congress, at amsterdam ( ), that it is not the representatives of the strong organizations of england, germany, and denmark who wish the general strike; it is the representatives of france, russia, and holland, where the trade-union organization is feeble or does not exist.[ ] still another factor forces the french trade unions to rely upon violence, and that is their poverty. the trade-unionists in the latin countries dislike to pay dues, and the whole organized labor movement as a result lives constantly from hand to mouth. "the fundamental condition which determines the policy of direct action," says dr. louis levine in his excellent monograph on "the labor movement in france," "is the poverty of french syndicalism. except for the _fédération du livre_, only a very few federations pay a more or less regular strike benefit; the rest have barely means enough to provide for their administrative and organizing expenses and cannot collect any strike funds worth mentioning.... the french workingmen, therefore, are forced to fall back on other means during strikes. quick action, intimidation, sabotage, are then suggested to them by their very situation and by their desire to win."[ ] that this is an accurate analysis is, i think, proved by the fact that the biggest strikes and the most unruly are invariably to be found at the very beginning of the attempts to organize trade unions. that is certainly true of england, and in our own country the great strikes of the seventies were the birth-signs of trade unionism. in france, italy, and spain, where trade unionism is still in its infancy, we find that strikes are more unruly and violent than in other countries. it is a mistake to believe that riots, sabotage, and crime are the result of organization, or the product of a philosophy of action. they are the acts of the weak and the desperate; the product of a mob psychology that seems to be roused to action whenever and wherever the workers first begin to realize the faintest glimmering of solidarity. history clearly proves that turbulence in strikes tends to disappear as the workers develop organized strength. in most countries violence has been frankly recognized as a weakness, and tremendous efforts have been made by the workers themselves to render violence unnecessary by developing power through organization. but in france the very acts that result from weakness and despair have been greeted with enthusiasm by the anarchists and the effete intellectuals as the beginning of new and improved revolutionary methods. both, then, in their philosophy and in their methods, anarchism and syndicalism have much in common, but there also exist certain differences which cannot be overlooked. anarchism is a doctrine of individualism; syndicalism is a doctrine of working-class action. anarchism appeals only to the individual; syndicalism appeals also to a class. furthermore, anarchism is a remnant of eighteenth-century philosophy, while syndicalism is a product of an immature factory system. marx and engels frequently spoke of anarchism as a petty-bourgeois philosophy, but in the early syndicalism of robert owen they saw more than that, considering it as the forerunner of an actual working-class movement. when these differences have been stated, there is little more to be said, and, on the whole, yvetot was justified in saying at the congress of toulouse ( ): "i am reproached with confusing syndicalism and anarchism. it is not my fault if anarchism and syndicalism have the same ends in view. the former pursues the integral emancipation of the individual; the latter the integral emancipation of the workingman. i find the whole of syndicalism in anarchism."[ ] when we leave the theories of syndicalism to study its methods, we find them identical with those of the anarchists. the general strike is, after all, exactly the same method that bakounin was constantly advocating in the days of the old international. the only difference is this, that bakounin sought the aid of "the people," while the syndicalists rely upon the working class. furthermore, when one places the statement of guérard on the general strike[y] alongside of the statement of kropotkin on the revolution,[z] one can observe no important difference. while it is true that some syndicalists believe that the general strike may be solely a peaceable abstention from work, most of them are convinced that such a strike would surely meet with defeat. as buisson says: "if the general strike remains the revolution of folded arms, if it does not degenerate into a violent insurrection, one cannot see how a cessation of work of fifteen, thirty, or even sixty days could bring into the industrial régime and into the present social system changes great enough to determine their fall."[ ] to be sure, the syndicalists do not lay so much emphasis on the abolition of government as do the anarchists, but their plan leads to nothing less than that. if "the capitalist class is to be locked out"--whatever that may mean--one must conclude that the workers intend in some manner without the use of public powers to gain control of the tools of production. in any case, they will be forced, in order to achieve any possible success, to take the factories, the mines, and the mills and to put the work of production into the hands of the masses. if the state interferes, as it undoubtedly will in the most vigorous manner, the strikers will be forced to fight the state. in other words, the general strike will necessarily become an insurrection, and the people without arms will be forced to carry on a civil war against the military powers of the government. if the general strike, therefore, is only insurrection in disguise, sabotage is but another name for the propaganda of the deed. only, in this case, the deed is to be committed against the capitalist, while with the older anarchists a crowned head, a general, or a police official was the one to be destroyed. to-day property is to be assailed, machines broken and smashed, mines flooded, telegraph wires cut, and any other methods used that will render the tools of production unusable. this deed may be committed _en masse_, or it may be committed by an individual. it is when pouget grows enthusiastic over sabotage that we find in him the same spirit that actuated brousse and kropotkin when they despaired of education and sought to arouse the people by committing dramatic acts of violence. in other words, the _saboteur_ abandons mass action in favor of ineffective and futile assaults upon men or property. this brief survey of the meaning of syndicalism, whence it came, and why, explains the antagonism that had to arise between it and socialism.[aa] not only was it frankly intended to displace the socialist political parties of europe, but every step it has taken was accompanied with an attack upon the doctrines and the methods of modern socialism. and, in fact, the syndicalists are most interesting when they leave their own theories and turn their guns upon the socialist parties of the present day. in reading the now extensive literature on syndicalism, one finds endless chapters devoted to pointing out the weaknesses and faults of political socialism. like the bakouninists, the chief strength of the revolutionary unionists lies in criticism rather than in any constructive thought or action of their own. the battle of to-day is, however, a very unequal one. in the international, two groups--comparatively alike in size--fought over certain theories that, up to that time, were not embodied in a movement. they quarreled over tactics that were yet untried and over theories that were then purely speculative. to-day the syndicalists face a foe that embraces millions of loyal adherents. at the international gatherings of trade-union officials, as well as at the immense international congresses of the socialist parties, the syndicalists find themselves in a hopeless minority.[ab] socialism is no longer an unembodied project of marx. it is a throbbing, moving, struggling force. it is in a daily fight with the evils of capitalism. it is at work in every strike, in every great agitation, in every parliament, in every council. it is a thing of incessant action, whose mistakes are many and whose failures stand out in relief. those who have betrayed it can be pointed out. those who have lost all revolutionary fervor and all notion of class can be held up as a tendency. those who have fallen into the traps of the bureaucrats and have given way to the flattery or to the corruption of the bourgeoisie can be listed and put upon the index. even working-class political action can be assailed as never before, because it now exists for the first time in history, and its every weakness is known. moreover, there are the slowness of movement and the seemingly increasing tameness of the multitude. all these incidents in the growth of a vast movement--the rapidity of whose development has never been equaled in the history of the world--irritate beyond measure the impatient and ultra-revolutionary exponents of the new anarchism. naturally enough, the criticisms of the syndicalists are leveled chiefly against political action, parliamentarism, and statism. it is professor arturo labriola, the brilliant leader of the italian syndicalists, who has voiced perhaps most concretely these strictures against socialism, although they abound in all syndicalist writings. according to labriola, the socialist parties have abandoned marx. they have left the field of the class struggle, foresworn revolution, and degenerated into weaklings and ineffectuals who dare openly neither to advocate "state socialism" nor to oppose it. in the last chapter of his "karl marx" labriola traces some of the tendencies to state socialism. he observes that the state is gradually taking over all the great public utilities and that cities and towns are increasingly municipalizing public services. in the more liberal and democratic countries "the tendency to state property was greeted," he says, "as the beginning of the socialist transformation. to-day, in france, in italy, and in austria socialism is being confounded with statism (_l'étatisme_).... the socialist party, almost everywhere, has become the party of state capitalism." it is "no more the representative of a movement which ranges itself against existing institutions, but rather of an evolution which is taking place now in the midst of present-day society, and by means of the state itself. the socialist party, by the very force of circumstances, is becoming a conservative party which is declaring for a transformation, the agent of which is no longer the proletariat itself, but the new economic organism which is the state.... even the desire of the workingmen themselves to pass into the service of the state is eager and spontaneous. we have a proof of it in italy with the railway workers, who, however, represent one of the best-informed and most advanced sections of the working class. " ... where the marxian tradition has no stability, as in italy, the socialist party refused to admit that the state was an exclusively capitalist organism and that it was necessary to challenge its action. and with this pro-state attitude of the socialist party all its ideas have unconsciously changed. the principles of state enterprise (order, discipline, hierarchy, subordination, maximum productivity, etc.) are the same as those of private enterprise. wherever the socialist party openly takes its stand on the side of the state--contrary even to its intentions--it acquires an entirely capitalist viewpoint. its embarrassed attitude in regard to the insubordination of the workers in private manufacture becomes each day more evident, and, if it were not afraid of losing its electoral support, it would oppose still more the spirit of revolt among the workers. it is thus that the socialist party--the conservative party of the future transformed state--is becoming the conservative party of the present social organization. but even where, as in germany, the marxian tradition still assumes the form of a creed to all outward appearance, the party is very far from keeping within the limits of pure marxian theory. its anti-state attitude is not one of inclination. it is imposed by the state itself, ... the adversary, through its military and feudal vanity, of every concession to working-class democracy."[ ] all this sounds most familiar, and i cannot resist quoting here our old friend bakounin in order to show how much this criticism resembles that of the anarchists. if we turn to "statism and anarchy" we find that bakounin concluded this work with the following words: "upon the pangermanic banner" (_i. e._, also upon the banner of german social democracy, and, consequently, upon the socialist banner of the whole civilized world) "is inscribed: the conservation and strengthening of the state at all costs; on the socialist-revolutionary banner" (read bakouninist banner) "is inscribed in characters of blood, in letters of fire: the abolition of all states, the destruction of bourgeois civilization; free organization from the bottom to the top, by the help of free associations; the organization of the working populace (_sic!_) freed from all the trammels, the organization of the whole of emancipated humanity, the creation of a new human world."[ac] thus frantically bakounin exposed the antagonism between his philosophy and that of the marxists. it would seem, therefore, that if labriola knew his marx, he would hardly undertake at this late date to save socialism from a tendency that marx himself gave it. the state, it appears, is the same bugaboo to the syndicalists that it is to the anarchists. it is almost something personal, a kind of monster that, in all ages and times, must be oppressive. it cannot evolve or change its being. it cannot serve the working class as it has previously served feudalism, or as it now serves capitalism. it is an unchangeable thing, that, regardless of economic and social conditions, must remain eternally the enemy of the people. evidently, the syndicalist identifies the revolutionist with the anti-statist--apparently forgetting that hatred of the state is often as strong among the bourgeoisie as among the workers. the determination to limit the power of the government was not only a powerful factor in the french and american revolutions, but since then the slaveholders of the southern states in america, the factory owners of all countries, and the trusts have exhausted every means, fair and foul, to limit and to weaken the power of the state. what difference is there between the theory of _laissez-faire_ and the antagonism of the anarchists and the syndicalists to every activity of the state? however, it is noteworthy that antagonism to the state disappears on the part of any group or class as soon as it becomes an agency for advancing their material well-being; they not only then forsake their anti-statism, they even become the most ardent defenders of the state. evidently, then, it is not the state that has to be overcome, but the interests that control the state. it must be admitted that labriola sketches accurately enough the prevailing tendency toward state ownership, but he misunderstands or willfully misinterprets, as bakounin did before him, the attitude of the avowed socialist parties toward such evolution. when he declares that they confuse their socialism with statism, he might equally well argue that socialists confuse their socialism with monopoly or with the aggregation of capital in the hands of the few. because socialists recognize the inevitable evolution toward monopoly is no reason for believing that they advocate monopoly. nowhere have the socialists ever advised the destruction of trusts, nor have they anywhere opposed the taking over of great industries by the state. they realize that, as monopoly is an inevitable outcome of capitalism, so state capitalism, more or less extended, is an inevitable result of monopoly. that the workers remain wage earners and are exploited in the same manner as before has been pointed out again and again by all the chief socialists. however, if socialists prefer monopoly to the chaos of competition and to the reactionary tendencies of small property, and if they lend themselves, as they do everywhere, to the promotion of the state ownership of monopoly, it is not because they confuse monopoly, whether private or public, with socialism. it is of little consequence whether the workers are exploited by the trusts or by the government. as long as capitalism exists they will be exploited by the one or the other. if they themselves prefer to be exploited by the government, as labriola admits, and if that exploitation is less ruinous to the body and mind of the worker, the socialist who opposed state capitalism in favor of private capitalism would be nothing less than a reactionary. without, however, leaving the argument here, it must be said that there are various reasons why the socialist prefers state capitalism to private capitalism. it has certain advantages for the general public. it confers certain benefits upon the toilers, chief of all perhaps the regularity of work. and, above and beyond this, state capitalism is actually expropriating private capitalists. the more property the state owns, the fewer will be the number of capitalists to be dealt with, and the easier it will be eventually to introduce socialism. indeed, to proceed from state capitalism to socialism is little more than the grasp of public powers by the working class, followed by the administrative measures of industrial democracy. all this, of course, has been said before by engels, part of whose argument i have already quoted. unfortunately, no syndicalist seems to follow this reasoning or excuse what he considers the terrible crime of extending the domain of the state. not infrequently his revolutionary philosophy begins with the abolition of the state, and often it ends there. marx, engels, and eccarius, as we know, ridiculed bakounin's terror of the state; and how many times since have the socialists been compelled to deal with this bugaboo! it rises up in every country from time to time. the anarchist, the anarchist-communist, the _lokalisten_, the anarcho-socialist, the young socialist, and the syndicalist have all in their time solemnly come to warn the working class of this insidious enemy. but the workers refuse to be frightened, and in every country, including even russia, italy, and france, they have less fear of state ownership of industry than they have of that crushing exploitation which they know to-day. even in germany, where labriola considers the socialists to be more or less free from the taint of state capitalism, they have from the very beginning voted for state ownership. as early as the german socialists, upon a resolution presented by bebel, adopted by a large majority the proposition that the state should retain in its hands the state lands, church lands, communal lands, the mines, and the railroads.[ad] when adopting the new party program at erfurt in , the congress struck out the section directed against state socialism and adopted a number of propositions leading to that end. again, at breslau in , the germans adopted several state-socialist measures. "at this time," says paul kampffmeyer, "a proposition of the agrarian commission on the party program, which had a decided state-socialist stamp, was discussed. it contained, among other things, the retaining and the increase of the public land domain; the management of the state and community lands on their own account; the giving of state credit to coöperative societies; the socialization of mortgages, debts, and loans on land; the socialization of chattel and real estate insurance, etc. bebel agreed to all these state-socialist propositions. he recalled the fact, that the nationalizing of the railroads had been accomplished with the agreement of the social-democracy."[ ] "that which applies to the railways applies also to the forestry," said bebel. "have we any objections to the enlarging of the state forests and thereby the employment of workers and officials? the same thing applies to the mines, the salt industry, road-making, the post office, and the telegraphs. in all of these industries we have hundreds of thousands of dependent people, and yet we do not want to advocate their abolition but rather their extension. in this direction we must break with all our prejudices. we ought only to oppose state industry where it is antagonistic to culture and where it restricts development, as, for instance, is the case in military matters. indeed, we must even compel the state constantly to take over means of culture, because by that means we will finally put the present state out of joint. and, lastly, even the strongest state power fails in that degree in which the state drives its own officers and workers into opposition to itself, as has occurred in the case of the postal service. the attitude which would refuse to strengthen the power of the state, because this would entrust to it the solution of the problems of culture, smacks of the manchester school. we must strip off these manchesterian egg-shells."[ ] wilhelm liebknecht also dealt with those who opposed the strengthening of the class state. "we are concerned," he said, " ... first of all about the strengthening of the state power. in all similar cases we have decided in favor of practical activity. we allowed funds for the northeast sea canal; we voted for the labor legislation, although the proposed laws did decidedly extend the state power. we are in favor of the state railways, although we have thereby brought about ... the dependence of numerous livings upon the state."[ ] as early, indeed, as liebknecht saw that the present state was preparing the way for socialism. speaking of the compulsory insurance laws proposed by bismarck, he refers to such legislation as embodying "in a decisive manner the principle of state regulation of production as opposed to the _laissez-faire_ system of the manchester school. the right of the state to regulate production supposes the duty of the state to interest itself in labor, and state control of the labor of society leads directly to state organization of the labor of society."[ ] further even than this goes karl kautsky, who has been called the "acutest observer and thinker of modern socialism." "among the social organizations in existence to-day," he says, "there is but one that possesses the requisite dimensions, and may be used as the framework for the establishment and development of the socialist commonwealth, and that is the _modern state_."[ ] without going needlessly far into this subject, it seems safe to conclude that the state is no more terrifying to the modern socialist than it was to marx and engels. there is not a socialist party in any country that has not used its power to force the state to undertake collective enterprise. indeed, all the immediate programs of the various socialist parties advocate the strengthening of the economic power of the state. they are adding more and more to its functions; they are broadening its scope; and they are, without question, vastly increasing its power. but, at the same time, they are democratizing the state. by direct legislation, by a variety of political reforms, and by the power of the great socialist parties themselves, they are really wresting the control of the state from the hands of special privilege. furthermore--and this is something neither the anarchists nor the syndicalists will see--state socialism is in itself undermining and slowly destroying the class character of the state. according to the view of marx, the state is to-day "but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole capitalist class."[ ] and it is this because the economic power of the capitalist class is supreme. but by the growth of state socialism the economic power of the private capitalists is steadily weakened. the railroads, the mines, the forests, and other great monopolies are taken out of their hands, and, to the extent that this happens, their control over the state itself disappears. their only power to control the state is their economic power, and, if that were entirely to disappear, the class character of the state would disappear also. "the state is not abolished. _it dies out_"; to repeat engels' notable words. "as soon as there is no longer any social class to be held in subjection, ... nothing more remains to be repressed, and a special repressive force, a state, is no longer necessary."[ ] the syndicalists are, of course, quite right when they say that state socialism is an attempt to allay popular discontent, but they are quite wrong when they accept this as proof that it must inevitably sidetrack socialism. they overlook the fact that it is always a concession granted grudgingly to the growing power of democracy. it is a point yielded in order to prevent if possible the necessity of making further concessions. yet history shows that each concession necessitates another, and that state socialism is growing with great rapidity in all countries where the workers have developed powerful political organizations. even now both friends and opponents see in the growth of state socialism the gradual formation of that transitional stage that leads from capitalism to socialism. the syndicalist and anarchist alone fail to see here any drift toward socialism; they see only a growing tyranny creating a class of favored civil servants, who are divorced from the actual working class. at the same time, they point out that the condition of the toilers for the state has not improved, and that they are exploited as mercilessly by the state as they were formerly exploited by the capitalist. to dispute this would be time ill spent. if it be indeed true, it defeats the argument of the syndicalist. if the state in its capitalism outrageously exploits its servants, tries to prevent them from organizing, and penalizes them for striking, it will only add to the intensity of the working-class revolt. it will aid more and more toward creating a common understanding between the workers for the state and the workers for the private capitalist. in any case, it will accelerate the tendency toward the democratization of the state and, therefore, toward socialism. as an alternative to this actual evolution toward socialism, the syndicalists propose to force society to put the means of production into the hands of the trade unions. it is perhaps worth pointing out that owen, proudhon, blanc, lassalle, and bakounin all advocated what may be called "group socialism."[ ] this conception of future society contemplates the ownership of the mines by the miners, of the railroads by the railway workers, of the land by the peasants. all the workers in the various industries are to be organized into unions and then brought together in a federation. several objections are made to this outline of a new society. in the first place, it is artificial. except for an occasional coöperative undertaking, there is not, nor has there ever been, any tendency toward trade-union ownership of industry. in addition, it is an idea that is to-day an anachronism. it is conceivable that small federated groups might control and conduct countless little industries, but it is not conceivable that groups of "self-governing," "autonomous," and "independent" workmen could, or would, be allowed by a highly industrialized society to direct and manage such vast enterprises as the trusts have built up. if each group is to run industry as it pleases, the standard oil workers or the steel workers might menace society in the future as the owners of those monopolies menace it in the present. there is no indication in the literature of the syndicalists, and certainly no promise in a system of completely autonomous groups of producers, of any solution of the vast problems of modern trustified industry. it may be that such ideas corresponded to the state of things represented in early capitalism. but the socialist ideas of the present are the product of a more advanced state of capitalism than owen, proudhon, lassalle, and bakounin knew, or than the syndicalists of france, italy, and spain have yet been forced seriously to deal with. indeed, it was necessary for marx to forecast half a century of capitalist development in order to clarify the program of socialism and to emphasize the necessity for that program. it is a noteworthy and rather startling fact that sidney and beatrice webb had pointed out the economic fallacies of syndicalism before the french confederation of labor was founded or sorel, berth, and lagardelle had written a line on the subject. in their "history of trade unionism" they tell most interestingly the story of owen's early trade-union socialism. the book was published in , two or three years before the theories of the french school were born. nevertheless, their critique of owenism expresses as succinctly and forcibly as anything yet written the attitude of the socialists toward the economics of modern syndicalism. "of all owen's attempts to reduce his socialism to practice," write the webbs, "this was certainly the very worst. for his short-lived communities there was at least this excuse: that within their own area they were to be perfectly homogeneous little socialist states. there were to be no conflicting sections, and profit-making and competition were to be effectually eliminated. but in 'the trades union,' as he conceived it, the mere combination of all the workmen in a trade as coöperative producers no more abolished commercial competition than a combination of all the employers in it as a joint stock company. in effect, his grand lodges would have been simply the head offices of huge joint stock companies owning the entire means of production in their industry, and subject to no control by the community as a whole. they would, therefore, have been in a position at any moment to close their ranks and admit fresh generations of workers only as employees at competitive wages instead of as shareholders, thus creating at one stroke a new capitalist class and a new proletariat.[ ] ... in short, the socialism of owen led him to propose a practical scheme which was not even socialistic, and which, if it could possibly have been carried out, would have simply arbitrarily redistributed the capital of the country without altering or superseding the capitalist system in the least."[ ] although this "group socialism" would certainly necessitate a parliament in order to harmonize the conflicting interests of the various productive associations, there is nothing, it appears, that the syndicalist so much abhors. he is never quite done with picturing the burlesque of parliamentarism. while, no doubt, this is a necessary corollary to his antagonism to the state, it is aggravated by the fact that one of the chief ends of a political party is to put its representatives into parliament. the syndicalist, in ridiculing all parliamentary activity, is at the same time, therefore, endeavoring to prove the folly of political action. that you cannot bring into the world a new social order by merely passing laws is something the syndicalist never wearies of pointing out. parliamentarism, he likes to repeat, is a new superstition that is weakening the activity and paralyzing the mentality of the working class. "the superstitious belief in parliamentary action," leone says, " ... ascribes to acts of parliament the magic power of bringing about new social forces."[ ] sorel refers to the same thing as the "belief in the magic influence of departmental authority,"[ ] while labriola divines that "parties may elect members of parliament, but they cannot set one machine going, nor can they organize one business undertaking."[ ] all this reminds one of what marx himself said in the early fifties. he speaks in "revolution and counter-revolution," a collection of some articles that were originally written for the new york _tribune_, of "parliamentary _crétinism_, a disorder which penetrates its unfortunate victims with the solemn conviction that the whole world, its history and future, are governed and determined by a majority of votes in that particular representative body which has the honor to count them among its members, and that all and everything going on outside the walls of their house--wars, revolutions, railway constructing, colonizing of whole new continents, california gold discoveries, central american canals, russian armies, and whatever else may have some little claim to influence upon the destinies of mankind--is nothing compared with the incommensurable events hinging upon the important question, whatever it may be, just at that moment occupying the attention of their honorable house."[ ] no one can read this statement of marx's without realizing its essential truthfulness. but it should not be forgotten that marx himself believed, and every prominent socialist believes, that the control of the parliaments of the world is essential to any movement that seeks to transform the world. the powerlessness of parliaments may be easily exaggerated. to say that they are incapable of constructive work is to deny innumerable facts of history. laws have both set up and destroyed industries. the action of parliaments has established gigantic industries. the schools, the roads, the panama canal, and a thousand other great operations known to us to-day have been set going by parliaments. tariff laws make and destroy industries. prohibition laws have annihilated industries, while legality, which is the peculiar product of parliaments, has everything to do with the ownership of property, of industry, and of the management of capital. for one who is attacking a legal status, who is endeavoring to alter political, juridical, as well as industrial and social relations, the conquering of parliaments is vitally necessary. the socialist recognizes that the parliaments of to-day represent class interests, that, indeed, they are dominated by class interests, and, as such, that they do not seek to change but to conserve what now exists. as a result, there _is_ a parliamentary _crétinism_, because, in a sense, the dominant elements in parliament are only managing the affairs of powerful influences outside of parliament. they are not the guiding hand, but the servile hand, of capitalism. for the above reason, chiefly, the syndicalists are on safe ground when they declare that parliaments are corrupt. corruption is a product of the struggle of the classes. to obtain special privilege, class laws, and immunity from punishment, the "big interests" bribe and corrupt parliaments. however, corruption does not stop there. the trade unions themselves suffer. labor leaders are bought just as labor representatives are bought. insurrection itself is often controlled and rendered abortive by corruption. numberless violent uprisings have been betrayed by those who fomented them. the words of fruneau at basel in are memorable. "bakounin has declared," he said, "that it is necessary to await the revolution. ah, well, the revolution! away with it! not that i fear the barricades, but, when one is a frenchman and has seen the blood of the bravest of the french running in the streets in order to elevate to power the ambitious who, a few months later, sent us to cayenne, one suspects the same snares, because the revolution, in view of the ignorance of the proletarians, would take place only at the profit of our adversaries."[ ] there is no way to escape the corrupting power of capitalism. it has its representatives in every movement that promises to be hostile. it has its spies in the labor unions, its _agents provocateurs_ in insurrections; and its money can always find hands to accept it. one does not escape corruption by abandoning parliament. and bordat, the anarchist, was the slave of a mania when he declared: "to send workingmen to a parliament is to act like a mother who would take her daughter to a brothel."[ ] parliaments are perhaps more corrupt than trade unions, but that is simply because they have greater power. to no small degree bribery and campaign funds are the tribute that capitalism pays to the power of the state. the consistent opposition of the syndicalists to the state is leading them desperately far, and we see them developing, as the anarchists did before them, a contempt even for democracy. the literature of syndicalism teems with attacks on democracy. "syndicalism and democracy," says Émile pouget, "are the two opposite poles, which exclude and neutralize each other.... democracy is a social superfluity, a parasitic and external excrescence, while syndicalism is the logical manifestation of a growth of life, it is a rational cohesion of human beings, and that is why, instead of restraining their individuality, it prolongs and develops it."[ ] democracy is, in the view of sorel, the régime _par excellence_, in which men are governed "by the magical power of high-sounding words rather than by ideas; by formulas rather than by reasons; by dogmas, the origin of which nobody cares to find out, rather than by doctrines based on observation."[ ] lagardelle declares that syndicalism is post-democratic. "democracy corresponds to a definite historical movement," he says, "which has come to an end. syndicalism is an anti-democratic movement."[ ] these are but three out of a number of criticisms of democracy that might be quoted. although natural enough as a consequence of syndicalist antagonism to the state, these ideas are nevertheless fatal when applied to the actual conduct of a working-class movement. it means that the minority believes that it can drive the majority. we remember that guérard suggested, in his advocacy of the general strike, that, if the railroad workers struck, many other trades "would be compelled to quit work." "a daring revolutionary minority conscious of its aim can carry away with it the majority."[ ] pouget confesses: "the syndicalist has a contempt for the vulgar idea of democracy--the inert, unconscious mass is not to be taken into account when the minority wishes to act so as to benefit it...."[ ] he refers in another place to the majority, who "may be considered as human zeros. thus appears the enormous difference in method," concludes pouget, "which distinguishes syndicalism and democracy: the latter, by the mechanism of universal suffrage, gives direction to the unconscious ... and stifles the minorities who bear within them the hopes of the future."[ ] this is anarchism all over again, from proudhon to goldman.[ ] but, while the bakouninists were forced, as a result of these views, to abandon organized effort, the newest anarchists have attempted to incorporate these ideas into the very constitution of the french confederation of labor. and at present they are, in fact, a little clique that rides on the backs of the organized workers, and the majority cannot throw them off so long as a score of members have the same voting power in the confederation as that of a trade union with ten thousand members. all this must, of course, have very serious consequences. opposition to majority rule has always been a cardinal principle of the anarchists. it is also a fundamental principle of every american political machine. to defeat democracy is obviously the chief purpose of a tammany hall. but, when this idea is actually advocated as an ideal of working-class organization, when it is made to stand as a policy and practice of a trade union, it can only result in suspicion, disruption, and, eventually, in complete ruin. it appears that the militant syndicalist, like the anarchist, realizes that he cannot expect the aid of the people. he turns, then, to the minority, the fighting inner circle, as the sole hope. it is inevitable, therefore, that syndicalism and socialism should stand at opposite poles. they are exactly as far apart as anarchism and socialism. and, if we turn to the question of methods, we find an antagonism almost equally great. how are the workers to obtain possession of industry? on this point, as well as upon their conception of socialism, the syndicalists are not advanced beyond owenism. "one question, and that the most immediately important of all," say the webbs, speaking of owen's projects, "was never seriously faced: how was the transfer of the industries from the capitalists to the unions to be effected in the teeth of a hostile and well-armed government? the answer must have been that the overwhelming numbers of 'the trades union' would render conflict impossible. at all events, owen, like the early christians, habitually spoke as if the day of judgment of the existing order of society was at hand. the next six months, in his view, were always going to see the 'new moral world' really established. the change from the capitalist system to a complete organization of industry under voluntary associations of producers was to 'come suddenly upon society like a thief in the night.'... it is impossible not to regret that the first introduction of the english trade unionist to socialism should have been effected by a foredoomed scheme which violated every economic principle of collectivism, and left the indispensable political preliminaries to pure chance."[ ] little need be added to what the webbs have said on the utopian features of syndicalism or even upon the haphazard method adopted to achieve them. "no politics in the unions" follows logically enough from an avowed antagonism to the state. if one starts with the assumption that nothing can be done through the state--as owen, bakounin, and the syndicalists have done--one is, of course, led irretrievably to oppose parliamentary and other political methods of action. when the syndicalists throw over democracy and foreswear political action, they are fatally driven to the point where they must abandon the working class. in the meantime, they are sadly misleading it. it is when we touch this phase of the syndicalist movement that we begin to discover real bitterness. here direct action stands in opposition to political action. the workers must choose the one method or the other. the old clash appears again in all its tempestuous hate. jules guesde was early one of the adherents of bakounin, but in all his later life he has been pitiless in his warfare on the anarchists. as soon, therefore, as the direct-actionists began again to exercise an influence, guesde entered the field of battle. i happened to be at limoges in to hear guesde speak these memorable words at the french socialist congress: "political action is necessarily revolutionary. it does not address itself to the employer, but to the state, while industrial action addresses itself to the individual employer or to associations of employers. industrial action does not attack the employer _as an institution_, because the employer is the effect, the result of capitalist property. as soon as capitalist property will have disappeared, the employer will disappear, and not before. it is in the socialist party--because it is a political party--that one fights against the employer class, and that is why the socialist party is truly an economic party, tending to transform social and political economy. at the present moment words have their importance. and i should like to urge the comrades strongly never to allow it to be believed that trade-union action is economic action. no; this latter action is taken only by the political organization of the working class. it is the party of the working class which leads it--that is to say, the socialist party--because property is a social institution which cannot be transformed except by the exploited class making use of political power for this purpose.... "i realize," he continued, "that the direct-actionists attempt to identify political action with parliamentary action. no; electoral action as well as parliamentary action may be forms; pieces of political action. they are not political action as a whole, which is the effort to seize public powers--the government. political action is the people of paris taking possession of the hôtel de ville in . it is the parisian workers marching upon the national assembly in .... to those who go about claiming that political action, as extolled by the party, reduces itself to the production of public officials, you will oppose a flat denial. political action is, moreover, not the production of laws. it is the grasping by the working class of the manufactory of laws; it is the political expropriation of the employer class, which alone permits its economic expropriation.... i wish that someone would explain to me how the breaking of street lights, the disemboweling of soldiers, the burning of factories, can constitute a means of transforming the ownership of property.... supposing that the strikers were masters of the streets and should seize the factories, would not the factories still remain private property? instead of being the property of a few employers or stockholders, they would become the property of the or the , workingmen who had taken them, and that is all. the owners of the property will have changed; the system of ownership will have remained the same. and ought we not to consider it necessary to say that to the workers over and over again? ought we to allow them to take a path that leads nowhere?... no; the socialists could not, without crime, lend themselves to such trickery. it is our imperative duty to bring back the workers to reality, to remind them always that one can only be revolutionary if one attacks the government and the state."[ ] "trade-union action moves within the circle of capitalism without breaking through it, and that is necessarily reformist, in the good sense of the word. in order to ameliorate the conditions of the victims of capitalist society, it does not touch the system. all the revolutionary wrangling can avail nothing against this fact. even when a strike is triumphant, the day after the strike the wage earners remain wage earners and capitalist exploitation continues. it is a necessity, a fatality, which trade-union action suffers."[ ] any comment of mine would, i think, only serve to mar this masterly logic of guesde's. there is nothing perhaps in socialist literature which so ably sustains the traditional position of the socialist movement. the battles in france over this question have been bitterly fought for over half a century. the most brilliant of minds have been engaged in the struggle. proudhon, bakounin, briand, sorel, lagardelle, berth, hervé, are men of undoubted ability. opposed to them we find the marxists, led in these latter years by guesde and jaurès. and while direct action has always been vigorously supported in france both by the intellectuals and by the masses, it is the policy of guesde and jaurès which has made headway. at the time when the general strike was looked upon as a revolutionary panacea, and the french working class seemed on the point of risking everything in one throw of the dice, jaurès uttered a solemn warning: "toward this abyss ... the proletariat is feeling itself more and more drawn, at the risk not only of ruining itself should it fall over, but of dragging down with it for years to come either the wealth or the security of the national life."[ ] "if the proletarians take possession of the mine and the factory, it will be a perfectly fictitious ownership. they will be embracing a corpse, for the mines and factories will be no better than dead bodies while economic circulation is suspended and production is stopped. so long as a class does not own and govern the whole social machine, it can seize a few factories and yards, if it wants to, but it really possesses nothing. to hold in one's hand a few pebbles of a deserted road is not to be master of transportation."[ ] "the working class would be the dupe of a fatal illusion and a sort of unhealthy obsession if it mistook what can be only the tactics of despair for a method of revolution."[ ] the struggle, therefore, between the syndicalists and the socialists is, as we see, the same clash over methods that occurred in the seventies and eighties between the anarchists and the socialists. in abandoning democracy, in denying the efficacy of political action, and in resorting to methods which can only end in self-destruction, the syndicalist becomes the logical descendant of the anarchist. he is at this moment undergoing an evolution which appears to be leading him into the same _cul-de-sac_ that thwarted his forefather. his path is blocked by the futility of his own weapons. he is fatally driven, as plechanoff said, either to serve the bourgeois politicians or to resort to the tactics of ravachol, henry, vaillant, and most. the latter is the more likely, since the masses refuse to be drawn into the general strike as they formerly declined to participate in artificial uprisings.[ae] the daring conscious minority more and more despair, and they turn to the only other weapon in their arsenal, that of sabotage. there is a kind of fatality which overtakes the revolutionist who insists upon an immediate, universal, and violent revolution. he must first despair of the majority. he then loses confidence even in the enlightened minority. and, in the end, like the bakouninist, he is driven to individual acts of despair. what will doubtless happen at no distant date in france and italy will be a repetition of the congress at the hague. when the trade-union movement actually develops into a powerful organization, it will be forced to throw off this incubus of the new anarchism. it is already thought that a majority of the french trade unionists oppose the anarchist tendencies of the clique in control, and certainly a number of the largest and most influential unions frankly class themselves as reformist syndicalists, in order to distinguish themselves from the revolutionary syndicalists. what will come of this division time only can tell. in any case, it is becoming clear even to the french unionists that direct action is not and cannot be, as guesde has pointed out, revolutionary action. it cannot transform our social system. it is destined to failure just as insurrection as a policy was destined to failure. rittinghausen said at basel in : "revolution, as a matter of fact, accomplishes nothing. if you are not able to formulate, after the revolution, by legislation, your legitimate demands, the revolution will perish miserably."[ ] this was true in , in , and even in the great french revolution itself. nothing would have seemed easier at the time of the french revolution than for the peasants to have directly possessed themselves of the land. they were using it. their houses were planted in the midst of it. their landlords in many cases had fled. yet kropotkin, in his story of "the great french revolution," relates that the redistribution of land awaited the action of parliament. to be sure, some of the peasants had taken the land, but they were not at all sure that it might not again be taken from them by some superior force. their rights were not defined, and there was such chaos in the entire situation that, in the end, the whole question had to be left to parliament. it was only after the action of the convention, june , , that the rights of ownership were defined. it was only then, as kropotkin says, that "everyone had a right to the land. it was a complete revolution."[ ] that the greatest of living anarchists should be forced to pay this tribute to the action of parliament is in itself an assurance. for masses in the time of revolution to grab whatever they desire is, after all, to constitute what jaurès calls a fictitious ownership. some legality is needed to establish possession and a sense of security, and, up to the present, only the political institutions of society have been able to do that. for this precise reason every social struggle and class struggle of the past has been a political struggle. there remains but one other fundamental question, which must be briefly examined. the syndicalists do not go back to owen as the founder of their philosophy. they constantly reiterate the claim that they alone to-day are marxists and that it is given to them to keep "pure and undefiled" the theories of that giant mind. they base their claim on the ground of marx's economic interpretation of history and especially upon his oft-repeated doctrine that upon the economic structure of society rises the juridical and political superstructure. they maintain that the political institutions are merely the reflex of economic conditions. alter the economic basis of society, and the political structure must adjust itself to the new conditions. as a result of this truly marxian reasoning, they assert that the revolutionary movement must pursue solely economic aims and disregard totally the existing and, to their minds, superfluous political relations. they accuse the socialists of a contradiction. claiming to be marxists and basing their program upon the economic interpretation of history, the socialists waste their energies in trying to modify the results instead of obliterating the causes. political institutions are parasitical. why, therefore, ignore economic foundations and waste effort remodeling the parasitical superstructure? there _is_ a contradiction here, but not on the part of the socialists. proudhon was entirely consistent when he asked: "can we not administer our goods, keep our accounts, arrange our differences, look after our common interests?"[ ] and, moreover, he was consistent when he declared: "i want you to make the very institutions which i charge you to abolish, ... so that the new society shall appear as the spontaneous, natural, and necessary development of the old."[ ] if that were once done the dissolution of government would follow, as he says, in a way about which one can at present make only guesses. but proudhon urged his followers to establish coöperative banks, coöperative industries, and a variety of voluntary industrial enterprises, in order eventually to possess themselves of the means of production. if the working class, through its own coöperative efforts, could once acquire the ownership of industry, if they could thus expropriate the present owners and gradually come into the ownership of all natural resources and all means of production--in a word, of all social capital--they would not need to bother themselves with the state. if, in possessing themselves thus of all economic power, they were also to neglect the state, its machinery would, of course, tumble into uselessness and eventually disappear. as the great capitalists to-day make laws through the stock exchange, through their chambers of commerce, through their pools and combinations, so the working class could do likewise if they were in possession of industry. but the working class to-day has no real economic power. it has no participation in the ownership of industry. it is claimed that it might withdraw its labor power and in this manner break down the entire economic system. it is urged that labor alone is absolutely necessary to production and that if, in a great general strike, it should cease production, the whole of society would be forced to capitulate. and in theory this seems unassailable, but actually it has no force whatever. in the first place, this economic power does not exist unless the workers are organized and are practically unanimous in their action. furthermore, the economic position of the workers is one of utter helplessness at the time of a universal strike, in that they cannot feed themselves. as they are the nearest of all classes to starvation, they will be the first to suffer by a stoppage of work. there is still another vital weakness in this so-called economic theory. the battles that result from a general strike will not be on the industrial field. they will be battles between the armed agents of the state and unarmed masses of hungry men. whatever economic power the workers are said to possess would, in that case, avail them little, for the results of their struggles would depend upon the military power which they would be able to manifest. the individual worker has no economic power, nor has the minority, and it may even be questioned if the withdrawal of all the organized workers could bring society to its knees. multitudes of the small propertied classes, of farmers, of police, of militiamen, and of others would immediately rush to the defense of society in the time of such peril. it is only the working class theoretically conceived of as a conscious unit and as practically unanimous in its revolutionary aims, in its methods, and in its revolt which can be considered as the ultimate economic power of modern society. the day of such a conscious and enlightened solidarity is, however, so far distant that the syndicalism which is based upon it falls of itself into a fantastic dream. footnotes: [w] his words are: "what is the general confederation of labor, if not the continuation of the international?" _documents et souvenirs_, vol. iv, p. vii. [x] in justice to the french unions it must be said that a large number, probably a considerable majority, do not share these views. the views of the latter are almost identical with those of the american and english unions; but at present the new anarchists are in the saddle, although their power appears to be waning. [y] see pp. , , _supra_. [z] see p. , _supra_. [aa] i have not dealt in this chapter with the industrial workers of the world, which is the american representative of syndicalist ideas. first, because the american organization has developed no theories of importance. their chief work has been to popularize some of the french ideas. second, because the i. w. w. has not yet won for itself a place in the labor movement. it has done much agitation, but as yet no organization to speak of. furthermore, there is great confusion of ideas among the various factions and elements, and it would be difficult to state views which are held in common by all of them. it should be said, however, that all the american syndicalists have emphasized industrial unionism, that is to say, organization by industries instead of by crafts--an idea that the french lay no stress upon. [ab] at the sixth international conference of the national trade union centers, held in paris, , the french syndicalists endeavored to persuade the trade unions to hold periodical international trade-union congresses that would rival the international socialist congresses. the proposition was so strongly opposed by all countries except france that the motion was withdrawn. [ac] the comments are by plechanoff.[ ] [ad] it should, however, be pointed out that the german social democrats voted at first against the state ownership of railroads, because it was considered a military measure. [ae] the committee on the general strike of the french confederation said despairingly in : "the idea of the general strike is sufficiently understood to-day. in repeatedly putting off the date of its coming, we risk discrediting it forever by enervating the revolutionary energies." quoted by levine, "the labor movement in france," p. . chapter xi the oldest anarchism it is perhaps just as well to begin this chapter by reminding ourselves that anarchy means literally no government. consequently, there will be no laws. "i am ready to make terms, but i will have no laws," said proudhon; adding, "i acknowledge none."[ ] however revolutionary this may seem, it is, after all, not so very unlike what has always existed in the affairs of men. without the philosophy of the idealist anarchist, with no pretense of justice or "nonsense" about equality, there have always been in this old world of ours those powerful enough to make and to break law, to brush aside the state and any and every other hindrance that stood in their path. "laws are like spiders' webs," said anacharsis, "and will, like them, only entangle and hold the poor and weak, while the rich and powerful will easily break through them." he might have said, with equal truth, that, with or without laws, the rich and powerful have been able in the past to do very much as they pleased. for the poor and the weak there have always been, to be sure, hard and fast rules that they could not break through. but the rich and powerful have always managed to live more or less above the state or, at least, so to dominate the state that to all intents and purposes, other than their own, it did not exist. when bakounin wrote his startling and now famous decree abolishing the state, he created no end of hilarity among the marxists, but had bakounin been napoleon with his mighty army, or morgan and rockefeller with their great wealth, he could no doubt in some measure have carried out his wish. without, however, either wealth or numbers behind him, bakounin preached a polity that, up to the present, only the rich and powerful have been able even partly to achieve. the anarchy of proudhon was visionary, humanitarian, and idealistic. at least he thought he was striving for a more humane social order than that of the present. but this older anarchism is as ancient as tyranny, and never at any moment has it ceased to menace human civilization. based on a real mastery over the industrial and political institutions of mankind, this actual anarchy has never for long allowed the law, the constitution, the state, or the flag to obstruct its path or thwart its avarice. moreover, under the anarchism proposed by proudhon and bakounin, the maintenance of property rights, public order, and personal security would be left to voluntary effort, that is to say, to private enterprise. as all things would be decided by mutual agreement, the only law would be a law of contracts, and that law would need to be enforced either by associations formed for that purpose or by professionals privately employed for that purpose. so far as one can see, then, the methods of the feudal lords would be revived, by which they hired their own personal armies or went shares in the spoils with their bandits, buccaneers, and assassins. by organizing their own military forces and maintaining them in comfort, they were able to rob, burn, and murder, in order to protect the wealth and power they had, or to gain more wealth and power. for them there was no law but that of a superior fighting force. there was an infinite variety of customs and traditions that were in the nature of laws, but even these were seldom allowed to stand in the way of those who coveted, and were strong enough to take, the land, the money, or the produce of others. indeed, the feudal duke or prince was all that nechayeff claimed for the modern robber. he was a glorified anarchist, "without phrase, without rhetoric." he could scour europe for mercenaries, and, when he possessed himself of an army of marauders, he became a law unto himself. the most ancient and honorable anarchy is despotism, and its most effective and available means of domination have always been the employment of its own personal military forces. it will be remembered that bakounin developed a kind of robber worship. the bandit leaders stenka razin and pougatchoff appeared to him as national heroes, popular avengers, and irreconcilable enemies of the state. he conceived of the brigands scattered throughout russia and confined in the prisons of the empire as "a unique and indivisible world, strongly bound together--the world of the russian revolution." the robber was "the wrestler in life and in death against all this civilization of officials, of nobles, of priests, and of the crown." of course, bakounin says here much that is historically true. thieves, marauders, highwaymen, bandits, brigands, villains, mendicants, and all those other elements of mediæval life for whom society provided neither land nor occupation, often organized themselves into guerilla bands in order to war upon all social and civil order. but bakounin neglects to mention that it was these very elements that eagerly became the mercenaries of any prince who could feed them. they were lawless, "without phrase, without rhetoric," and, if anyone were willing to pay them, they would gladly pillage, burn, and murder in his interest. they would have served anybody or anything--the state, society, a prince, or a tyrant. they had no scruples and no philosophies. they were in the market to be bought by anyone who wanted a choice brand of assassins. and the feudal duke or prince bought, fed, and cared for these "veritable and unique revolutionists," in order to have them ready for service in his work of robbery and murder. to be sure, when these marauders had no employer they were dangerous, because then they committed crimes and outrages on their own hook. but the vast majority of them were hirelings, and many of them achieved fame for the bravery of their exploits in the service of the dukes, the princes, and the priests of that time. there were even guilds of mercenaries, such as the _condottieri_ of italy; and the swiss were famous for their superior service. they were, it seems, revolutionists in bakounin's use of the term, and every prince knew "no money, no swiss" ("_point d'argent, point de suisse_"). a very slight acquaintance with history teaches us that this anarchy has been checked and that the history of recent times consists largely of the struggles of the masses to harness and subdue this anarchy of the powerful. and perhaps the most notable step in that direction was that development of the state which took away the right of the nobles to employ and maintain their own private armies. in england, policing by the state began as late as , when sir robert peel passed the law establishing the metropolitan force in london, and these agents of order are even now called "bobbies" and "peelers," in memory of him. throughout all europe the military, naval, and police forces are to-day in the hands of the state. we have, then, in contradistinction to the old anarchy, the state maintenance of law and order, and of protection to life and property. even in russia the coercive forces are under the control of the government, and nowhere are individuals--be they grand dukes or princes--allowed to employ their own military forces. when trouble arises without, it is the state that calls together its armed men for aggression or for defense. when trouble arises within--such as strikes, riots, and insurrections--it is the state that is supposed to deal with them. individuals, no matter how powerful, are not to-day permitted to organize armies to invade a foreign land, to subdue its people, and to wrest from them their property. in the case of uprisings within a country, the individual is not allowed to raise his armies, subdue the troublesome elements, and make himself master. within the last few centuries the state has thus gradually drawn to itself the powers of repression, of coercion, and of aggression, and it is the state alone that is to-day allowed to maintain military forces. at any rate, this is true of all civilized countries except the united states. this is the only modern state wherein coercive military powers are still wielded by individuals. in the united states it is still possible for rich and powerful individuals or for corporations to employ their own bands of armed men. if any legislator were to propose a law allowing any man or group of men to have their own private battleships and to organize their own private navies and armies, or if anyone suggested the turning over of the coercive powers of the state to private enterprise, the masses would rise in rebellion against the project. no congressman would, of course, venture to suggest such a law, and few individuals would undertake to defend such a plan. yet the fact is that now, without legal authority, private armies may be employed and are indeed actually employed in the united states. in the most stealthy and insidious manner there has grown up within the last fifty years an extensive and profitable commerce for supplying to the lords of finance their own private police. and the strange fact appears that the newest, and supposedly the least feudal, country is to-day the only country that allows the oldest anarchists to keep in their hands the power to arm their own mercenaries and, in the words of an eminent justice, to expose "the lives of citizens to the murderous assaults of hireling assassins."[ ] it is with these "hireling assassins," who, for the convenience of the wealthy, are now supplied by a great network of agencies, that we shall chiefly concern ourselves in this chapter. we must here leave europe, since it is in the united states alone that the workings of this barbarous commerce in anarchy can be observed. robert a. pinkerton was the originator of a system of extra-legal police agents that has gradually grown to be one of the chief commercial enterprises of the country. according to his own testimony,[ ] he began in to supply armed men to the owners of large industries, and ever since his firm has carried on a profitable business in that field. envious of his prosperity, other individuals have formed rival agencies, and to-day there exist in the united states thousands of so-called detective bureaus where armed men can be employed to do the bidding of any wealthy individual. while, no doubt, there are agencies that conduct a thoroughly legitimate business, there are unquestionably numerous agencies in this country where one may employ thugs, thieves, incendiaries, dynamiters, perjurers, jury-fixers, manufacturers of evidence, strike-breakers and murderers. a regularly established commerce exists, which enables a rich man, without great difficulty or peril, to hire abandoned criminals, who, for certain prices, will undertake to execute any crime. if one can afford it, one may have always at hand a body of highwaymen or a small private army. such a commerce as this was no doubt necessary and proper in the middle ages and would no doubt be necessary and proper in a state of anarchy, but when individuals are allowed to employ private police, armies, thugs, and assassins in a country which possesses a regularly established state, courts, laws, military forces, and police the traffic constitutes a menace as alarming as the black hand, the camorra, or the mafia. the story of these hired terrorists and of this ancient anarchy revived surpasses in cold-blooded criminality any other thing known in modern history. that rich and powerful patrons should be allowed to purchase in the market poor and desperate criminals eager to commit any crime on the calendar for a few dollars, is one of the most amazing and incredible anachronisms of a too self-complaisant republic. for some reason not wholly obscure the american people generally have been kept in such ignorance of the facts of this commerce that few even dream that it exists. and i am fully conscious of the need for proof in support of what to many must appear to be unwarranted assertions. indeed, it is rare to find anyone who suspects the character of the private detective. the general impression seems to be that he performs a very useful and necessary service, that the profession is an honorable one, and that the mass of detectives have only one ambition in life, and that is to ferret out the criminal and to bring him to justice. to denounce detectives as a class appears to most persons as absurdly unreasonable. to speak of them with contempt is to convey the impression that detectives stand in the way of some evil schemes of their detractor. fiction of a peculiarly american sort has built up among the people an exalted conception of the sleuth. and it must appear with rather a shock to those persons who have thus idealized the detective to learn that thousands of men who have been in the penitentiaries are constantly in the employ of the detective agencies. in a society which makes it almost impossible for an ex-convict to earn an honorable living it is no wonder that many of them grasp eagerly at positions offered them as "strike-breakers" and as "special officers." the first and most important thing, then, in this chapter is to prove, with perhaps undue detail, the ancient saying that "you must be a thief to catch a thief," and that possibly for that proverbial reason many private detectives are schooled and practiced in crime. so far as i know, the first serious attempt to inform the general public of the real character of american detectives and to tell of their extensive traffic in criminality was made by a british detective, who, after having been stationed in america for several years, was impelled to make public the alarming conditions which he found. this was thomas beet, the american representative of the famous john conquest, ex-chief inspector of scotland yard, who, in a public statement, declared his astonishment that "few ... recognize in them [detective agencies] an evil which is rapidly becoming a vital menace to american society. ostensibly conducted for the repression and punishment of crime, they are in fact veritable hotbeds of corruption, trafficking upon the honor and sacred confidences of their patrons and the credulity of the public, and leaving in their wake an aftermath of disgrace, disaster, and even death."[ ] he pointed out the odium that must inevitably attach itself to the very name "private detective," unless society awakens and protects in some manner the honest members of the profession. "it may seem a sweeping statement," he says, "but i am morally convinced that fully ninety per cent. of the private detective establishments, masquerading in whatever form, are rotten to the core and simply exist and thrive upon a foundation of dishonesty, deceit, conspiracy, and treachery to the public in general and their own patrons in particular."[ ] the statements of thomas beet are, however, not all of this general character, and he specifically says: "i know that there are detectives at the head of prominent agencies in this country whose pictures adorn the rogues' gallery; men who have served time in various prisons for almost every crime on the calendar.... thugs and thieves and criminals don the badge and outward semblance of the honest private detective in order that they may prey upon society.... private detectives such as i have described do not, as a usual thing, go out to learn facts, but rather to make, at all costs, the evidence desired by the patron."[ ] he shows the methods of trickery and deceit by which these detectives blackmail the wealthy, and the various means they employ for convicting any man, no matter how innocent, of any crime. "we shudder when we hear of the system of espionage maintained in russia," he adds, "while in the great american cities, unnoticed, are organizations of spies and informers."[ ] it is interesting to get the views of an impartial and expert observer upon this rapidly growing commerce in espionage, blackmail, and assault, and no less interesting is the opinion of the most notable american detective, william j. burns, on the character of these men. speaking of detectives he declared that, "as a class, they are the biggest lot of blackmailing thieves that ever went unwhipped of justice."[ ] only a short time before burns made this remark the late magistrate henry steinert, according to reports in the new york press, grew very indignant in his court over the shooting of a young lad by these private officers. "i think it an outrage," he declared, "that the police commissioner is enabled to furnish police power to these special officers, many of them thugs, men out of work, some of whom would commit murder for two dollars. most of the arrests which have been made by these men have been absolutely unwarranted. in nearly every case one of these special officers had first pushed a gun into the prisoner's face. the shooting last night when a boy was killed shows the result of giving power to such men. it is a shame and a disgrace to the police department of the city that such conditions are allowed to exist."[ ] anyone who will take the time to search through the testimony gathered by various governmental commissions will find an abundance of evidence indicating that many of these special officers and private detectives are in reality thugs and criminals. as long ago as an inquiry was made into the character of the men who were sent to deal with a strike at homestead, pennsylvania. a well-known witness testified: "we find that one is accused of wife-murder, four of burglary, two of wife-beating, and one of arson."[ ] a thoroughly reliable and responsible detective, who had been in the united states secret service, also gave damaging testimony. "they were the scum of the earth.... there is not one out of ten that would not commit murder; that you could not hire him to commit murder or any other crime." furthermore, he declared, "i would not believe any detective under oath without his evidence was corroborated." he spoke of ex-convicts being employed, and alleged that the manager of one of the large agencies "was run out of cincinnati for blackmail."[ ] similar statements were made by another detective, named le vin, to the industrial commission of the united states when it was investigating the chicago labor troubles of . he declared that the contractors' association of chicago had come to him repeatedly to employ sluggers, and that on one occasion the employers had told him to put winchesters in the hands of his men and to manage somehow to get into a fight with the pickets and the strikers. the commission, evidently surprised at this testimony, asked mr. le vin whether it was possible to hire detectives to beat up men. his answer was: "you cannot hire every man to do it." "q. 'but can they hire men?' a. 'yes, they could hire men.' "q. 'from other private detective agencies?' a. 'unfortunately, from some, yes.'"[ ] in the hearing before a subcommittee of the committee on the judiciary, united states senate, august , , lengthy testimony was given concerning a series of two hundred assaults that had been made upon the union molders of milwaukee during a strike in . one of the leaders of the union was killed, while others were brutally attacked by thugs in the employ of a chicago detective agency. a serious investigation was begun by attorney w. b. rubin, acting for the molders' union, and in court the evidence clearly proved that the chicago detective agency employed ex-convicts and other criminals for the purposes of slugging, shooting, and even killing union men. when some of these detectives were arrested they testified that they had acted under strict instructions. they had been sent out to beat up certain men. sometimes these men were pointed out to them, at other times they were given the names of the men that were to be slugged. they told the amounts that they had been paid, of the lead pipe, two feet long, which they had used for the assault, and of the fact that they were all armed. there was also testimony given that nearly twenty-two thousand dollars had been paid by one firm to this one detective agency for services of this character. it was also shown that immediately after the assaults were committed the thugs were, if possible, shipped out of town for a few days; but, if they were arrested, they were defended by able attorneys and their fines paid. although many assaults were committed where no arrests could be made, over forty "detectives" were actually arrested, and, when brought into court, were found guilty of crimes ranging from disturbing the peace and carrying concealed weapons to aggravated assault and shooting with intent to kill. many of these detectives convicted in milwaukee had been previously convicted of similar crimes committed in other cities. although some of them had long criminal records, they were, nevertheless, regularly in the employ of the detective agency. it appeared in one trial that one of the men employed was very much incensed when he saw three of his associates attack a union molder with clubs, knocking him down and beating him severely. with indignation he protested against the outrage. when the head of the agency heard of this the man was discharged. the court records also show that the head of the detective agency had gone himself to chicago to secure two men to undertake what proved to be a fatal assault upon a trade-union leader named peter j. cramer. when arrested and brought into court they testified that they received twenty dollars per day for their services. equally direct and positive evidence concerning the character of the men supplied by detective agencies for strike-breaking and other purposes is found in the annual report of the chicago & great western railway for the period ending in the spring of the year . "to man the shops and roundhouses," says the report, "the company was compelled to resort to professional strike-breakers, a class of men who are willing to work during the excitement and dangers of personal injury which attend strikes, but who refuse to work longer than the excitement and dangers last.... perhaps ten per cent. of the first lot of strike-breakers were fairly good mechanics, but fully per cent, knew nothing about machinery, and had to be gotten rid of. to get rid of such men, however, is easier said than done. "the first batch which was discharged, consisting of about men, refused to leave the barricade, made themselves a barricade within the company's barricade, and, producing guns and knives, refused to budge. the company's fighting men, after a day or two, forced them out of the barricade and into a special train, which carried them under guard to chicago." here was one gang of hired criminals, "the company's fighting men," called into service to fight another gang, the company's strike-breakers. the character of these "detectives," as testified to in this case by the employers, appears to have been about the same as that of those described by "kid" hogan, who, after an experience as a strike-breaker, told the new york sunday _world_: "there was the finest bunch of crooks and grafters working as strike-breakers in those american express company strikes you would ever want to see. i was one of 'em and know what i am talking about. that gang of grafters cost the express company a pile of money. why, they used to start trouble themselves just to keep their jobs a-going and to get a chance to swipe stuff off the wagons. "it was the same way down at philadelphia on the street car strike. those strike-breakers used to get a car out somewhere in the suburbs and then get off and smash up the windows, tip the car over, and put up an awful holler about being attacked by strikers, just so they'd have to be kept on the job."[ ] thus we see that some american "detective" agencies have many and varied trades. but they not only supply strike-breakers, perjurers, spies, and even assassins, they have also been successful in making an utter farce of trial by jury. it appears that even some of the best known american detectives are not above the packing of a jury. at least, such was the startling charge made by attorney-general george w. wickersham, may , . in the report to president taft mr. wickersham accused the head of one of the chief detective agencies of the country of fixing a jury in california. the agents of this detective, with the coöperation of the clerk of the court, investigated the names of proposed jurors. in order to be sure of getting a jury that would convict, the record of each individual was carefully gone into and a report handed to the prosecuting attorneys. some of the comments on the jurors follow: "convictor from the word go." "socialist. anti-mitchell." "convictor from the word go; just read the indictment. populist." "think he is a populist. if so, convictor. good, reliable man." "convictor. democrat. hates hermann." "hidebound democrat. not apt to see any good in a republican." "would be apt to be for conviction." "he is apt to wish mitchell hung. think he would be a fair juror." "would be likely to convict any republican politician." "convictor." "would convict christ." "convict christ. populist." "convict anyone. democrat."[ ] this great detective even had the audacity, it seems, to telegraph william scott smith, at that time secretary to the hon. e. a. hitchcock, the secretary of the interior: "jury commissioners cleaned out old box from which trial jurors were selected and put in names, _every one of which was investigated before they were placed in the box. this confidential._"[ ] it is impossible to reproduce here some of the language of this great detective. the foul manner in which he comments upon the character of the jurors is altogether worthy of his vocation. that, however, is unimportant compared to the more serious fact that a well-paid detective can so pervert trial by jury that it would "convict christ." i shall be excused in a matter so devastating to republican institutions as this if i quote further from the disclosures of thomas beet: "there is another phase," he says, "of the private detective evil which has worked untold damage in america. this is the private constabulary system by which armed forces are employed during labor troubles. it is a condition akin to the feudal system of warfare, when private interests can employ troops of mercenaries to wage war at their command. ostensibly, these armed private detectives are hurried to the scene of the trouble to maintain order and prevent destruction of property, although this work always should be left to the official guardians of the peace. that there is a sinister motive back of the employment of these men has been shown time and again. have you ever followed the episodes of a great strike and noticed that most of the disorderly outbreaks were so guided as to work harm to the interests of the strikers?... private detectives, unsuspected in their guise of workmen, mingle with the strikers and by incendiary talk or action sometimes stir them up to violence. when the workmen will not participate, it is an easy matter to stir up the disorderly faction which is invariably attracted by a strike, although it has no connection therewith. "during a famous strike of car builders in a western city some years ago, ... to my knowledge much of the lawlessness was incited by private detectives, who led mobs in the destruction of property. in one of the greatest of our strikes, that involving the steel industry, over two thousand armed detectives were employed supposedly to protect property, while several hundred more were scattered in the ranks of strikers as workmen. many of the latter became officers in the labor bodies, helped to make laws for the organizations, made incendiary speeches, cast their votes for the most radical movements made by the strikers, participated in and led bodies of the members in the acts of lawlessness that eventually caused the sending of state troops and the declaration of martial law. while doing this, these spies within the ranks were making daily reports of the plans and purposes of the strikers. to my knowledge, when lawlessness was at its height and murder ran riot, these men wore little patches of white on the lapels of their coats that their fellow detectives of the 'two thousand' would not shoot them down by mistake.... in no other country in the world, with the exception of china, is it possible for an individual to surround himself with a standing army to do his bidding in defiance of law and order."[ ] that the assertions of thomas beet are well founded can, i think, be made perfectly clear by three tragic periods in the history of labor disputes in america. at homestead in , in the railway strikes of , and in colorado during the labor wars of - detectives were employed on a large scale. for reasons of space i shall limit myself largely to these cases, which, without exaggeration, are typical of conditions which constantly arise in the united states. within the last year west virginia has been added to the list. incredible outrages have been committed there by the mine guards. they have deliberately murdered men in some cases, and, on one dark night in february last, they sent an armored train into holly grove and opened fire with machine guns upon a sleeping village of miners. they have beaten, clubbed, and stabbed men and women in the effort either to infuriate them into open war, or to reduce them to abject slavery. unfortunately, at this time the complete report of the senate investigation has not been issued, and it seems better to confine these pages to those facts only that careful inquiry has proved unquestionable. we are fortunate in having the reports of public officials--certainly unbiased on the side of labor--to rely upon for the facts concerning the use of thugs and hirelings in pennsylvania, illinois, and colorado during three terrible battles between capital and labor. the story of the shooting of henry c. frick by alexander berkman is briefly referred to in the first chapter, but the events which led up to that shooting have well-nigh been forgotten. certainly, nothing could have created more bitterness among the working classes than the act of the carnegie steel company when it ordered a detective agency to send to homestead three hundred men armed with winchester rifles. there was the prospect of a strike, and it appears that the management was in no mood to parley with its employees, and that nineteen days before any trouble occurred the carnegie steel company opened negotiations for the employment of a private army. it had been the custom of the carnegie company to meet the representatives of the amalgamated association of iron and steel workers from time to time and at these conferences to agree upon wages. on june , , the agreement expired, and previous to that date the company announced a reduction of wages, declaring that the new scale would terminate in january instead of june. the employees rejected the proposed terms, principally on the ground that they could not afford to strike in midwinter and in that case they would not be able to resist a further reduction in wages. upon receiving this statement the company locked out its employees and the battle began. the steel works were surrounded by a fence three miles long, fifteen feet in height, and covered with barbed wire. it was called "fort frick," and the three hundred detectives were to be brought down the river by boat and landed in the fort. morris hillquit gives the following account of the pitched battle that occurred in the early morning hours of july : "as soon as the boat carrying the pinkertons was sighted by the pickets the alarm was sounded. the strikers were aroused from their sleep and within a few minutes the river front was covered with a crowd of coatless and hatless men armed with guns and rifles and grimly determined to prevent the landing of the pinkertons. the latter, however, did not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. they sought to intimidate the strikers by assuming a threatening attitude and aiming the muzzles of their shining revolvers at them. a moment of intense expectation followed. then a shot was fired from the boat and one of the strikers fell to the ground mortally wounded. a howl of fury and a volley of bullets came back from the line of the strikers, and a wild fusillade was opened on both sides. in vain did the strike leaders attempt to pacify the men and to stop the carnage--the strikers were beyond control. the struggle lasted several hours, after which the pinkertons retreated from the river bank and withdrew to the cabin of the boat. there they remained in the sweltering heat of the july sun without air or ventilation, under the continuing fire of the enraged men on the shore, until they finally surrendered. they were imprisoned by the strikers in a rink, and in the evening they were sent out of town by rail. the number of dead on both sides was twelve, and over twenty were seriously wounded."[ ] these events aroused the entire country, and the state of mind among the working people generally was exceedingly bitter. it was a tension that under certain circumstances might have provoked a civil war. both the senate and the house of representatives immediately appointed committees to inquire into this movement from state to state of armed men, and the employment by corporations of what amounted to a private army. it seems to have been clearly established that the employers wanted war, and that the attorney of the carnegie company had commanded the local sheriff to deputize a man named gray, who was to meet the mercenaries and make all of them deputy sheriffs. this plan to make the detectives "legal" assassins did not carry, and the result was that a band of paid thugs, thieves, and murderers invaded homestead and precipitated a bloody conflict. this was, of course, infamous, and, compared with its magnificent anarchy, berkman's assault was child-like in its simplicity. yet the enthusiastic and idealistic berkman spent seventeen years in prison and is still abhorred; while no one responsible for the murder of twelve workingmen and the wounding of twenty others, either among the mercenaries or their employers, has yet been apprehended or convicted. with such equality of justice do we treat these agents of the two anarchies! however, if berkman spent seventeen years in prison, the other anarchists were mildly rebuked by the committee of investigation appointed by the senate. "your committee is of the opinion," runs the report, "that the employment of the private armed guards at homestead was unnecessary. there is no evidence to show that the slightest damage was done, or attempted to be done, to property on the part of the strikers...."[ ] "it was claimed by the pinkerton agency that in all cases they require that their men shall be sworn in as deputy sheriffs, but it is a significant circumstance that in the only strike your committee made inquiry concerning--that at homestead--the fact was admitted on all hands that the armed men supplied by the pinkertons were not so sworn, and that as private citizens acting under the direction of such of their own men as were in command they fired upon the people of homestead, killing and wounding a number."[ ] "every man who testified, including the proprietors of the detective agencies, admitted that the workmen are strongly prejudiced against the so-called pinkertons, and that their presence at a strike serves to unduly inflame the passions of the strikers. the prejudice against them arises partly from the fact that they are frequently placed among workmen, in the disguise of mechanics, to report alleged conversations to their agencies, which, in turn, is transmitted to the employers of labor. your committee is impressed with the belief that this is an utterly vicious system, and that it is responsible for much of the ill-feeling and bad blood displayed by the working classes. no self-respecting laborer or mechanic likes to feel that the man beside him may be a spy from a detective agency, and especially so when the laboring man is utterly at the mercy of the detective, who can report whatever he pleases, be it true or false....[ ] whether assumedly legal or not, the employment of armed bodies of men for private purposes, either by employers or employees, is to be deprecated and should not be resorted to. such use of private armed men is an assumption of the state's authority by private citizens. if the state is incapable of protecting citizens in their rights of person and property, then anarchy is the result, and the original law of force should neither be approved, encouraged, nor tolerated until all known legal processes have failed."[ ] we must leave this black page in american history with such comfort as we can wring from the fact that the modern exponents of the oldest anarchy have been at least once rebuked, and with the further satisfaction that the homestead tragedy brought momentarily to the attention of the entire nation a practice which even at that time was a source of great alarm to many serious men. in the great strikes which occurred in the late eighties and early nineties there was a great deal of violence, and c. h. salmons, in his history of "the burlington strike" of , relates how private detectives systematically planned outrages that destroyed property and how others committed murder. a few cases were fought out in the courts with results very disconcerting to the railroads who had hired these private detectives. in the strike on the new york central railroad which occurred in many detectives were employed. they were, of course, armed, and, as a result of certain criminal operations undertaken by them, congress was asked to consider the drafting of a bill "to prevent corporations engaged in interstate-commerce traffic from employing unjustifiably large bodies of armed men denominated 'detectives,' but clothed with no legal functions."[ ] roger a. pryor, then justice of the supreme court of new york, vigorously protested against these "watchmen." "i mean," he said, "the enlistment of banded and armed mercenaries under the command of private detectives on the side of corporations in their conflicts with employees. the pretext for such an extraordinary measure is the protection of the corporate property; and surely the power of this great state is adequate to the preservation of the public order and security. at all events, in this particular instance, it was not pretended either that the strikers had invaded property or person, or that the police or militia in albany had betrayed reluctance or inability to cope with the situation. on the contrary, the facts are undisputed that the moment the men went out mr. pinkerton and his myrmidons appeared on the scene, and the police of albany declared their competency to repel any trespass on person or property. the executive of the state, too, denied any necessity for the presence of the military. "i do not impute to the railroad officials a purpose, without provocation, to precipitate their ruffians upon a defenseless and harmless throng of spectators; but the fact remains that the ruffians in their hire did shoot into the crowd without occasion, and did so shed innocent blood. and it is enough to condemn the system that it authorizes unofficial and irresponsible persons to usurp the most delicate and difficult functions of the state and exposes the lives of citizens to the murderous assaults of hireling assassins, stimulated to violence by panic or by the suggestion of employers to strike terror by an appalling exhibition of force. if the railroad company may enlist armed men to defend its property, the employees may enlist armed men to defend their persons, and thus private war be inaugurated, the authority of the state defied, the peace and tranquillity of society destroyed, and the citizens exposed to the hazard of indiscriminate slaughter."[ ] perhaps the most extensive use of these so-called detectives was at the time of the great railway strike of . the strike of the workers at pullman led to a general sympathetic strike on all the railroads entering chicago, and from may to july there was waged one of the greatest industrial battles in american history. a railway strike is always a serious matter, and in a short time the government came to the active support of the railroads. at one time over fourteen thousand soldiers, deputy marshals, deputy sheriffs, and policemen were on duty in chicago. during the period of the strike twelve persons were shot and fatally wounded. a number of riots occurred, cars were burned, and, as a result of the disturbances, no less than seven hundred persons were arrested, accused of murder, arson, burglary, assault, intimidation, riot, and other crimes. the most accurate information we have concerning conditions in chicago during the strike is to be found in the evidence which was taken by the united states strike commission appointed by president cleveland july , . there seems to be no doubt that during the early days of the strike perfect peace reigned in chicago. at the very beginning of the trouble three hundred strikers were detailed by the unions to guard the property of the pullman company from any interference or destruction. "it is in evidence, and uncontradicted," reports the commission, "that no violence or destruction of property by strikers or sympathizers took place at pullman."[ ] it also appears that no violence occurred in chicago in connection with the strike until after several thousand men were made united states deputy marshals. these "united states deputy marshals," says the commission, "to the number of , , were selected by and appointed at the request of the general managers' association, and of its railroads. they were armed and paid by the railroads."[ ] in other words, the united states government gave over its police power directly into the hands of one of the combatants. it allowed these private companies, through detective agencies, to collect as hastily as possible a great body of unemployed, to arm them, and to send them out as officials of the united states to do whatsoever was desired by the railroads. they were not under the control of the army or of responsible united states officials, and their intrusion into a situation so tense and critical as that then existing in chicago was certain to produce trouble. and the fact is, the lawlessness that prevailed in chicago during that strike began only after the appearance of these private "detectives." it will astonish the ordinary american citizen to read of the character of the men to whom the maintenance of law and order was entrusted. superintendent of police brennan referred to these deputy marshals in an official report to the council of chicago as "thugs, thieves, and ex-convicts," and in his testimony before the commission itself he said: "some of the deputy marshals who are now over in the county jail ... were arrested while deputy marshals for highway robbery."[ ] several newspaper men, when asked to testify regarding the character of these united states deputies, referred to them variously as "drunkards," "loafers," "bums," and "criminals." the now well-known journalist, ray stannard baker, was at that time reporting the strike for the _chicago record_. he was asked by commissioner carroll d. wright as to the character of the united states deputy marshals. his answer was: "from my experience with them i think it was very bad indeed. i saw more cases of drunkenness, i believe, among the united states deputy marshals than i did among the strikers."[ ] benjamin h. atwell, reporter for the _chicago news_, testified: "many of the marshals were men i had known around chicago as saloon characters.... the first day, i believe, after the troops arrived ... the deputy marshals went up into town and some of them got pretty drunk."[ ] malcomb mcdowell, reporter for the _chicago record_, testified that the deputy marshals and deputy sheriffs "were not the class of men who ought to be made deputy marshals or deputy sheriffs.... they seemed to be hunting trouble all the time.... at one time a serious row nearly resulted because some of the deputy marshals standing on the railroad track jeered at the women that passed and insulted them.... i saw more deputy sheriffs and deputy marshals drunk than i saw strikers drunk."[ ] harold i. cleveland, reporter for the _chicago herald_, testified: "i was ... on the western indiana tracks for fourteen days ... and i suppose i saw in that time a couple of hundred deputy marshals.... i think they were a very low, contemptible set of men."[ ] in mr. baker's testimony he speaks of seeing in one of the riots "a big, rough-looking fellow, whom the people called 'pat.'"[ ] he was the leader of the mob, and when the riot was over, "he mounted a beer keg in front of one of the saloons and advised men to go home, get their guns, and come out and fight the troops, fire on them.... the same man appeared two nights later at whiting, indiana, and made quite a disturbance there, roused the people up. in all that mob that had hold of the ropes i do not think there were many american railway union men. i think they were mostly roughs from chicago.... the police knew well enough all about this man i have mentioned who was the ringleader of the mob, but they did nothing and the deputy marshals were not any better."[ ] for some inscrutable reason, certain men, none of whom were railroad employees, were allowed openly to provoke violence. fortunately, however, they were not able to induce the actual strikers to participate in their assaults upon railroad property, and every newspaper man testified that the riots were, in the main, the work of the vicious elements of chicago. they were, said one witness, "all loafers, idlers, a petty class of criminals well known to the police."[ ] malcomb mcdowell testified concerning one riot which he had reported for the papers: "the men did not look like railroad men.... most of them were foreigners, and one of the men in the crowd told me afterward that he was a detective from st. louis. he gave me the name of the agency at the time."[ ] mr. eugene v. debs, the leader of that great strike, in a pamphlet entitled _the federal government and the chicago strike_, calls particular attention to the following declaration of the united states strike commission: "there is no evidence before the commission that the officers of the american railway union at any time participated in or advised intimidation, violence or destruction of property. _they knew and fully appreciated that, as soon as mobs ruled, the organized forces of society would crush the mobs and all responsible for them in the remotest degree, and that this means defeat._"[ ] commenting upon this statement, mr. debs asks: "to whose interest was it to have riots and fires, lawlessness and crime? to whose advantage was it to have disreputable 'deputies' do these things? why were only freight cars, largely hospital wrecks, set on fire? why have the railroads not yet recovered damages from cook county, illinois, for failing to protect their property?... the riots and incendiarism turned defeat into victory for the railroads. they could have won in no other way. they had everything to gain and the strikers everything to lose. the violence was instigated in spite of the strikers, and the report of the commission proves that they made every effort in their power to preserve the peace."[ ] this history is important in a study of the extensive system of subsidized violence that has grown up in america. nearly every witness before the commission testified that the strikers again and again gave the police valuable assistance in protecting the property of the railroads. no testimony was given that the workingmen advocated violence or that union men assisted in the riots. the ringleaders of all the serious outbreaks were notorious toughs from chicago's vicious sections, and they were allowed to go for days unmolested by the deputy marshals--who, although representatives of the united states government, were in the pay of the railroads. in fact, the evidence all points to the one conclusion, that the deputy marshals encouraged the violence of ruffians and tried to provoke the violence of decent men by insulting, drunken, and disreputable conduct. the strikers realized that violence was fatal to their cause, and the deputy marshals knew that violence meant victory for the railroads. and that proved to be the case. before leaving this phase of anarchy i want to refer as briefly as possible to that series of fiercely fought political and industrial battles that occurred in colorado in the period from to . the climax of the long-drawn-out battles there was perhaps the most unadulterated anarchy that has yet been seen in america. it was a terrorism of powerful and influential anarchists who frankly and brutally answered those who protested against their many violations of the united states constitution: "to hell with the constitution!"[ ] the story of these colorado battles is told in a report of an investigation made by the united states commissioner of labor ( ). the reading of that report leaves one with the impression that present-day society rests upon a volcano, which in favorable periods seems very harmless indeed, but, when certain elemental forces clash, it bursts forth in a manner that threatens with destruction civilization itself. the trouble in colorado began with the effort on the part of the miners' union to obtain through the legislature a law limiting the day's work to eight hours in all underground mines and in all work for reducing and refining ores. that was in . the next year an eight-hour bill was presented in the legislature. expressing fear that such a bill might be unconstitutional, the legislature, before acting upon it, asked the supreme court to render a decision. the supreme court replied that, in its opinion, such a bill would be unconstitutional. in , as a result of further agitation by the miners, an eight-hour law was enacted by the legislature--a large majority in both houses voting for the bill. by unanimous decision the same year the supreme court of colorado declared the statute unconstitutional. the miners were not, however, discouraged, and they began a movement to secure the adoption of a constitutional amendment which would provide for the enactment of an eight-hour law. all the political parties in the state of colorado pledged themselves in convention to support such a measure. in the general election of the constitutional amendment providing for an eight-hour day was adopted by the people of the state by , votes against , . this was a great victory for the miners, and it seemed as if their work was done. according to all the traditions and pretensions of political life, they had every reason to believe that the next session of the legislature would pass an eight-hour law. it appears, however, that the corporations had determined at all cost to defeat such a bill. they set out therefore to corrupt wholesale the legislature, and as a result the eight-hour bill was defeated. after having done everything in their power, patiently, peacefully, and legally to obtain their law, and only after having been outrageously betrayed by corrupt public servants, the miners as a last resort, on the d of july, , declared a strike to secure through their own efforts what a decade of pleading and prayers had failed to achieve. i suppose no unbiased observer would to-day question that the political machines of colorado had sold themselves body and soul to the mine owners. there can surely be no other explanation for their violation of their pledges to the people and to the miners. and further evidence of their perfidy was given on the night of september , , at a conference between some of the state officials and certain officers of the mine owners' association. although the strike up to this time had been conducted without any violence, the state officials agreed that the mine owners could have the aid of the militia, provided they would pay the expenses of the soldiers while they remained in the strike district. two days later over one thousand men were encamped in cripple creek. all the strike districts were at once put under martial law; the duly elected officials of the people were commanded to resign from office; hundreds of unoffending citizens were arrested and thrown into "bull pens"; the whole working force of a newspaper was apprehended and taken to the "bull pen"; all the news that went out concerning the strike was censored, the manager of one of the mines acting as official censor. at the same time this man, together with other mine managers and friends, organized mobs to terrorize union miners and to force out of town anyone whom they thought to be in sympathy with the strikers. in the effort to determine whether the courts or the military powers were supreme, a writ of _habeas corpus_ was obtained for four men who had been sent by the military authorities to the "bull pen." the court sent an order to produce the men. ninety cavalrymen were then sent to the court house. they surrounded it, permitting no person to pass through the lines unless he was an officer of the court, a member of the bar, a county official, or a press representative. a company of infantrymen then escorted the four prisoners to the court, while fourteen soldiers with loaded guns and fixed bayonets guarded the prisoners until the court was called to order. when the court was adjourned, after an argument upon the motion to quash the return of the writ, the soldiers took the prisoners back to the "bull pen." the next day judge seeds was forced to adjourn the court, because the prisoners were not present. an officer of the militia was ordered to have them in court at two o'clock in the afternoon, but, as they did not appear at that time, a continuance was granted until the following day. on september a large number of soldiers, cavalry and infantry, surrounded the court house. a gatling gun was placed in position nearby, and a detail of sharpshooters was stationed where they could command the streets. the court, in the face of this military display, cited the constitution of colorado, which declares that the military shall always be in strict subordination to the civil power, and pointed out that this did not specify sometimes but always, declaring: "there could be no plainer statement that the military should never be permitted to rise superior to the civil power within the limits of colorado."[ ] the judge then ordered the military authorities to release the prisoners, but this they refused to do. at victor certain mine owners commanded the sheriff to come to their club rooms, where his resignation was demanded. when he refused to resign, guns were produced, a coiled rope was dangled before him, and on the outside several shots were fired. he was told that unless he resigned the mob outside the building would be admitted and he would be taken out and hanged. he then signed a written resignation, and a member of the mine owners' association was appointed sheriff. with this new sheriff in charge, the mine owners, mine managers, and all they could employ for the purpose arrested on all hands everybody that seemed unfriendly to their anarchy. the new sheriff and a militia officer commanded the portland mine, which was then having no trouble with its employees, to shut down. by this order four hundred and seventy-five men were thrown out of employment. in these various ways the mobs organized by the mine owners were allowed to obliterate the government and abolish republican institutions, under the immediate protection of their leased military forces. at telluride, also, the military overpowered the civil authorities. when judge theron stevens came there to hold the regular session of court he was met by soldiers and a mob of three hundred persons. seeing that it was impossible for the civil authorities to exercise any power, he decided to adjourn the court until the next term, declaring: "the demonstration at the depot last night upon the arrival of the train could only have been planned and executed for the purpose of showing the contempt of the militia and a certain portion of this community for the civil authority of the state and the civil authority of this district. i had always been led to suppose from such research as i have been able to make that in a republic like ours the people were supreme; that the people had expressed their will in a constitution which was enacted for the government of all in authority in this state. that constitution provides that the military shall always be in strict subordination to the civil authorities."[ ] while this terrorism of the powerful was in full sway in colorado, the entire world was being told through the newspapers of the infamous crimes being committed daily by the western federation of miners. countless newspaper stories were sent out telling in detail of mines blown up, of trains wrecked, of men murdered through agents of this federation of toilers engaged day in and day out at a dangerous occupation in the bowels of the earth. not loafers, idlers, or drunkards, but men with calloused hands and bent backs. stories were sent around the world of these laborers being arraigned in court charged with the most infamous and dastardly crimes. yet hardly once has it been reported in the press of the world that in "every trial that has been held in the state of colorado during the present strike where the membership has been charged with almost every perfidy in the catalogue of crime, a jury has brought in a verdict of acquittal."[ ] on the other hand, a multitude of murders, wrecks, and dynamite explosions have been brought to the door of the detectives employed by the mine owners' association. it was found that many ex-convicts and other desperate characters were employed by the detective agencies to commit crimes that could be laid upon the working miners. the story of orchard and the recital of his atrocious crimes have occupied columns of every newspaper, but the fact is rarely mentioned that many of the crimes that he committed, and which the world to-day attributes to the officials of the western federation of miners, were paid for by detective agencies. the special detective of one of the railroads and a detective of the mine owners' association were known to have employed orchard and other criminals. when orchard first went to denver to seek work from the officials of the western federation of miners he was given a railroad pass by these detectives and the money to pay his expenses.[ ] during the three months preceding the blowing up of the independence depot orchard had been seen at least eighteen or twenty times entering at night by stealth the rooms of a detective attached to the mine owners' association, and at least seven meetings were held between him and the railroad detective already mentioned. previous to all this--in september and in november, --attempts were made to wreck trains. a delinquent member of the western federation of miners was charged with these crimes. he involved in his confession several prominent members of the western federation of miners. on cross-examination he testified that he had formerly been a prize-fighter and that he had come to cripple creek under an assumed name. he further testified that $ was his price for wrecking a train carrying two hundred to three hundred people, but that he had asked $ for this job, as another man would have to work with him. two detectives had promised him that amount. an associate of this man was discovered to have been a detective who had later joined the western federation of miners. he testified that he had kept the detective agencies informed as to the progress of the plot to derail the train. the detective of the mine owners' association admitted that he and the other detectives had endeavored to induce members of the miners' union to enter into the plot; while the railroad detective testified that he and another detective were standing only a few feet away when men were at work pulling the spikes from the rails. an engineer on the florence and cripple creek railroad testified that the railroad detective had, a few days before, asked him where there was a good place for wrecking the train. the result of the case was that all were acquitted except the ex-prize-fighter, who was held for a time, but eventually released on $ bond, furnished by representatives of the mine owners.[ ] on june , , when about twenty-five non-union miners were waiting at the independence depot for a train, there was a terrible explosion which resulted in great loss of life. it has never been discovered who committed the crime, though the mine owners lost no time in attributing the explosion to the work of "the assassins" of the federation of miners. when, however, bloodhounds were put on the trail, they went directly to the home of one of the detectives in the employ of the mine owners' association. they were taken back to the scene of the disaster and again followed the trail to the same place. a third attempt was made with the hounds and they followed a trail to the powder magazine of a nearby mine. the western federation of miners offered a reward of $ , for evidence which would lead to the arrest and conviction of the criminal who had perpetrated the outrage at independence. unfortunately, the criminal was never found. orchard, a year or so later, confessed that he had committed the crime and was paid for it by the officials of the western federation of miners. the absurdity of that statement becomes clear when it is known that the court in denver was at the very moment of the explosion deciding the _habeas corpus_ case of moyer, president of the western federation of miners. in fact, a few hours after the explosion the decision of the court was handed down. as the action of the court was vital not only to moyer but to the entire trade-union movement, and, indeed, to republican institutions, it is inconceivable that he or his friends should have organized an outrage that would certainly have prejudiced the court at the very moment it was writing its decision. on the other hand, there was every reason why the mine owners should have profited by such an outrage and that their detectives should have planned one for that moment.[af] the atrocities of the congo occurred in a country without law, in the interest of a great property, and in a series of battles with a half-savage people. history has somewhat accustomed us to such barbarity; but when, in a civilized country, with a written constitution, with duly established courts, with popularly elected representatives, and apparently with all the necessary machinery for dealing out equal justice, one suddenly sees a feudal despotism arise, as if by magic, to usurp the political, judicial, and military powers of a great state, and to use them to arrest hundreds without warrant and throw them into "bull pens"; to drive hundreds of others out of their homes and at the point of the bayonet out of the state; to force others to labor against their will or to be beaten; to depose the duly elected officials of the community; to insult the courts; to destroy the property of those who protest; and even to murder those who show signs of revolt--one stands aghast. it makes one wonder just how far in reality we are removed from barbarism. is it possible that the likelihood of the workers achieving an eight-hour day--which was all that was wanted in colorado--could lead to civil war? yet that is what might and perhaps should have happened in colorado in , when, for a few months, a military despotism took from the people there all that had been won by centuries of democratic striving and thrust them back into the middle ages. chaotic political and industrial conditions are, of course, occasionally inevitable in modern society--torn as it is by the very bitter struggle going on constantly between capital and labor. when this struggle breaks into war, as it often does, we are bound to suffer some of the evils that invariably attend war. certainly, it is to be expected that the owners of property will exercise every power they possess to safeguard their property. they will, whenever possible, use the state and all its coercive powers in order to retain their mastery over men and things. the only question is this, must people in general continue to be the victims of a commerce which has for its purpose the creation of situations that force nearly every industrial dispute to become a bloody conflict? when men combine to commit depredations, destroy property, and murder individuals, society must deal with them--no matter how harshly. but it is an altogether different matter to permit privately paid criminals to create whenever desired a state of anarchy, in order to force the military to carry out ferocious measures of repression against those who have been in no wise responsible for disorder. if we will look into this matter a little, we shall discover certain sinister motives back of this work of the detective agencies. it is well enough understood by them that violence creates a state of reaction. one very keen observer has pointed out that "the anarchist tactics are so serviceable to the reactionaries that, whenever a draconic, reactionary law is required, they themselves manufacture an anarchist plot or attempted crime."[ ] kropotkin himself, in telling the story of "the terror in russia," points out that a certain azeff, who for sixteen years was an agent of the russian police, was also the chief organizer of acts of terrorism among the social revolutionists.[ ] every conceivable crime was committed under his direct instigation, including even the murder of some officials and nobles. the purpose of the work of this police agent was, of course, to serve the russian reactionaries and to furnish them a pretext and excuse for the most bloody measures of repression. in america "hireling assassins," ex-convicts, and thugs in the employ of detective agencies commit very much the same crimes for the same purpose. and the men on strike, who have neither planned nor dreamed of planning an outrage, suddenly find themselves faced by the military forces, who have not infrequently in the past shot them down. that the lawless situations which make these infamous acts possible, and to the general public often excusable, are the deliberate work of mercenaries, is, to my mind, open to no question whatever. anyone who cares to look up the history of the labor movement for the last hundred years will find that in every great strike private detectives and police agents have been at work provoking violence. it is almost incredible what a large number of criminal operations can be traced to these paid agents. from to the present day the bitterness of nearly every industrial conflict of importance has been intensified by the work of these spies, thugs, and _provocateurs_. "it was not until we became infested by spies, incendiaries, and their dupes--distracting, misleading, and betraying--that physical force was mentioned among us," says bamford, speaking of the trade-union activity of - . "after that our moral power waned, and what we gained by the accession of demagogues we lost by their criminal violence and the estrangement of real friends."[ ] some of the notable police agents that appear in the history of labor are powell, mitchell, legg, stieber, greif, fleury, baron von ungern-sternberg, schroeder-brennwald, krueger, kaufmann, peukert, haupt, von ehrenberg, friedeman, weiss, schmidt, and ihring-mahlow. in addition we find andré, andrieux, pourbaix, melville, and scores of other high police officials directing the work of these agents. in america, mcpartland, schaack, and orchard--to mention the most notorious only--have played infamous rôles in provoking others, or in undertaking themselves, to commit outrages. there were and are, of course, thousands of others besides those mentioned, but these are historic characters, who planned and executed the most dastardly deeds in order to discredit the trade-union and socialist movements. the space here is too limited to go into the historic details of this commerce in violence. but he who is curious to pursue the study further will find a list of references at the end of the volume directing him to some of the sources of information.[ ] he will there discover an appalling record of crime, for, as thomas beet points out, hardly a strike occurs where these special officers are not sent to make trouble. there are sometimes thousands of them at work, and, if one undertook to go into the various trials that have arisen as a result of labor disputes, one could prepare a long list of murders committed by these "hireling assassins." the pecuniary interest of the detective agencies in provoking crime is immense. it is obvious enough, if one will but think of it, that these detective agencies depend for their profit on the existence, the extension, and the promotion of criminal operations. the more that people are frightened by the prospect of danger to their property or menace to their lives, the more they seek the aid of detectives. nothing proves so advantageous to detectives as epidemics of strikes and even of robberies and murders. the heyday of their prosperity comes in that moment when assaults upon men and property are most frequent. nothing would seem to be clearer, then, than that it is to the interest of these agencies to create alarm, to arouse terror, and, through these means, to enlarge their patronage. when a trade or profession has not only every pecuniary incentive to create trouble, but when it is also largely promoted by notorious criminals and other vicious elements, the amount of mischief that is certain to result from the combination may well exceed the powers of imagination. and it must not be forgotten that this trade has developed into a great and growing business, actuated by exactly the same economic interests as any other business. with the agencies making so much per day for each man employed, the way to improve business is to get more men employed. rumors of trouble or actual deeds, such as an explosion of dynamite or an assault, help to make the detective indispensable to the employer. it is with an eye to business, therefore, that the private detective creates trouble. it is with a keen sense of his own material interest that he keeps the employer in a state of anxiety regarding what may be expected from the men. and, naturally enough, the modern employer, unlike a trained ruler such as bismarck, never seems to realize that most of the alarming reports sent him are masses of lies. nothing appears to have been clearer to the iron chancellor than that his own police forces, in order to gain favor, "lie and exaggerate in the most shameful manner."[ ] but such an idea seems never to enter the minds of the great american employers, who, although becoming more and more like the ruling classes of europe, are not yet so wise. however, the great employer, like the great ruler, is unable now to meet his employees in person and to find out their real views. consequently, he must depend upon paid agents to report to him the views of his men. this might all be very well if the returns were true. but, when it happens that evil reports are very much to the pecuniary advantage of the man who makes them, is it likely that there will be any other kind of report? thousands of employers, therefore, are coming more and more to be convinced that their workmen spend most of their time plotting against them. it seems unreasonable that sane men could believe that their employees, who are regularly at work every day striving with might and main to support and bring up decently their families, should be at the same time planning the most diabolical outrages. nothing is rarer than to find criminals among workingmen, for if they were given to crime they would not be at work. but with the great modern evil--the separation of the classes--there comes so much of misunderstanding and of mistrust that the employer seems only too willing to believe any paid villain who tells him that his tired and worn laborers have murder in their hearts. the class struggle is a terrible fact; but the class hatred and the personal enmity that are growing among both masters and men in the united states are natural and inevitable results of this system of spies and informers. how widespread this evil has become is shown by the fact that nearly every large corporation now employs numerous spies, informers, and special officers, from whom they receive daily reports concerning the conversations among their men and the plans of the unions. thousands of these detectives are, in fact, members of the unions. the employers are, of course, under the impression that they are thus protecting themselves from misinformation and also from the possibility of injury, but, as we have seen, they are in reality placing themselves at the mercy of these spies in the same manner as every despot in the past has placed himself at the mercy of those who brought him information. it may, perhaps, be possible that the carnegie company in , the railroads in , and the mine owners in were convinced that their employees were under the influence of dangerous men. very likely they were told that their workmen were planning assaults upon their lives and property. it would not be strange if these large owners of property had been so informed. indeed, the economics of this whole wretched commerce becomes clear only when we realize that the terror that results from such reports leads these capitalists to employ more and more hirelings, to pay them larger and larger fees, and in this manner to reward lies and to make even assaults prove immensely profitable to the detectives. so it happens that the great employers are chiefly responsible for introducing among their men the very elements that are making for riot, crime, and anarchy. close and intimate relations with the employers and with the men during several fiercely fought industrial conflicts have convinced me that the struggle between them rarely degenerates to that plane of barbarism in which either the men or the masters deliberately resort to, or encourage, murder, arson, and similar crimes. so far as the men are concerned, they have every reason in the world to discourage violence, and nothing is clearer to most of them than the solemn fact that every time property is destroyed, or men injured, the employers win public support, the aid of the press, the pulpit, the police, the courts, and all the powers of the state. men do not knowingly injure themselves or persist in a course adverse to their material interests. it is true, as i think i have made clear in the previous chapters, that some of the workers do advocate violence, and, in a few cases that instantly became notorious, labor leaders have been found guilty of serious crimes. that these instances are comparatively rare is explained, of course, by the fact that violence is known invariably to injure the cause of the worker. it would be strange, therefore, if the workers did systematically plan outrages. on the other hand, it would be strange if the employers did not at times rejoice that somebody--the workmen, the detectives, or others--had committed some outrage and thus brought the public sentiment and the state's power to the aid of the employers. one cannot escape the thought that the employers would hardly finance so readily these so-called detectives, and inquire so little into their actual deeds, if they were not convinced that violence at the time of a strike materially aids the employer. yet, despite evidence to the contrary, it may, i think, be said with truth that the lawlessness attending strikes is not, as a rule, the result of deliberate planning on the part of the men or of the masters. there are, of course, numerous exceptions, and if we find the mcnamaras on the one side, we also find some unscrupulous employers on the other. to the latter, violence becomes of the greatest service, in that it enables them to say with apparent truth that they are not fighting reasonable, law-abiding workmen, but assassins and incendiaries. no course is easier for the employer who does not seek to deal honestly with his men, and none more secure for that employer whose position is wholly indefensible on the subject of hours and wages, than to sidetrack all these issues by hypocritically declaring that he refuses to deal with men who are led by criminals. and it is quite beyond question that some such employers have deliberately urged their "detectives" to create trouble. positive evidence is at hand that a few such employers have themselves directed the work of incendiaries, thugs, and rioters. with such amazing evidence as we have recently had concerning the systematically lawless work of the manufacturers' association, it is impossible to free the employers of all personal responsibility for the outrages committed by their criminal agents. there are many different ways in which violence benefits the employer, and it may even be said that in all cases it is only to the interest of the employer. as a matter of fact, with the systems of insurance now existing, any injury to the property of the employer means no loss to him whatever. the only possible loss that he can suffer is through the prolongation and success of the strike. if the workers can be discredited and the strike broken through the aid of violence, the ordinary employer is not likely to make too rigid an investigation into whether or not his "detectives" had a hand in it. curiously enough, the general public never dreams that special officers are responsible for most of the violence at times of strike, and, while the men loudly accuse the employers, the employers loudly accuse the men. the employers are, of course, informed by the detectives that the outrages have been committed by the strikers, and the detectives have seen to it that the employers are prepared to believe that the strikers are capable of anything. on the other hand, the men are convinced that the employers are personally responsible. they see hundreds and sometimes thousands of special officers swarming throughout the district. they know that these men are paid by somebody, and they are convinced that their bullying, insulting talk and actions represent the personal wishes of the employers. when they knock down strikers, beat them up, arrest them, or even shoot them, the men believe that all these acts are dictated by the employers. it is utterly impossible to describe the bitterness that is aroused among the men by the presence of these thugs. and the testimony taken by various commissions regarding strikes proves clearly enough that strikes are not only embittered but prolonged by the presence of detectives. again and again, mediators have declared that, as soon as thugs are brought into the conflict, the settlement of a strike is made impossible until either the employers or the men are exhausted by the struggle. a number of reputable detectives have testified that the chief object of those who engage in "strike-breaking" is to prolong strikes in order to keep themselves employed as long as possible. thus, the employers as well as the men are the victims of this commerce in violence. it will, i am sure, be obvious to the reader that it would require a very large volume to deal with all the various phases of the work of the detective in the numerous great strikes that have occurred in recent years. i have endeavored merely to mention a few instances where their activities have led to the breaking down of all civil government. it is important, however, to emphasize the fact that there is no strike of any magnitude in which these hirelings are not employed. i have taken the following quotation as typical of numerous circulars which i have seen, that have been issued by detective agencies: "this bureau has made a specialty of handling strikes for over half a century, and our clients are among the largest corporations in the world. during the recent trouble between the steamboat companies and the striking longshoremen in new york city this office ... supplied one thousand guards.... our charges for guards, motormen, conductors, and all classes of men during the time of trouble is $ . per day, your company to pay transportation, board, and lodge the men."[ ] here is another agency that has been engaged in this business for half a century, and there are thousands of others engaged in it now. one of them is known to have in its employ constantly five thousand men. and, if we look into the deeds of these great armies of mercenaries, we find that there is not a state in the union in which they have not committed assault, arson, robbery, and murder. several years ago at lattimer, pennsylvania, a perfectly peaceable parade of two hundred and fifty miners was attacked by guards armed with winchester rifles, with the result that twenty-nine workers were killed and thirty others seriously injured. this was deliberate and unprovoked slaughter. recently, in the westmoreland mining district, no less than twenty striking miners have been murdered, while several hundred have been seriously injured. on one occasion deputies and strike-breakers became intoxicated and "shot up the town" of latrobe. in the recent strike against the lake carriers' association six union men were killed by private detectives. in tampa, florida, in columbus, ohio, in birmingham, alabama, in lawrence, massachusetts, in bethlehem, pennsylvania, in the mining districts of west virginia, and in innumerable other places many workingmen have been murdered, not by officers of the law, but by privately paid assassins. even while writing these lines i notice a telegram to the _appeal to reason_ from adolph germer, an official of the united mine workers of america, that some thugs, formerly in west virginia, are now in colorado, and that their first work there was to shoot down in cold blood a well-known miner. john walker, a district president of the united mine workers of america, telegraphs the same day to the labor press that two of the strikers in the copper mines in michigan were shot down by detectives, in the effort, he says, to provoke the men to violence. anyone who cares to follow the labor press for but a short period will be astonished to find how frequently such outrages occur, and he will marvel that men can be so self-controlled as the strikers usually are under such terrible provocation. i mention hastily these facts in order to emphasize the point that the cases in which i have gone into detail in this chapter are more or less typical of the bloody character of many of the great strikes because of the deeds of the so-called detectives. brief, however, as this statement is of the work of these anarchists "without phrase" and of the great commerce they have built up, it must, nevertheless, convince anyone that republican institutions cannot long exist in a country which tolerates such an extensive private commerce in lawlessness and crime. government by law cannot prevail in the same field with a widespread and profitable traffic in disorder, thuggery, arson, and murder. here is a whole brood of mercenaries, the output of hundreds of great penitentiaries, that has been organized and systematized into a great commerce to serve the rich and powerful. here is a whole mess of infamy developed into a great private enterprise that militates against all law and order. it has already brought the united states on more than one occasion to the verge of civil war. and, despite the fact that numerous judges have publicly condemned the work of these agencies, and that various governmental commissions have deprecated in the most solemn words this traffic in crime, it continues to grow and prosper in the most alarming manner. certainly, no student of history will doubt that, if this commerce is permitted to continue, it will not be long until no man's life, honor, or property will be secure. and it is a question, even at this moment, whether the legislators have the courage to attack this powerful american mafia that has already developed into a "vested interest." as i said at the beginning, no other country has this form of anarchy to contend with. in all countries, no doubt, there are associations of criminals, and everywhere, perhaps, it is possible for wealthy men to employ criminals to work for them. but even the mafia, the camorra, and the black hand do not exist for the purpose of collecting and organizing mercenaries to serve the rich and powerful. nor anywhere else in the world are these criminals made special officers, deputy sheriffs, deputy marshals, and thus given the authority of the state itself. the assumption is so general that the state invariably stands behind the private detective that few seem to question it, and even the courts frequently recognize them as quasi-public officials. thus, the state itself aids and abets these mercenary anarchists, while it sends to the gallows idealist anarchists, such as henry, vaillant, lingg, and their like. that the state fosters this "infant industry" is the only possible explanation for the fact that in every industrial conflict of the past the real provokers and executors of arson, riot, and murder have escaped prison, while in every case labor leaders have been put in jail--often without warrant--and in many cases kept there for many months without trial. even the writ of _habeas corpus_ has been denied them repeatedly. without the active connivance of the state such conditions could not exist. however, the state goes even further in its opposition to labor. the power of a state governor to call out the militia, to declare even a peaceful district in a state of insurrection, and to abolish the writ of _habeas corpus_ is a very great power indeed and one that is unquestionably an anomaly in a republic. if that power were used with equal justice, it might not create the intense bitterness that has been so frequently aroused among the workers by its exercise. again and again it has been used in the interest of capital, but there is not one single case in all the records where this extraordinary prerogative has been exercised to protect the interest of the workers. it is not, then, either unreasonable or unjustifiable that among workmen the sentiment is almost unanimous that the state stands invariably against them. the three instances which i have dealt with here at some length prove conclusively that there is now no penalty inflicted upon the capitalist who hires thugs to invade a community and shoot down its citizens, or upon those who hire him these assassins, or upon the assassins themselves. nor are the powerful punished when they collect a great army of criminals, drunkards, and hoodlums and make them officials of the united states to insult and bully decent citizens. nor does there seem to be any punishment inflicted upon those who manage to transform the government itself into a shield to protect toughs and criminals in their assaults upon men and property, when those assaults are in the interest of capital. moreover, what could be more humiliating in a republic than the fact that a governor who has leased to his friends the military forces of an entire state should end his term of office unimpeached? these various phases of the class conflict reveal a distressing state of industrial and political anarchy, and there can be no question that, if continued, it has in it the power of making many mcnamaras, if not bakounins. it will be fortunate, indeed, if there do not arise new johann mosts, and if the united states escapes the general use in time of that terrible, secretive, and deadly weapon of sabotage. sabotage is the arm of the slave or the coward, who dares neither to speak his views nor to fight an open fight. as someone has said, it may merely mean the kicking of the master's dog. yet no one is so cruel as the weak and the cowardly. and should it ever come about that millions and millions of men have all other avenues closed to them, there is still left to them sabotage, assassination, and civil war. these can neither be outlawed nor even effectively guarded against if there are individuals enough who are disposed to wield them. and it is not by any means idle speculation that a country which can sit calmly by and face such evils as are perpetrated by this vast commerce in violence, by this class use of the state, and by such monstrous outrages as were committed in homestead, in chicago, and in colorado, will find one day its composure interrupted by a working class that has suffered more than human endurance can stand. the fact is that society--the big body of us--is now menaced by two sets of anarchists. there are those among the poor and the weak who preach arson, dynamite, and sabotage. they are the products of conditions such as existed in colorado--as bakounin was the product of the conditions in russia. these, after all, are relatively few, and their power is almost nothing. they are listened to now, but not heeded, because there yet exist among the people faith in the ultimate victory of peaceable means and the hope that men and not property will one day rule the state. the other set of anarchists are those powerful, influential terrorists who talk hypocritically of their devotion to the state, the law, the constitution, and the courts, but who, when the slightest obstacle stands in the path of their greed, seize from their corrupt tools the reins of government, in order to rule society with the black-jack and the "bull pen." the idealist anarchist and even the more practical syndicalist, preaching openly and frankly that there is nothing left to the poor but war, are, after all, few in number and weak in action. yet how many to-day despair of peaceable methods when they see all these outrages committed by mercenaries, protected and abetted by the official state, in the interest of the most sordid anarchism! as a matter of fact, the socialist is to-day almost alone, among those watching intently this industrial strife, in keeping buoyant his abiding faith in the ultimate victory of the people. he has fought successfully against bakounin. he is overcoming the newest anarchists, and he is already measuring swords with the oldest anarchists. he is confident as to the issue. he has more than dreams; he knows, and has all the comfort of that knowledge, that anarchy in government like anarchy in production is reaching the end of its rope. outlawry for profit, as well as production for profit, are soon to be things of the past. the socialist feels himself a part of the growing power that is soon to rule society. he is conscious of being an agent of a world-wide movement that is massing into an irresistible human force millions upon millions of the disinherited. he has unbounded faith that through that mass power industry will be socialized and the state democratized. no longer will its use be merely to serve and promote private enterprise in foul tenements, in sweatshops, and in all the products that are necessary to life and to death. all these vast commercial enterprises that exist not to serve society but to enrich the rich--including even this sordid traffic in thuggery and in murder--are soon to pass into history as part of a terrible, culminating epoch in commercial, financial, and political anarchy. the socialist, who sees the root of all anti-social individualism in the predominance of private material interests over communal material interests, knows that the hour is arriving when the social instincts and the life interests of practically all the people will be arrayed against anarchy in all its forms. commerce in violence, like commerce in the necessaries of life, is but a part of a social régime that is disappearing, and, while most others in society seem to see only phases of this gigantic conflict between capital and labor, and, while most others look upon it as something irremediable, the socialist, standing amidst millions upon millions of his comrades, is even now beginning to see visions of victory. footnote: [af] the supreme court sustained the action of the military authorities, chief justice william h. gabbert, associate justice john campbell, concurring, associate justice robert w. steele dissenting. the dissenting opinion of justice steele deserves a wider reading than it has received, and no doubt it will rank among the most important statements that have been made against the anarchy of the powerful and the tyranny of class government. see report, u. s. bureau of labor, , p. . chapter xii visions of victory we left the socialists, on september , , in the midst of jubilation over the great victory they had just won in germany. the iron chancellor, with all the power of state and society in his hands, had capitulated before the moral force and mass power of the german working class. and, when the sensational news went out to all countries that the german socialists had polled , , votes, the impulse given to the political organizations of the working class was immense. once again the thought of labor throughout the world was centered upon those stirring words of marx and engels: "workingmen of all countries, unite!" first uttered by them in ' , repeated in ' , and pleaded for once again in ' , this call to unity began to appear in the nineties as the one supreme commandment of the labor movement. and, in truth, it is an epitome of all their teachings. it is the pith of their program and the marrow of their principles. nearly all else can be waived. other principles can be altered; other programs abandoned; other methods revolutionized; but this principle, program, and method must not be tampered with. it is the one and only unalterable law. in unity, and in unity alone, is the power of salvation. and under the inspiration of this call more and more millions have come together, until to-day, in every portion of the world, there are multitudes affiliated to the one and only international army. in ' it was not yet born. in ' efforts were made to bring it into being. in ' it was broken into fragments. in ' it won its first battle--its right to exist. now, twenty-three years later, nothing could be so eloquent and impressive as the figures themselves of the rising tide of international socialism. the socialist and labor vote, - . ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- germany , , , , , , , , , france , , , , , , austria , , , , united states , , , , , italy , , , , australia , belgium , , , [ag] , great britain , , , finland , , russia , sweden , , norway , , , denmark , , , , , switzerland , , , , , holland , , , , new zealand , spain , , , , bulgaria , argentina , chile , greece , canada , servia , luxembourg , portugal , roumania , ------- --------- --------- --------- ---------- total , , , , , , , , , ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- the above table explains, in no small measure, the quiet patience and supreme confidence of the socialist. he looks upon that wonderful array of figures as the one most significant fact in the modern world. within a quarter of a century his force has grown from , to , , . and, while no other movement in history has grown so rapidly and traversed the entire world with such speed, the socialist knows that even this table inadequately indicates his real power. for instance, in great britain the labor party has over one million dues-paying members, yet its vote is here placed at , . owing to the peculiar political conditions existing in that country, it is almost impossible for the labor party to put up its candidates in all districts, and these figures include only that small proportion of workingmen who have been able to cast their votes for their own candidates. the two hundred thousand socialist votes in russia do not at all represent the sentiment in that country. everything there militates against the open expression, and, indeed, the possibility of any expression, of the actual socialist sentiment. in addition, great masses of workingmen in many countries are still deprived of the suffrage, and in nearly all countries the wives of these men are deprived of the suffrage. leaving, however, all this aside, and taking the common reckoning of five persons to each voter, the socialist strength of the world to-day cannot be estimated at less than fifty million souls. coming to the parliamentary strength of the socialists, we find the table on the following page illuminating. socialist and labor representatives in parliament. number of seats per in lower house. cent. total socialist. socialist ---------------------------------------------- australia . finland . sweden . denmark . germany . belgium . norway . holland . austria . italy . luxembourg . france . switzerland . great britain . russia . greece . argentina . servia . portugal . bulgaria . spain . ---------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------- it appears that labor is in control of australia, that per cent. of the finnish parliament is socialist, while in sweden more than a third, and in germany and denmark somewhat less than a third, is socialist. in several of the northern countries of europe the parliamentary position of the socialists is stronger than that of any other single party. in addition to the representatives here listed, belgium has seven senators, denmark four, and sweden twelve, while in the state legislatures austria has thirty-one, germany one hundred and eighty-five, and the united states twenty. here again the strength of socialism is greatly understated. in the united states, for instance, the astonishing fact appears that, with a vote of nearly a million, the socialist party has not one representative in congress. on the basis of proportional representation it would have at least twenty-five congressmen; and, if it were a sectional party, it could, with its million votes, control all the southern states and elect every congressman and senator from those states. the socialists in the german reichstag are numerous, but on a fair system of representation they would have two or three score more representatives than at present. however, this, too, is of little consequence, and in no wise disturbs the thoughtful socialist. the immense progress of his cause completely satisfies him, and, if the rate of advance continues, it can be only a few years until a world victory is at hand. if, now, we turn from the political aspects of the labor movement to examine the growth of coöperatives and of trade unions, we find a progress no less striking. in actual membership the trade unions of twenty nations in had amassed over eleven million men and women. and the figures sent out by the international secretary do not include countries so strongly organized as canada, new zealand, and australia. unfortunately, it is impossible to add here reliable figures regarding the wealth of the great and growing coöperative movement. in britain, germany, belgium, france, italy, and switzerland, as well as in the northern countries of central europe, the coöperative movement has made enormous headway in recent years. the british coöperators, according to the report of the federation of coöperative societies, had in a turnover amounting to over six hundred millions of dollars. they have over twenty-four hundred stores scattered throughout the cities of great britain. the coöperative productive society and the coöperative wholesale society produced goods in their own shops to a value of over sixty-five millions of dollars; while the goods produced by the coöperative provision stores amounted to over forty million dollars. seven hundred and sixty societies have children's penny banks, with a total balance in hand of about eight million dollars. the members of these various coöperative societies number approximately three million.[ah] throughout all europe, through coöperative effort, there have been erected hundreds of splendid "houses of the people," "labor temples," and similar places of meeting and recreation. the entire labor, socialist, and coöperative press, numbering many thousands of monthly and weekly journals, and hundreds of daily papers, is also usually owned coöperatively. unfortunately, the statistics dealing with this phase of the labor movement have never been gathered with any idea of completeness, and there is little use in trying even to estimate the immense wealth that is now owned by these organizations of workingmen. america lags somewhat behind the other countries, but nowhere else have such difficulties faced the labor movement. with a working class made up of many races, nationalities, and creeds, trade-union organization is excessively difficult. moreover, where the railroads secretly rebate certain industries and help to destroy the competitors of those industries, and where the trusts exercise enormous power, a coöperative movement is well-nigh impossible. furthermore, where vast numbers of the working class are still disfranchised, and where elections are notoriously corrupt and more or less under the control of a hireling class of professional political manipulators, an independent political movement faces almost insurmountable obstacles. nor is this all. no other country allows its ruling classes to employ private armies, thugs, and assassins; and no other country makes such an effort to prevent the working classes from acting peaceably and legally. while nearly everywhere else the unions may strike, picket, and boycott, in america there are laws to prevent both picketing and boycotting, and even some forms of strikes. the most extraordinary despotic judicial powers are exercised to crush the unions, to break strikes, and to imprison union men. and, if paid professional armies of detectives deal with the unions, so paid professional armies of politicians deal with the socialists. by every form of debauchery, lawlessness, and corruption they are beaten back, and, although it is absolutely incredible, not a single representative of a great party polling nearly a million votes sits in the congress of the united states. nevertheless, the american socialist and labor movement is making headway, and the day is not far distant when it will exercise the power its strength merits. although somewhat more belated, the various elements of the working class are coming closer and closer together, and it cannot be long until there will be perfect harmony throughout the entire movement. in many other countries this harmony already exists. the trade-union, coöperative, and socialist movements are so closely tied together that they move in every industrial, political, and commercial conflict in complete accord. so far as the immediate aims of labor are concerned, they may be said to be almost identical in all countries. professor werner sombart, who for years has watched the world movement more carefully perhaps than anyone else, has pointed out that there is a strong tendency to uniformity in all countries--a "tendency," in his own words, "of the movement in all lands toward socialism."[ ] indeed, nothing so much astonishes careful observers of the labor movement as the extraordinary rapidity with which the whole world of labor is becoming unified, in its program of principles, in its form of organization, and in its methods of action. the books of marx and engels are now translated into every important language and are read with eagerness in all parts of the world. the communist manifesto of is issued by the socialist parties of all countries as the text-book of the movement. indeed, it is not uncommon nowadays to see a socialist book translated immediately into all the chief languages and circulated by millions of copies. and, if one will take up the political programs of the party in the twenty chief nations of the world, he will find them reading almost word for word alike. for these various reasons no informed person to-day questions the claims of the socialist as to the international, world-wide character of the movement. perhaps there is no experience quite like that of the socialist who attends one of the great periodical gatherings of the international movement. he sees there a thousand or more delegates, with credentials from organizations numbering approximately ten million adherents. they come from all parts of the world--from mills, mines, factories, and fields--to meet together, and, in the recent congresses, to pass in utmost harmony their resolutions in opposition to the existing régime and their suggestions for remedial action. not only the countries of western europe, but russia, japan, china, and the south american republics send their representatives, and, although the delegates speak as many as thirty different languages, they manage to assemble in a common meeting, and, with hardly a dissenting voice, transact their business. when we consider all the jealousy, rivalry, and hatred that have been whipped up for hundreds of years among the peoples of the various nations, races, and creeds, these international congresses of workingmen become in themselves one of the greatest achievements of modern times. although marx was, as i think i have made clear, and still is, the guiding spirit of modern socialism, the huge structure of the present labor movement has not been erected by any great architect who saw it all in advance, nor has any great leader molded its varied and wonderful lines. it is the work of a multitude, who have quarreled among themselves at every stage of its building. they differed as to the purpose of the structure, as to the materials to be used, and, indeed, upon every detail, big and little, that has had to do with it. at times all building has been stopped in order that the different views might be harmonized or the quarrels fought to a finish. again and again portions have been built only to be torn down and thrown aside. some have seen more clearly than others the work to be done, and one, at least, of the architects must be recognized as a kind of prophet who, in the main, outlined the structure. but the architects were not the builders, and among the multitude engaged in that work there have been years of quarrels and decades of strife. the story of terrorism, as told, is that of a group who had no conception of the structure to be erected. they were a band of dissidents, without patience to build. they and their kind have never been absent from the labor movement, and, in fact, for nearly one hundred years a battle has raged in one form or another between those few of the workers who were urging, with passionate fire, what they called "action" and that multitude of others who day and night were laying stone upon stone. no individual--in fact, nothing but a force as strong and compelling as a natural law--could have brought into existence such a vast solidarity as now exists in the world of labor. like food and drink, the organization of labor satisfies an inherent necessity. the workers crave its protection, seek its guidance, and possess a sense of security only when supported by its solidarity. only something as intuitively impelling as the desire for life could have called forth the labor and love and sacrifice that have been lavishly expended in the disheartening and incredibly tedious work of labor organization. the upbuilding of the labor movement has seemed at times like constructing a house of cards: often it was hardly begun before some ill wind cast it down. it has cost many of its creators exile, imprisonment, starvation, and death. with one mighty assault its opponents have often razed to the ground the work of years. yet, as soon as the eyes of its destroyers were turned, a multitude of loving hands and broken hearts set to work to patch up its scattered fragments and build it anew. the labor movement is unconquerable. unlike many other aggregations, associations, and benevolent orders, unlike the church, to which it is frequently compared, the labor movement is not a purely voluntary union. no doubt there is a _camaraderie_ in that movement, and unquestionably the warmest spirit of fellowship often prevails, but the really effective cause for working-class unity is economic necessity. the workers have been driven together. the unions subsist not because of leaders and agitators, but because of the compelling economic interests of their members. they are efforts to allay the deadly strife among workers, as organizations of capital are efforts to allay the deadly strife among capitalists. the coöperative movement has grown into a vast commerce wholly because it served the self-interest of the workers. the trade unions have grown big in all countries because of the protection, they offer and the insurance they provide against low wages, long hours, and poverty. the socialist parties have grown great because they express the highest social aspirations of the workers and their antagonism toward the present régime. moreover, they offer an opportunity to put forward, in the most authoritative places, the demands of the workers for political, social, and economic reform. the whole is a struggle for democracy, both political and industrial, that is by no means founded merely on whim or caprice. it has gradually become a religion, an imperative religion, of millions of workingmen and women. chiefly because of their economic subjection, they are striving in the most heroic manner to make their voice heard in those places where the rules of the game of life are decided. thus, every phase of the labor movement has arisen in response to actual material needs. and, if the labor movement has arisen in response to actual material needs, it is now a very great and material actuality. the workingmen of the world are, as we have seen, uniting at a pace so rapid as to be almost unbelievable. there are to-day not only great national organizations of labor in nearly every country, but these national movements are bound closely together into one unified international power. the great world-wide movement of labor, which marx and engels prophesied would come, is now here. and, if they were living to-day, they could not but be astonished at the real and mighty manifestation of their early dreams. to be sure, engels lived long enough to be jubilant over the massing of labor's forces, but marx saw little of it, and even the german socialists, who started out so brilliantly, were at the time of his death fighting desperately for existence under the anti-socialist law. indeed, in , the year of his death, the labor movement was still torn by quarrels and dissensions over problems of tactics, and in america, france, and austria the terrorists were more active than at any time in their history. it was still a question whether the german movement could survive, while in the other countries the socialists were still little more than sects. that was just thirty years ago, while to-day, as we have seen, over ten millions of workingmen, scattered throughout the entire world, fight every one of their battles on the lines laid down by marx. the tactics and principles he outlined are now theirs. the unity of the workers he pleaded for is rapidly being achieved throughout the entire world, and everywhere these armies are marching toward the goal made clear by his life and labor. "although i have seen him to-night," writes engels to liebknecht, march , , "stretched out on his bed, the face rigid in death, i cannot grasp the thought that this genius should have ceased to fertilize with his powerful thoughts the proletarian movement of both worlds. whatever we all are, we are through him; and whatever the movement of to-day is, it is through his theoretical and practical work; without him we should still be stuck in the mire of confusion."[ ] what was this mire? if we will cast our eyes back to the middle of last century we cannot but realize that the ideas of the world have undergone a complete revolution. when marx began his work with the labor movement there was absolute ignorance among both masters and men concerning the nature of capitalism. it was a great and terrible enigma which no one understood. the working class itself was broken up into innumerable guerilla bands fighting hopelessly, aimlessly, with the most antiquated and ineffectual weapons. they were in misery; but why, they knew not. they left their work to riot for days and weeks, without aim and without purpose. they were bitter and sullen. they smashed machines and burned factories, chiefly because they were totally ignorant of the causes of their misery or of the nature of their real antagonist. not seldom in those days there were meetings of hundreds of thousands of laborers, and not infrequently mysterious epidemics of fires and of machine-breaking occurred throughout all the factory districts. again and again the soldiers were brought out to massacre the laborers. in all england--then the most advanced industrially--there were few who understood capitalism, and among masters or men there was hardly one who knew the real source of all the immense, intolerable economic evils. the class struggle was there, and it was being fought more furiously and violently than ever before or since. the most striking rebels of the time were those that marx called the "bourgeois democrats." they were forever preaching open and violent revolution. they were dreaming of the glorious day when, amid insurrection and riot, they should stand at the barricades, fighting the battle for freedom. in their little circles they "were laying plans for the overthrow of the world and intoxicating themselves day by day, evening by evening, with the hasheesh-drink of: 'to-morrow it will start;'"[ ] before and after the revolutionary period of ' there were innumerable thousands of these fugitives, exiles, and men of action obsessed with the dream that a great revolutionary cataclysm was soon to occur which would lay in ruins the old society. that a crisis was impending everyone believed, including even marx and engels. in fact, for over twenty years, from to , the "extemporizers of revolutions" fretfully awaited the supreme hour. toward the end of the period appeared bakounin and nechayeff with their robber worship, conspiratory secret societies, and international network of revolutionists. wherever capitalism made headway the workers grew more and more rebellious, but neither they nor those who sought to lead them, and often did, in fact, lead them, had much of any program beyond destruction. bakounin was not far wrong, at the time, in thinking that he was "spreading among the masses ideas corresponding to the instincts of the masses,"[ ] when he advocated the destruction of the government, the church, the mills, the factories, and the palaces, to the end that "not a stone should be left upon a stone." this was the mire of confusion that engels speaks of. there was not one with any program at all adequate to meet the problem. the aim of the rebels went little beyond retaliation and destruction. what were the weapons employed by the warriors of this period? street riots and barricades were those of the "bourgeois democrats"; strikes, machine-breaking, and incendiarism were those of the workers; and later the terrorists came with their robber worship and propaganda of the deed. in the midst of this veritable passion for destruction marx and engels found themselves. here was a period when direct action was supreme. there was nothing else, and no one dreamed of anything else. the enemies of the existing order were employing exactly the same means and methods used by the upholders of that order. among the workers, for instance, the only weapons used were general strikes, boycotts, and what is now called sabotage. these were wholly imitative and retaliative. it is clear that the strike is, after all, only an inverted lockout; and as early as a general strike was parried by a general lockout. the boycott is identical with the blacklist. the employer boycotts union leaders and union men. the employees boycott the non-union products of the employer; while sabotage, the most ancient weapon of labor, answers poor pay with poor work, and broken machines for broken lives. and, if the working class was striking back with the same weapons that were being used against it, so, too, were the "pan-destroyers," except that for the most part their weapons were incredibly inadequate and ridiculous. sticks and stones and barricades were their method of combating rifles and trained armies. all this again is more evidence of the mire of confusion. however, if the weapons of the rebellious were utterly futile and ineffectual, there were no others, for every move the workers or their friends made was considered lawless. all political and trades associations were against the law. peaceable assembly was sedition. strikes were treason. picketing was intimidation; and the boycott was conspiracy in restraint of trade. such associations as existed were forced to become secret societies, and, even if a working-class newspaper appeared, it was almost immediately suppressed. and, if all forms of trade-union activity were criminal, political activity was impossible where the vast majority of toilers had no votes. with methods mainly imitative, retaliative, and revengeful; with no program of what was wanted; in total ignorance of the causes of their misery; and with little appreciation that in unity there is strength, the workers and their friends, in the middle of the last century, were stuck in the mire--of ignorance, helplessness, and confusion. this was the world in which marx and engels began their labor. direct action was at its zenith, and the struggle of the classes was ferocious. indeed, all europe was soon to see barricades in every city, and thrones and governments tumbling into apparent ruin. yet in the midst of all this wild confusion, and even touching elbows with the leaders of these revolutionary storms, marx and engels outlined in clear, simple, and powerful language the nature of capitalism--what it was, how it came into being, and what it was yet destined to become. they pointed out that it was not individual employers or individual statesmen or the government or even kings and princes who were responsible for the evils of society, but that unemployment, misery, and oppression were due to an economic system, and that so long as capitalism existed the mass of humanity would be sunk in poverty. they called attention to the long evolutionary processes that had been necessary to change the entire world from a state of feudalism into a state of capitalism; and how it was not due to man's will-power that the great industrial revolution occurred, but to the growth of machines, of steam, and of electrical power; and that it was these that have made the modern world, with its intense and terrible contrasts of riches and of poverty. they also pointed out that little individual owners of property were giving way to joint-stock companies, and that these would in turn give way to even greater aggregations of capital. an economic law was driving the big capitalists to eat up the little capitalists. it was forcing them to take from the workers their hand tools and to drive them out of their home workshops; it was forcing them also to take from the small property owners their little properties and to appropriate the wealth of the world into their own hands. as a result of this economic process, "private property," they said, "is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population."[ ] but they also pointed out that capitalism had within itself the seeds of its own dissolution, that it was creating a new class, made up of the overwhelming majority, that was destined in time to overthrow capitalism. "what the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave diggers."[ ] in the interest of society the nine-tenths would force the one-tenth to yield up its private property, that is to say, its "power to subjugate the labor of others."[ ] taking their stand on this careful analysis of historic progress and of economic evolution, they viewed with contempt the older fighting methods of the revolutionists, and turned their vials of satire and wrath upon herwegh, willich, schapper, kinkel, ledru-rollin, bakounin, and all kinds and species of revolution-makers. they deplored incendiarism, machine destruction, and all the purely retaliative acts of the laborers. they even ridiculed the general strike.[ai] and, while for thirty years they assailed anarchists, terrorists, and direct-actionists, they never lost an opportunity to impress upon the workers of europe the only possible method of effectually combating capitalism. there must first be unity--world-wide, international unity--among all the forces of labor. and, secondly, all the energies of a united labor movement must be centered upon the all-important contest for control of political power. they fought incessantly with their pens to bring home the great truth that every class struggle is a political struggle; and, while they were working to emphasize that fact, they began in actually to organize the workers of europe to fight that struggle. the first great practical work of the international was to get votes for workingmen. it was the chief thought and labor of marx during the first years of that organization to win for the english workers the suffrage, while in germany all his followers--including lassalle as well as bebel and liebknecht--labored throughout the sixties to that end. up to the present the main work of the socialist movement throughout the world has been to fight for, and its main achievement to obtain, the legal weapons essential for its battles. let us try to grasp the immensity of the task actually executed by marx. first, consider his scientific work. during all the period of these many battles every leisure moment was spent in study. while others were engaged in organizing what they were pleased to call the "revolution" and waiting about for it to start, marx, engels, liebknecht, and all this group were spending innumerable hours in the library. we see the result of that labor in the three great volumes of "capital," in many pamphlets, and in other writings. by this painstaking scientific work of marx the nature of capitalism was made known and, consequently, what it was that should be combated, and how the battle should be waged. in addition to these studies, which have been of such priceless value to the labor and socialist movements of the world, marx, by his pitiless logic and incessant warfare, destroyed every revolution-maker, and then, by an act of surgery that many declared would prove fatal, cut out of the labor movement the "pan-destroyers." once more, by a supreme effort, he turned the thought of labor throughout the world to the one end and aim of winning its political weapons, of organizing its political armies, and of uniting the working classes of all lands. here, then, is a brief summary of the work of this genius, who fertilized with his powerful thoughts the proletarian movements of both worlds. the most wonderful thing of all is that, in his brief lifetime, he should not only have planned this gigantic task, but that he should have obtained the essentials for its complete accomplishment. and, as we look out upon the world to-day, we find it actually a different world, almost a new world. the present-day conflict between capital and labor has no more the character of the guerilla warfare of half a century ago. it is now a struggle between immense organizations of capital and immense organizations of labor. and not only has there been a revolution in ideas concerning the nature of capitalism but there has been as a consequence a revolution in the methods of combat between labor and capital. while all the earlier and more brutal forms of warfare are still used, the conflict as a whole is to-day conducted on a different plane. the struggle of the classes is no longer a vague, undefined, and embittered battle. it is no longer merely a contest between the violent of both classes. it is now a deliberate, and largely legal, tug-of-war between two great social categories over the _ends_ of a social revolution that both are beginning to recognize as inevitable. the representative workers to-day understand capitalism, and labor now faces capital with a program, clear, comprehensive, world-changing; with an international army of so many millions that it is almost past contending with; while its tactics and methods of action can neither be assailed nor effectively combated. from one end of the earth to the other we see capital with its gigantic associations of bankers, merchants, manufacturers, mine owners, and mill owners striving to forward and to protect its economic interests. on the other hand, we see labor with its millions upon millions of organized men all but united and solidified under the flag of international socialism. and, most strange and wondrous of all--as a result of the logic of things and of the logic of marx--the actual positions of the two classes have been completely transposed. marx persuaded the workers to take up a weapon which they alone can use. like siegfried, they have taken the fragments of a sword and welded them into a mighty weapon--so mighty, indeed, that the working class alone, with its innumerable millions, is capable of wielding it. the workers are the only class in society with the numerical strength to become the majority and the only class which, by unity and organization, can employ the suffrage effectively. while fifty years ago the workers had every legal and peaceable means denied them, to-day they are the only class which can assuredly profit through legal and peaceable means. it is obvious that the beneficiaries of special privilege can hope to retain their power only so long as the working class is divided and too ignorant to recognize its own interests. as soon as its eyes open, the privileged classes must lose its political support and, with that political support, everything else. that is absolutely inevitable. the interests of mass and class are too fundamentally opposed to permit of permanent political harmony. nobody sees this more clearly than the intelligent capitalist. as the workers become more and more conscious of their collective power and more and more convinced that through solidarity they can quietly take possession of the world, their opponents become increasingly conscious of their growing weakness, and already in europe there is developing a kind of upper-class syndicalism, that despairs of parliaments, deplores the bungling work of politics, and ridicules the general incompetence of democratic institutions. at the same time, however, they exercise stupendous efforts, in the most devious and questionable ways, to retain their political power. facing the inevitable, and realizing that potentially at least the suffrages of the immense majority stand over them as a menace, they are beginning to seek other methods of action. of course, in all the more democratic countries the power of democracy has already made itself felt, and in america, at any rate, the powerful have long had resort to bribery, corruption, and all sorts of political conspiracy in order to retain their power. much as we may deplore the debauchery of public servants, it nevertheless yields us a certain degree of satisfaction, in that it is eloquent testimony of this agreeable fact, that the oldest anarchists are losing their control over the state. they hold their sway over it more and more feebly, and even when the state is entirely obedient to their will, it is not infrequently because they have temporarily purchased that power. when the manufacturers, the trusts, and the beneficiaries of special privilege generally are forced periodically to go out and purchase the state from the robin hoods of politics, when they are compelled to finance lavishly every political campaign, and then abjectly go to the very men whom their money has put into power and buy them again, their bleeding misery becomes an object of pity. this really amounts to an almost absolute transposition of the classes. in the early nineties engels saw the beginning of this change, and, in what sombart rightly says may be looked upon as a kind of "political last will and testament" to the movement, engels writes: "the time for small minorities to place themselves at the head of the ignorant masses and resort to force in order to bring about revolutions is gone. a complete change in the organization of society can be brought about only by the conscious coöperation of the masses; they must be alive to the aim in view; they must know what they want. the history of the last fifty years has taught that. but, if the masses are to understand the line of action that is necessary, we must work hard and continuously to bring it home to them. that, indeed, is what we are now engaged upon, and our success is driving our opponents to despair. the irony of destiny is turning everything topsy-turvy. we, the 'revolutionaries,' are profiting more by lawful than by unlawful and revolutionary means. the parties of order, as they call themselves, are being slowly destroyed by their own weapons. their cry is that of odilon barrot: 'lawful means are killing us.'... we, on the contrary, are thriving on them, our muscles are strong, and our cheeks are red, and we look as though we intend to live forever!"[ ] and if lawful means are killing them, so are science and democracy. we no longer live in an age when any suggestion of change is deemed a sacrilege. the period has gone by when political, social, and industrial institutions are supposed to be unalterable. no one believes them fashioned by divinity, and there is nothing so sacred in the worldly affairs of men that it cannot be questioned. there is no law, or judicial decision, or decree, or form of property, or social status that cannot be critically examined; and, if men can agree, none is so firmly established that it cannot be changed. it is agreed that men shall be allowed to speak, write, and propagate their views on all questions, whether religious, political, or industrial. in theory, at least, all authority, law, administrative institutions, and property relations are decided ultimately in the court of the people. through their press these things may be discussed. on their platform these things may be approved or denounced. in their assemblies there is freedom to make any declaration for or against things as they are. and through their votes and representatives there is not one institution that cannot be molded, changed, or even abolished. upon this theory modern society is held together. it is a belief so firmly rooted in the popular mind that, although everything goes against the people, they peacefully submit. so firmly established, indeed, is this tradition that even the most irate admit that where wrong exists the chief fault lies with the people themselves. whatever may be said concerning its limitations and its perversions, this, then, is an age of democracy, founded upon a widespread faith in majority rule. whether it be true or not, the conviction is almost universal that the majority can, through its political power, accomplish any and every change, no matter how revolutionary. our whole western civilization has had bred into it the belief that those who are dissatisfied with things as they are can agitate to change them, are even free to organize for the purpose of changing them, and can, in fact, change them whenever the majority is won over to stand with them. this, again, is the theory, although there is no one of us, of course, but will admit that a thousand ways are found to defeat the will of the majority. there are bribery, fraudulent elections, and an infinite variety of corrupting methods. there is the control of parliaments, of courts, and of political parties by special privilege. there are oppressive and unjust laws obtained through trickery. there is the overwhelming power exercised by the wealthy through their control of the press and of nearly all means of enlightenment. through their power and the means they have to corrupt, the majority is indeed so constantly deceived that, when one dwells only on this side of our political life, it is easy to arrive at the conviction that democracy is a myth and that, in fact, the end may never come of this power of the few to divert and pervert the institutions for expressing the popular will. but there is no way of achieving democracy in any form except through democracy, and we have found that he who rejects political action finds himself irresistibly drawn into the use of means that are both indefensible and abortive. curiously enough, in this use of methods, as in other ways, extremes meet. both the despot and the terrorist are anti-democrats. neither the anarchist of bakounin's type nor the anarchist of the wall street type trusts the people. with their cliques and inner circles plotting their conspiracies, they are forced to travel the same subterranean passages. the one through corruption impresses the will of the wealthy and powerful upon the community. the other hopes that by some dash upon authority a spirited, daring, and reckless minority can overturn existing society and establish a new social order. the method of the political boss, the aristocrat, the self-seeker, the monopolist--even in the use of thugs, private armies, spies, and _provocateurs_--differs little from the methods proposed by bakounin in his alliance. and it is not in the least strange that much of the lawlessness and violence of the last half-century has had its origin in these two sources. in all the unutterably despicable work of detective agencies and police spies that has led to the destruction of property, to riots and minor rebellions that have cost the lives of many thousands in recent decades, we find the sordid materialism of special privilege seeking to gain its secret ends. in all the unutterably tragic work of the terrorists that has cost so many lives we find the rage and despair of self-styled revolutionists seeking to gain their secret ends. after all, it matters little whether the aim of a group of conspirators is purely selfish or wholly altruistic. it matters little whether their program is to build into a system private monopoly or to save the world from that monopoly. their methods outrage democracy, even when they are not actually criminal. the oldest anarchist believes that the people must be _deceived_ into a worse social order, and that at least is a tribute to their intelligence. on the other hand, the bakouninists, old and new, believe that the people must be _deceived_ into a better social order, and that is founded upon their complete distrust of the people. and, rightly enough, the attitude of the masses toward the secret and conspiratory methods of both the idealist anarchist and the materialist anarchist is the same. if the latter distrust the people, the people no less distrust them. if the masses would mob the terrorist who springs forth to commit some fearful act, the purpose of which they cannot in the least understand, they would, if possible, also mob the individual responsible for manipulation of elections, for the buying of legislatures, and for the purchasing of court decisions. they fear, distrust, and denounce the terrorist who goes forth to commit arson, pillage, or assassination no less than the anarchist who purchases private armies, hires thugs to beat up unoffending citizens, and uses the power of wealth to undermine the government. in one sense, the acts of the materialist anarchist are clearer even than those of the other. the people know the ends sought by the powerful. on the other hand, the ends sought by the terrorist are wholly mysterious; he has not even taken the trouble to make his program clear. we find, then, that the anarchist of high finance, who would suppress democracy in the interest of a new feudalism, and the anarchist of a sect, who would override democracy in the hope of communism, are classed together in the popular mind. the man who in this day deifies the individual or the sect, and would make the rights of the individual or the sect override the rights of the many, is battling vainly against the supreme current of the age. democracy may be a myth. yet of all the faiths of our time none is more firmly grounded, none more warmly cherished. if any man refuses to abide by the decisions of democracy and takes his case out of that court, he ranges against himself practically the entire populace. on the other hand, the man who takes his case to that court is often forced to suffer for a long time humiliating defeats. if the case be a new one but little understood, there is no place where a hearing seems so hard to win as in exactly that court. universal suffrage, by which such cases are decided, appears to the man with a new idea as an obstacle almost overwhelming. he must set out on a long and dreary road of education and of organization; he must take his case before a jury made up of untold millions; he must wait maybe for centuries to obtain a majority. to go into this great open court and plead an entirely new cause requires a courage that is sublime and convictions that have the intensity of a religion. one who possesses any doubt cannot begin a task so gigantic, and certainly one who, for any reason, distrusts the people cannot, of course, put his case in that court. it was with full realization of the difficulties, of the certainty of repeated defeats, and of the overwhelming power against them that the socialists entered this great arena to fight their battle. universal suffrage is a merciless thing. how often has it served the purpose of stripping the socialist naked and exposing him to a terrible humiliation! again and again, in the history of the last fifty years, have the socialists, after tremendous agitation, gigantic mass meetings, and widespread social unrest, marched their followers to the polls with results positively pitiful. a dozen votes out of thousands have in more cases than one marked their relative power. there is no other example in the world of such faith, courage, and persistence in politics as that of the socialists, who, despite defeat after defeat, humiliation after humiliation, have never lost hope, but on every occasion, in every part of the modern world, have gone up again and again to be knocked down by that jury. and let it be said to their credit that never once anywhere have the socialists despaired of democracy. "_socialism and democracy ... belong to each other, round out each other, and can never stand in contradiction to each other. socialism without democracy is pseudo-socialism, just as democracy without socialism is pseudo-democracy. the democratic state is the only possible form of a socialised society._"[ ] the inseparableness of democracy and socialism has served the organized movement as an unerring guide at every moment of its struggle for existence and of its fight against the ruling powers. it has served to keep its soul free from that cynical distrust of the people which is evident in the writings of the anarchists and of the syndicalists--in bakounin, nechayeff, sorel, berth, and pouget. it has also served to keep it from those emotional reactions which have led nearly every great leader of the direct-actionists in the last century to become in the end an apostate. feargus o'connor, joseph rayner stephens, the fierce leaders of chartism; bakounin, blanc, richard, jaclard, andrieux, bastelica, the flaming revolutionists of the alliance; briand, sorel, berth, the leading propagandists and philosophers of modern syndicalism; every one of them turned in despair from the movement. cobden, bonaparte, clémenceau, the empire, the "new monarchy," or a comfortable berth, claimed in the end every one of these impatient middle-class intellectuals, who never had any real understanding of the actual labor movement. and, if the union of democracy and socialism has saved the movement from reactions such as these, it has also saved it from the desperation that gives birth to individual methods, such as the propaganda of the deed and sabotage. that is what the inseparableness of democracy and socialism has done for the movement in the past; and it has in it an even greater service yet to perform. it has the power of salvation for society itself in the not remote future, when it will be face to face, throughout the world, with an irresistible current toward state socialism. industrial democracy and political democracy are indissolubly united; their union cannot be sundered except at the cost of destruction to them both. in adopting, then, the methods of education, of organization, and of political action the socialists rest their case upon the decision of democracy. they accept the weapons that civilization has put into their hands, and they are testing the word of kings and of parliaments that democracy can, if it wishes, alter the bases of society. and in no small measure this is the secret of their immense strength and of their enormous growth. there is nothing strange in the fact that the socialists stand almost alone to-day faithful to democracy. it simply means that they believe in it even for themselves, that is to say, for the working class. they believe in it for industry as well as for politics, and, if they are at war with the political despot, they are also at war with the industrial despot. everyone is a socialist and a democrat within his circle. no capitalist objects to a group of capitalists coöperatively owning a great railroad. the fashionable clubs of both city and country are almost perfect examples of group socialism. they are owned coöperatively and conducted for the benefit of all the members. even some reformers are socialists in this measure--that they believe it would be well for the community to own public utilities, provided skilled, trained, honorable men, like themselves, are permitted to conduct them. indeed, the only democracy or socialism that is seriously combated is that which embraces the most numerous and most useful class in society, "the only class that is not a class";[ ] the only class so numerous that it "cannot effect its emancipation without delivering all society from its division into classes."[ ] in any case, here it is, "the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority,"[ ] already with its eleven million voters and its fifty million souls. it has slowly, patiently, painfully toiled up to a height where it is beginning to see visions of victory. it has faith in itself and in its cause. it believes it has the power of deliverance for all society and for all humanity. it does not expect the powerful to have faith in it; but, as jesus came out of despised nazareth, so the new world is coming out of the multitude, amid the toil and sweat and anguish of the mills, mines, and factories of the world. it has endured much; suffered ages long of slavery and serfdom. from being mere animals of production, the workers have become the "hands" of production; and they are now reaching out to become the masters of production. and, while in other periods of the world their intolerable misery led them again and again to strike out in a kind of torrential anarchy that pulled down society itself, they have in our time, for the first time in the history of the world, patiently and persistently organized themselves into a world power. where shall we find in all history another instance of the organization in less than half a century of eleven million people into a compact force for the avowed purpose of peacefully and legally taking possession of the world? they have refused to hurry. they have declined all short cuts. they have spurned violence. the "bourgeois democrats," the terrorists, and the syndicalists, each in their time, have tried to point out a shorter, quicker path. the workers have refused to listen to them. on the other hand, they have declined the way of compromise, of fusions, and of alliances, that have also promised a quicker and a shorter road to power. with the most maddening patience they have declined to take any other path than their own--thus infuriating not only the terrorists in their own ranks but those greeks from the other side who came to them bearing gifts. nothing seems to disturb them or to block their path. they are offered reforms and concessions, which they take blandly, but without thanks. they simply move on and on, with the terrible, incessant, irresistible power of some eternal, natural force. they have been fought; yet they have never lost a single great battle. they have been flattered and cajoled, without ever once anywhere being appeased. they have been provoked, insulted, imprisoned, calumniated, and repressed. they are indifferent to it all. they simply move on and on--with the patience and the meekness of a people with the vision that they are soon to inherit the earth. footnotes: [ag] the vote for belgium is estimated. the liberals and the socialists combined at the last election in opposition to the clericals, and together polled over , , votes. the british socialist year book, , estimates the total socialist vote at about , . [ah] above data taken from international news letter of national trade union centers, berlin, may , . [ai] "the general strike," engels said, "is in bakounin's program the lever which must be applied in order to inaugurate the social revolution.... the proposition is far from being new; some french socialists, and, after them, some belgian socialists have since shown a partiality for riding this beast of parade." this appeared in a series of articles written for _der volksstaat_ in and republished in the pamphlet "_bakunisten an der arbeit_." authorities chapter i [ ] macaulay, critical, historical, and miscellaneous essays: the earl of chatham, p. . [ ] bakounin, _oeuvres_, vol. iii, p. . (p. v, stock, paris, - .) [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. xiv. [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. xlvii. [ ] _l'alliance de la démocratie socialiste et l'association internationale des travailleurs_, p. . (secret statutes of the alliance.) a. darson, london, and otto meissner, hamburg, . [ ] _idem_, p. . (secret statutes of the alliance.) [ ] _idem_, p. . (secret statutes of the alliance.) [ ] _idem_, p. . (the secret alliance.) [ ] _idem_, p. . (secret statutes of the alliance.) [ ] bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. viii. [ ] _l'alliance_, etc., p. . [ ] bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. viii. [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. xxiii. [ ] quoted in _l'alliance_, etc., p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _l'alliance_, etc., p. . (secret statutes of the alliance.) [ ] _idem_, pp. - . (secret statutes of the alliance.) [ ] _idem_, p. . (secret statutes of the alliance.) [ ] _cf._ guillaume, _l'internationale; documents et souvenirs_ ( - ). vol. i, p. . (Édouard cornély et cie., paris, - .) [ ] _cf. idem_, vol. i, pp. - , for entire program. [ ] bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. v, p. . [ ] _l'alliance_, etc., pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. (quotations from the principles of the revolution). [ ] _idem_, p. (the principles of the revolution). [ ] _idem_, p. (the principles of the revolution). [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . chapter ii [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. . [ ] lefrançais, _mémoires d'un révolutionnaire_, p. (paris). [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. (oscar testut). [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii. pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] quoted by _idem_, vol. ii, p. . cf. the social democrat, april , . [ ] _l'alliance_, etc., p. . [ ] marx, the commune of paris (bax's translation), p. . (twentieth century press, ltd., london, .) [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _bakunisten an der arbeit_, i, by frederick engels, printed in _der volksstaat_, october , , no. . [ ] quoted by guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . chapter iii [ ] kropotkin, memoirs of a revolutionist, p. . (houghton, mifflin & co., boston, .) [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] kropotkin, _paroles d'un révolté_, pp. - (e. flammarion, paris, ). [ ] _l'alliance_, etc., p. (the principles of the revolution). [ ] prolo, _les anarchistes_, pp. - (marcel rivière et cie., paris, ); _or_ guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] prolo, _op. cit._, pp. - ; _or_ guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] bebel, my life, p. (chicago university press, ). [ ] zenker, anarchism: a criticism and history of the anarchist theory, p. (g. p. putnam's sons, new y ork, ). [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] kropotkin, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] zenker, _op. cit._, p. . chapter iv [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] quoted by zenker, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] zenker, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] emma goldman, anarchism and other essays, p. (mother earth publishing co., new york, ). [ ] quoted in history of socialism in the united states, p. (funk & wagnalls, new york, ), by morris hillquit, who gives a fuller account of this period. [ ] quoted by ely, the labor movement in america, p. (thomas y. crowell, new york, d ed., ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] the chicago martyrs, p. (free society publishing co., san francisco, ). [ ] reprinted in instead of a book, by benjamin r. tucker, pp. - (benj. r. tucker, new york, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] bebel, my life, p. . [ ] alexander berkman, prison memoirs of an anarchist, p. (mother earth publishing company, new york, ). chapter v [ ] quoted by prolo, _les anarchistes_, p. . [ ] prolo, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] quoted from _l'Éclair_ by prolo, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] quoted by prolo, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] quoted by _idem_, p. . [ ] quoted by _idem_, p. . [ ] emma goldman, anarchism and other essays, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] prolo, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _pall mall gazette_, april , . chapter vi [ ] emma goldman, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] percy bysshe shelley, julian and maddalo. [ ] _idem._ [ ] angiolillo, quoted by goldman, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] goldman, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] the chicago martyrs, p. . [ ] alfred tennyson, the vision of sin, iv. [ ] lombroso, _les anarchistes_, pp. , - , (flammarion, paris, ). [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] quoted by lombroso, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] zenker, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] bebel, _attentate und sozialdemokratie_, p. , a speech delivered at berlin, november , (_vorwärts_, berlin, ). [ ] the chicago martyrs, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] max stirner, the ego and his own, p. (a. c. fifield, london, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] lombroso, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] marx and engels, the communist manifesto, p. (c. h. kerr & co., chicago, ). [ ] reprinted in guesde's _quatre ans de lutte des classes_, pp. - (g. jacques et cie., paris, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] bebel, _attentate und sozialdemokratie_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] goldman, anarchism and other essays, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] this is a translation of an editorial that has appeared in various foreign newspapers and also, it is said, in the _illinois staats-zeitung_; _cf._ de leon, socialism _versus_ anarchism, p. (new york labor news company, new york). chapter vii [ ] _l'alliance de la démocratie socialiste_, etc., p. . [ ] george brandes, main currents in nineteenth century literature, vol. vi (the macmillan company, new york, ). [ ] engels in the introduction to _révélations sur le procès des communistes_, published together with, and under the title of, marx's _l'allemagne en _, p. (schleicher frères, paris, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . my italics. [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] communist manifesto, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. , . [ ] engels, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] quoted by engels in _op. cit._, p. . [ ] albion w. small, socialism in the light of social science, reprinted from the _american journal of sociology_, vol. xvii, no. (may, ), p. . [ ] communist manifesto, pp. , . [ ] albion w. small, article cited, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] address and provisional rules of the international working men's association (london, ), p. . [ ] letter of marx's of october , , published in the _neue zeit_, april , . [ ] address and provisional rules of the international working men's association (london, ), p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] engels, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] marx, _l'allemagne en _, p. . [ ] letter of october , , published in the _neue zeit_, april , . [ ] quoted by jaeckh, the international, p. (twentieth century press, ltd., london). [ ] nicolay and hay, complete works of abraham lincoln, vol. x, p. (francis d. tandy co., new york). my italics. [ ] jaurès, studies in socialism, p. (g. p. putnam's sons, new york, , translated by mildred minturn). chapter viii [ ] bakounin, _oeuvres_, vol. ii, p. viii. [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, pp. xi-xii. [ ] _l'allemagne en _, p. . [ ] liebknecht, karl marx: biographical memoirs, pp. - (c. h. kerr, chicago, ). [ ] bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. xvii. [ ] _cf._ marx, revolution and counter-revolution, p. (scribner's, new york, ). [ ] bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. ii, p. xx. [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. i, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. i, p. . [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the fourth international congress of the international working men's association, basel, , pp. - (bruxelles, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. i, p. . [ ] i am following here the english version, published by the general council, pp. - . [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the fourth international congress of the international working men's association, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. i, p. . [ ] quoted by bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. v, p. . [ ] bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. v, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. v, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. v, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. i, pp. xxxii-xxxiii. [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] communist manifesto, p. . [ ] engels, socialism, utopian and scientific, pp. - (scribner's, new york, ). [ ] _idem_, pp. - . italics mine. [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the fourth international congress of the international working men's association, p. . [ ] bakounin, _op. cit._, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. vi, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. vi, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. vi, p. . [ ] engels, landmarks of scientific socialism, p. (kerr, chicago, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . my italics. [ ] resolutions of the conference of delegates of the international working men's association, assembled at london from the th to the d of september, , no. ix (london, ). chapter ix [ ] _l'alliance de la démocratie socialiste_, etc., p. . [ ] bakounin, _oeuvres_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _cf._ _compte-rendu officiel_ of the geneva congress, , p. (locle, ). [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iii, p. . [ ] plechanoff, anarchism and socialism, p. (the twentieth century press, ltd., london, ; trans, by eleanor marx aveling). [ ] guillaume, _op. cit._, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. iv, pp. - . [ ] dawson, german socialism and ferdinand lassalle, p. , (scribner's sons, new york, ). [ ] ferdinand lassalle, _reden und schriften_, vol. ii, pp. - (_vorwärts_, berlin, ). [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] _idem_, vol. ii, p. . [ ] quoted by dawson, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. ; _cf._ also, bernstein, ferdinand lassalle as a social reformer, pp. - (scribner's sons, new york, ). [ ] quoted by dawson, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] quoted by milhaud, _la démocratie socialiste allemande,_ p. (félix alcan, paris, ). [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] these sections are reduced from dawson's summary in _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] quoted in dawson, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] bebel, _attentate und sozialdemokratie_, p. . [ ] _protokoll_ of the congress of the german social-democracy, wyden, , p. (zurich, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] quoted by dawson, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] speech in the reichstag, march , ; quoted by dawson, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] speech in the reichstag, april , ; quoted by dawson, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _protokoll_ of the proceedings of party conferences of the german social-democracy, erfurt, , p. (berlin, ). chapter x [ ] quoted by prolo, _les anarchistes_, p. . [ ] international socialist workers and trade union congress, london, , p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] de seilhac, _les congrès ouvriers en france_, p. (armand colin et cie., paris, ). [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _compte-rendu du congrès national corporatif_, montpelier, . [ ] _l'alliance de la démocratie socialiste_, etc., pp. - . [ ] sombart, socialism and the socialist movement, pp. - (e. p. dutton & co., new york, ; trans, from th german edition). [ ] louis levine, the labor movement in france, p. (columbia university, new york, ). [ ] arthur d. lewis, syndicalism and the general strike, p. (t. fisher unwin, london, ). [ ] berth, _les nouveaux aspects du socialisme_, p. (marcel rivière et cie., paris, ). [ ] robert browning, cleon. [ ] sombart, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the seventh international socialist congress, stuttgart, , p. . [ ] _cf._ _compte-rendu_ of the sixth international socialist congress, amsterdam, , p. . [ ] levine, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _compte-rendu du congrès national corporatif_, toulouse, , p. . [ ] Étienne buisson, _la grève générale_, p. (librairie george bellais, paris, ). [ ] labriola, karl marx, pp. - (marcel rivière et cie., paris, ). [ ] plechanoff, anarchism and socialism, p. . [ ] kampffmeyer, changes in the theory and tactics of the german social democracy, pp. - (c. h. kerr, chicago, ). [ ] quoted in kampffmeyer, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] quoted in jaurès, studies in socialism, pp. - . [ ] kautsky, _das erfurter programm_, pp. - ( th edition, stuttgart, ); _cf._ also the socialist republic, by kautsky, pp. - . [ ] communist manifesto, p. . [ ] engels, socialism, utopian and scientific, p. . [ ] _cf._ menger, the right to the whole produce of labor, p. (macmillan & co., london, ). [ ] webb, the history of trade unionism, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] quoted by sombart, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] sombart, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] marx, revolution and counter-revolution, pp. - . [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the fourth international congress of the international working men's association, p. . [ ] quoted by plechanoff, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] Émile pouget, _le syndicat_, p. (Émile pouget, paris, d edition). [ ] sorel, _illusions du progrès_, p. (marcel rivière et cie., paris, ). [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the fifth national congress of the french socialist party, , p. . [ ] _xie. congrès national corporatif_, paris, , p. ; quoted by levine, _op. cit._, p. . [ ] _la confédération générale du travail_; ii _la tactique_. [ ] _idem._ [ ] _cf._ proudhon, _la révolution sociale et le coup d'État_, (ernest flammarion, paris); goldman, minorities _versus_ majorities, in anarchism and other essays; and kropotkin, _les minorités révolutionnaires_, in _paroles d'un révolté_. [ ] webb, the history of trade unionism, pp. - . [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the third national congress of the french socialist party, , pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] jaurès, studies in socialism, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _compte-rendu_ of the fourth international congress of the international working men's association, basel, , p. . [ ] kropotkin, the great french revolution, p. (g. p. putnam's sons, new york, ). [ ] proudhon, _idée générale de la révolution au xixe. siècle_, p. (garnier frères, paris, ). [ ] _idem_, p. . chapter xi [ ] proudhon, _idée générale de la révolution_, p. . [ ] roger a. pryor, quoted in the report of the investigation of the employment of pinkerton detectives: house special committee report, , p. . [ ] investigation of the employment of pinkerton detectives: senate special committee report, , p. . [ ] thomas beet, methods of american private detective agencies, _appleton's magazine_, october, . [ ] _idem._ [ ] _idem._ [ ] _idem._ [ ] _new york sun_, may , . [ ] _new york call_, september , . [ ] investigation of the employment of pinkerton detectives: house special committee report, , p. . [ ] see his testimony, pp. - of the senate report. [ ] report of the industrial commission, , vol. viii, pp. - , (chicago labor disputes). [ ] _american federationist_, november, , vol. xviii, p. . [ ] limiting federal injunction: hearings before a subcommittee of the committee on the judiciary, united states senate, jan. , , part i, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _appleton's magazine_, october, . [ ] hillquit, history of socialism in the united states, pp. - . [ ] investigation of the employment of pinkerton detectives, senate special committee report, , p. xiii. [ ] _idem_, p. ii. [ ] _idem_, p. xii. [ ] _idem_, p. xv. [ ] investigation of the employment of pinkerton detectives: house special committee report, , p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] report on the chicago strike of june-july, , by the united states strike commission, p. xxxviii. [ ] _idem_, p. xliv. [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, pp. - . [ ] _idem_, p. (from the testimony of harold i. cleveland). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] debs, the federal government and the chicago strike, p. (standard publishing co., terre haute, ind., ). [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] emma f. langdon, the cripple creek strike, p. (the great western publishing co., denver, ). [ ] report of the commissioner of labor, , on labor disturbances in colorado, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] cf. clarence s. darrow, speech in the haywood case, p. (_wayland's monthly_, girard, kan., october, ). [ ] report of the commissioner of labor, , on labor disturbances in colorado, p. . [ ] c. dobrogeaunu-gherea, socialism _vs._ anarchism, _new york call_, february , . [ ] kropotkin, the terror in russia, p. (methuen & co., london, ). [ ] bamford, passages in the life of a radical, vol. ii, p. (t. fisher unwin, london, ). [ ] in bamford's "passages in the life of a radical" (t. fisher unwin, london, ), we find that spies and _provocateurs_ were sent into the labor movement as early as . in holyoake's "sixty years of an agitator's life" (unwin, ), in howell's "labor legislation, labor movements, labor leaders" (unwin, ), and in webb's "history of trade unionism" (longmans, green & co., london, ), the work of several noted police agents is spoken of. in gammage's "history of the chartist movement" (truslove & hanson, london, ) and in davidson's "annals of toil" (f. r. henderson, london, n.d.) we are told of one police agent who gave balls and ammunition to the men and endeavored to persuade them to commit murder. marx, in "revolution and counter-revolution" (scribner's sons, ), and engels, in _révélations sur le procès des communistes_ (schleicher frères, paris, ), tell of the work of the german police agents in connection with the communist league; while bebel, in "my life" (chicago university press, ), and in _attentate und sozialdemokratie_ (_vorwärts_, berlin, ), tells of the infamous work of _provocateurs_ sent among the socialists at the time of bismarck's repression. kropotkin, in "the memoirs of a revolutionist" (houghton, mifflin & co., boston, ), and in "the terror in russia" (methuen & co., london, ), devotes many pages to the crimes committed by the secret police of russia, not only in that country but elsewhere. mazzini, marx, bakounin, and nearly all prominent anarchists, socialists, and republicans of the middle of the last century, were surrounded by spies, who made every effort to induce them to enter into plots. in the "investigation of the employment of pinkerton detectives: house and senate special committee reports, "; in the "report on chicago strike of june-july, ; u. s. strike commission, "; in the "report of the commissioner of labor on labor disturbances in colorado, "; in the "report of the industrial commission, , vol. viii", there is a great mass of evidence on the work of detectives, both in committing violence themselves and in seeking to provoke others to violence. in "conditions in the paint creek district of west virginia: hearings before a subcommittee of the committee on education and labor, u. s. senate; "; in "hearings before the committee on rules, house of representatives, on conditions in the westmoreland coal fields"; in the "report on the strike at bethlehem, senate document no. "; in "peonage in western pennsylvania: hearings before the committee on labor, house of representatives, ," considerable evidence is given of the thuggery and murder committed by detectives, guards, and state constabularies. some of this evidence reveals conditions that could hardly be equaled in russia. "history of the conspiracy to defeat striking molders" (internatl. molders' union of n. america); "limiting federal injunction: hearings before the subcommittee of the committee on the judiciary, u. s. senate, , part v"; the report of the same hearings for january, , part i, "united states steel corporation: hearings before committee on investigation, house of representatives, feb. , "; the "report on strike of textile workers in lawrence, mass.: commissioner of labor, "; and "strike at lawrence, mass.: hearings before the committee on rules, house of representatives, march - , ," also contain a mass of evidence concerning the crimes of detectives and the terrorist tactics used by those employed to break strikes. alexander irvine's "revolution in los angeles" (los angeles, ); f. e. wolfe's "capitalism's conspiracy in california" (the white press, los angeles, ); debs's "the federal government and the chicago strike" (standard publishing co., terre haute, ind., ); ben lindsey's "the rule of plutocracy in colorado"; the "reply of the western federation of miners to the 'red book' of the mine operators"; "anarchy in colorado: who is to blame?" (the bartholomew publishing co., denver, colo., ); the _american federationist_, april, ; the _american federationist_, november, ; job harriman's "class war in idaho" (_volks-zeitung_ library, new york, ), emma f. langdon's "the cripple creek strike" (the great western publishing co., denver, ); c. h. salmons' "the burlington strike" (bunnell & ward, aurora, ill., ); and morris friedman's "the pinkerton labor spy" (wilshire book co., new york, ), contain the statements chiefly of labor leaders and socialists upon the violence suffered by the unions as a result of the work of the courts, of the police, of the militia, and of detectives. "the pinkerton labor spy" gives what purports to be the inside story of the pinkerton agency and the details of its methods in dealing with strikes. clarence s. darrow's "speech in the haywood case" (_wayland's monthly_, girard, kan., oct., ) is the plea made before the jury in idaho that freed haywood. only the oratorical part of it was printed in the daily press, while the crushing evidence darrow presents against the detective agencies and their infamous work was ignored. capt. michael j. schaack's "anarchy and anarchists" (f. j. schulte & co., chicago, ); and pinkerton's "the molly maguires and detectives" (g. w. dillingham co., new york, ) are the naïve stories of those who have performed notable rôles in labor troubles. they read like "wild-west" stories written by overgrown boys, and the manner in which these great detectives frankly confess that they or their agents were at the bottom of the plots which they describe is quite incredible. "the chicago martyrs: the famous speeches of the eight anarchists in judge gary's court and altgeld's reasons for pardoning fielden, neebe and schwab" (free society, san francisco, ), contains the memorable message of governor altgeld when pardoning the anarchists. in his opinion they were in no small measure the dupes of police spies and the victims of judicial injustice. i have dealt at length with thomas beet's article on "methods of american private detectives" in _appleton's magazine_ for october, , but it will repay a full reading. "coeur d'alene mining troubles: the crime of the century" (senate document) and "statement and evidence in support of charges against the u. s. steel corporation by the american federation of labor" are perhaps worth mentioning. i have not attempted to give an exhaustive list of references, but only to call attention to a few books and pamphlets which have found their way into my library. [ ] quoted by august bebel in _attentate und sozialdemokratie_, p. . [ ] limiting federal injunctions: hearings before a subcommittee of the committee on the judiciary, united states senate, , part i, p. . chapter xii [ ] sombart, socialism and the socialist movement, p. . [ ] liebknecht, karl marx: biographical memoirs, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _l'alliance de la démocratie socialiste_, etc., p. (secret statutes of the alliance). [ ] communist manifesto, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] _idem_, p. . [ ] engels' introduction to struggle of the social classes in france; quoted by sombart, _op. cit._, pp. - . [ ] liebknecht, no compromise, no political trading, p. ; my italics. [ ] frederic harrison, quoted in davidson's annals of toil, p. (f. r. henderson, london, n.d.). [ ] engels in _l'allemagne en _, p. . [ ] communist manifesto, p. . index a adam, paul, quoted concerning case of ravachol, - . _agents provocateurs_, work of, in popular uprisings and socialist and labor movements, - , - , ; use of private detectives as, in united states, - , - . alexander ii of russia, assassination of, , . america. _see_ united states. anarchism, introduction of doctrines of, in western europe by bakounin, ff.; secret societies founded in interests of, - ; insurrections under auspices of, - ; criticism of, by socialists, ; uprisings in italy fathered by, - ; unbridgeable chasm between socialism and, - ; with the propaganda of the deed becomes synonymous with violence and crime, ; foothold secured by, in germany, - ; in austria-hungary, - ; agitation in france, - ; doctrines of, carried to america by johann most, - ; the haymarket tragedy, - ; defense of, by benjamin r. tucker, and disowning of terrorist tactics, - ; responsibility for deeds of leaders of, laid at bismarck's door, - ; assassination of president mckinley and shooting of h. c. frick, ; failure of, to take firm root in america any more than in germany and england, - ; in the latin countries, ; acts of violence in name of, in europe, - ; question of responsibility of, for acts of violence committed by terrorists, ff.; different types attracted by socialism and, - ; the psychology of devotees of, - ; causes of terrorist tactics assigned by catholic church to doctrines of socialism, - ; source of, traceable to great-man theory, ff.; work of police agents in connection with, - ; the battle between socialism and, - ; emergence of, as a distinct philosophy, ; history of, after hague congress of , ff.; congress in geneva in , - ; insolvable problem created by, in rejecting political action of the working class, ; assaults on the marxists by adherents of, - ; bitter warfare between socialism and, - ; appearance of syndicalism as an aid to, - ; ignoring of, in socialist congresses, ; appearance of the "intellectuals" in ranks of, - ; similarities between philosophies and methods of syndicalism and, - ; differences between syndicalism and, - ; consideration of the oldest form of, that of the wealthy and ruling classes, - ; of the powerful in the united states, ff. andrieux, french revolutionist, . angiolillo, italian terrorist, . anti-socialist law, bismarck's, responsible for most's career as a terrorist, - ; passage of, and chief measures contained in, - ; growth of socialist vote under, ; failure and repeal of, - . arson practiced by revolutionists in america, - . assassination, preaching of, by bakounin and nechayeff, ; practice of, by anarchists in france, - ; the catholic church and, - ; glorification of, in history, - . atwell, b. a., on character of deputy marshals in chicago railway strike, . australia, parliamentary power of socialists in, , . austria, empress of, assassinated by italian anarchist, . austria-hungary, development and checking of anarchist movement in, - ; growth of socialist and labor vote in, . b baker, ray stannard, quoted on character of deputy marshals in chicago railway strike, - . bakounin, michael, father of terrorism, ; admiration of, for satan, ; views held by, on absolutism, - ; destruction of all states and all churches advocated by, ; varying opinions of, ; shown to be human in his contradictions, - ; chief characteristics and qualities of his many-sided nature, ; birth, family, and early life, - ; leaves russia for germany, switzerland, and france, ; meets proudhon, marx, george sand, and other revolutionary spirits, ; leads insurrectionary movements, - ; captured, sentenced to death, and finally banished to siberia, ; escapes and reaches england, ; change in views shown in writings of, - ; spends some time in italy, - ; forms secret organization of revolutionists, - ; the international brothers, the national brothers, and the international alliance of social democracy, - ; enters the international working men's association, with the hope of securing leadership, ; declares war on political and economic powers of europe and assails marx, engels, and other leaders, - ; interest of, in russian affairs, ; collaborates with sergei nechayeff, - ; expounds doctrines of criminal activity, - ; the "words addressed to students," - ; the "revolutionary catechism," - ; quarrel between nechayeff and, - ; remains in switzerland and trains young revolutionists, - ; takes part in unsuccessful insurrection at lyons, - ; marx quoted concerning action of, at lyons, - ; influence of, felt in spanish revolution of , - ; in italy, during uprisings of , - ; retires from public life, - ; humiliating experiences of last years, - ; opinions expressed by anarchists and by socialists concerning, upon death of, - ; teachings of, the inspiration of the propaganda of the deed, ; principles of, preached by johann most, ; spread of terrorist ideas of, in america, ; history of the battle between marx and, - ; suspected and charged with being a russian police agent, , ; quoted on marx, ; victory won over marx by, at basel congress of international in , - ; attack of marx and his followers on, and reply by, in the "study upon the german jews," - ; flood of literature by, based on his antagonism to religion and to government, - ; inability of, to comprehend doctrines of marxian socialism, - ; irreconcilability of doctrines of, with those of socialists, - ; expulsion of, from the international, ; attacks the general council of the international as a new incarnation of the state, ; quoted to show antagonism between his doctrines and those of marxists, ; the robber worship of, - . barcelona, bomb-throwing in, . barrot, odilon, . basel, congress of international at ( ), - . bauer, heinrich, . bauler, madame a., quoted on influence of bakounin, - . bebel, august, quoted on bismarck's repressive measures, - ; quoted on johann most, - ; on the condoning of assassination by the catholic church, - ; reveals participations of high officials in crimes of the anarchists, - ; mentioned, , - ; account of struggle between bismarck and party of, - ; state-socialist propositions favored by, - . beesby, e. s., ; urges political activity on early trade unions, . beet, thomas, exposure by, of evils attending use of detectives in united states, - , - , . berkman, alexander, shooting of h. c. frick by, ; motive which actuated, ; events which led up to action of, - ; fate of, contrasted with that of agents of the anarchy of the wealthy during homestead strike, . bern, revolutionary manifestation at ( ), . berth, edward, quoted in connection with the "intellectuals," - ; mentioned, , . bismarck, stirs up germany against social-democratic party on account of anarchistic acts, ; effect of action of, on anarchism in germany, ; responsibility of, for johann most and other terrorists, and for haymarket tragedy, - ; bebel quoted in connection with the hero-worship of, in germany, - ; admiration of, for lassalle, ; corruption introduced into german labor movement by, - ; exposed by liebknecht and bebel, begins war upon marxian socialists, - ; futile efforts of, to provoke social democrats to violence, - ; reaction of his violent measures upon himself, . blanc, gaspard, , . blanc, louis, , , ; lassalle's views compared with those of, . blanqui, socialist insurrectionist, - . bonnot, french motor bandit, - , . booth, j. wilkes, motive which actuated, in killing of lincoln, . brandes, george, "young germany" by, ; quoted on lassalle, - . brass, august, tool of bismarck, . bray, j. f., . bresci, gaetano, assassin of king humbert, . briand, aristide, n., , . brousse, paul, , - , ; originates phrase, "the propaganda of the deed," - ; leads revolutionary manifestation at bern, ; leaves the bakouninists, . bucher, lothar, tool of bismarck, . burlington strike, outrages by private detectives during, . burns, william j., quoted on character of detectives as a class, - . c cabet, utopian socialism of, . cafiero, carlo, italian revolutionist, disciple of bakounin, , , , , , , , . camorra, an organization of italians which pursues terrorist tactics, . "capital," marx's work, , . capitalism, workingmen's ignorance concerning, previous to advent of karl marx, - . carnot, president, assassination of, . caserio, assassin of president carnot, , - . castillo, canovas del, torture of suspected terrorists by, . catholic church, burden of anarchism laid on doctrines of socialism by, ; right of assassination upheld by clergy of, - ; terrorist tactics pursued by organizations of, . cerretti, celso, italian insurrectionist, . chartists, the, , , , . cluseret, general, , , . colorado, governmental tyranny during labor wars in, ; political and industrial battles in ( - ), - . commune of paris, viewed as a spontaneous uprising of the working class, - . communist league, marx presents his views to, resulting in the communist manifesto, - . communist manifesto, of marx and engels, - ; the universal text-book of the socialist movement, . communist societies in germany, . congress of united states, socialists not represented in, , . congresses, international, of socialists, . cooper, thomas, . coöperative movement, beginning of, in england, ; progress in growth of, - . corruption, the omnipresence of, - . costa, andrea, ; at anarchist congress in geneva ( ), - ; article by, attacking socialists, ; leaves the bakouninists, . courts, prevalence of violence set down to corruption of, , . cramer, peter j., union leader killed by special police, . criminal elements, part played by, in uprisings, - ; use of, as the tool of reactionary intrigue, ff., - . cripple creek, colo., strike, - . cyvoct, militant anarchist of lyons, - . czolgosz, assassin of president mckinley, , ; motive which actuated, . d debs, eugene v., on instigation to violence by deputies in chicago railway strike, - . decamps, french terrorist, . delesalle, french anarchist, a sponsor of sabotage as a war measure of trade unionists, . democracy, attacks of syndicalism on, - ; view of the present day as the age of, ; to be achieved only through democracy, , ; eternal faith of socialists in, . detectives, employment of, as weapons of anarchists of the wealthy class in the united states, ff.; character of the so-called, employed during big strikes in united states, - ; use of, as instigators and perpetrators of acts of violence, - , - , - ; pecuniary interest of, in provoking crime, ; intentional misleading of employers by, - ; prolongation of strikes by, - ; a few of the outrages committed by, - . deville, gabriel, . direct action, opposed by syndicalists to the political action of socialists, ff.; cannot be revolutionary action and is destined to failure, . duehring, eugene, mistaken views of socialism held by, . duval, clément, french anarchist and robber, - . dynamite, glorifying of, by terrorists, as the poor man's weapon against capitalism, . e eccarius, reply of, to bakounin at basel congress, ; at anarchist congress in geneva ( ), . egoistic conception of history, carried to its extreme by anarchism, ff. engels, frederick, ; criticism by, of position of bakouninists in spanish revolution, , ; description by, of early communist societies in germany, ; first meeting of marx and, and beginning of their coöperative labors, - ; reply of, to dr. duehring, ; socialist view of the state as expressed by, - ; on the lasting power exercised by marx over the labor movement, ; on the reorganization of society through the conscious coöperation of the masses, - . f fenians, an organization of irishmen which pursued terrorist tactics, . feudal lords, anarchism of the, - , . fortis, italian revolutionist, . fourier, ; utopian socialism of, . france, anarchist activities in ( ), - ; deeds of terrorists in, - ; effects of terrorist tactics in, - ; crimes of motor bandits in, - ; early days of socialism in, - ; launching of socialist labor party in ( ), - ; individualism in, one cause for rise of syndicalism, - ; poverty as a cause for reliance upon violence of trade unions in, . frick, henry c., shooting of, ; events which led up to shooting of, - . fruneau, quoted on corruption in revolutions, . g general confederation of labor, organization of, . general strike, inauguration of idea, by french trade unionists, - ; guérard's argument for, - ; notable points in program of action of, - ; program of trade unionists in case of success in, - ; conditions which produce agitation for, - ; doubts of syndicalists as to success of a peaceable strike, - ; jaurès' warning against the, ; ridicule of, by marx and engels, . geneva, congress of anarchists at, in , - . germany, beginning of anarchist activity in, - ; great political organization built up by socialists in, ; meteoric career of lassalle in, - ; history of bismarck's losing battle with social democracy in, - ; state ownership favored by socialists in, - ; growth of socialist and labor vote in, ; strong parliamentary position of socialists in, - . goldman, emma, quoted on johann most, ; quoted on causes of violent acts by terrorists, ; on the connection of police with anarchist outrages, . grave, jean, french anarchist, . gray, john, . great-man theory, terrorist deeds of violence traceable to, ff. guérard, argument of, for revolutionary general strike, - . guesde, jules, , ; quoted on direct action vs. political action, - . guillaume, james, swiss revolutionist, friend of bakounin, , , , , , , , , ; takes part in manifestation at bern ( ), . h hales, john, at anarchist congress in geneva ( ), - . hall, charles, . harney, george julian, . harrison, frederic, quoted, . hasselmann, german revolutionist, , ; ejection of, from socialist party, . haymarket catastrophe, chicago, - . henry, Émile, french terrorist, , - , . herwegh, german poet and revolutionist, - . hess, moritz, secret history of basel congress of by, - . hillquit, morris, description by, of battle between strikers and detectives at homestead, - . hins, follower of bakounin, quoted, ; outlines, in , program of modern syndicalists, - . hödel, assassin of emperor william, , . hodgskin, thomas, . hogan, "kid," quoted on strike-breakers, - . homestead strike, character of pinkertons employed in, - ; account of battle between strikers and special police, - . houses of the people, in europe, . humbert, king, attempt upon life of, ; assassination of, . hume, joseph, . i individualism in france a contributing cause to rise of syndicalism, - . industrial workers of the world, american syndicalism, n. inheritance, abolition of right of, advocated by bakounin, - . intellectuals, appearance of, as an aid to anarchism, - ; lack of real understanding of labor movement by, and fate of, . international alliance of social democracy, - . international brothers, - . international working men's association (the "international"), bakounin's attempt to inject his ideas into, , ; launching of the, - ; beginning made by, in actual political work, - ; struggles in, between followers of marx and followers of bakounin's anarchist doctrines, ff.; congress of, at basel in the turning-point in its history, - ; overturning of foundation principles of, owing to anarchist tendencies of the congress, ; period of slight accomplishment, from to , - ; congress of at the hague, ; expulsion of bakounin and removal of seat of general council to new york, - ; motives of marx in destroying, ; one chief result of existence of, the distinct separation of anarchism and socialism, - ; attempts of bakouninists to revive, after hague congress, ff.; end of efforts of anarchists to build a new, . international working people's association, anarchist society in america, , . italy, anarchist uprisings in, in , - ; demonstration under doctrines of propaganda of the deed in ( ), - ; reasons for individual execution of justice in, found in expense of official justice and corruptness of courts, ; conditions in, leading to rise of syndicalism, , ; socialist and labor vote in, ; parliamentary strength of socialists in, . iwanoff, russian revolutionist, - . j jaclard, victor, , . jaurès, tribute paid to marx by, - ; warning pronounced by, against the general strike, . jesuits and doctrine of assassination, - . jones, ernest, . k kammerer, anarchist in austria-hungary, , . kampffmeyer, paul, quoted on state-socialist propositions in germany, . kautsky, karl, on the statism of the socialist party, . kropotkin, prince, - ; enthusiasm of, over the propaganda of the deed, ; quoted on anarchist activities at lyons, ; on act of united states supreme court declaring unconstitutional the eight-hour law on government work, - ; quoted on the pittsburgh strike, - ; on treatment of anarchists by socialists, n.; quoted on russian secret police system, n.; articles by, attacking socialist parliamentary tactics, - ; on the necessity of parliamentary action in distribution of land after the french revolution, . l labor movement, violence characteristic of early years of the, - ; beginning of real building of, in the middle of the last century, ; profit to, from aid of "intellectual" circles, ; in france, - ; in england, - ; setback to, in england due to various causes, ; beginnings of, in germany, - ; beginning of work of marx and engels in connection with, ff.; attempt of early socialist and anarchist sects to inject their ideas into, ; launching of the international, ff.; entrance of the international into actual political work, - ; the ideal of the labor movement as expressed by lincoln, ; part played by the international as an organization of labor, ; origins of, in germany, ; bismarck's persecution of social democrats in germany, - ; entrance of anarchism into, in france, ff.; illegitimate activities of capital against, in united states, - ; process of building structure of the present, - ; position as a great and material actuality, ; tracing of work done by marx in connection with, ff.; progress of, as indicated by socialist and labor vote, - ; parliamentary strength of, - ; growth of coöperations and trade unions, - . _labor standard_ article on united states supreme court decision, - . labor temples in europe, . labriola, arturo, syndicalist criticism of socialism by, - ; views of, on parliamentarism, . lafargue, paul, . lagardelle, on the antagonism of syndicalism and democracy, - . lankiewicz, valence, . lassalle, german socialist agitator, ff.; by organizing the universal german working men's association, becomes founder of german labor movement, ; relations between bismarck and, . legien, carl, quoted on french labor movement, . le vin, detective, quoted on character of special police, . levine, louis, "the labor movement in france" by, quoted, . liebknecht, wilhelm, quoted on marx's opposition to insurrection led by herwegh, ; mentioned, , - ; efforts of bismarck to corrupt, ; persecution of, by bismarck, - ; frank statement of republican principles by, - ; quoted on defeat of bismarck by socialists, ; quoted as in favor of state-socialist propositions in germany, . lincoln, abraham, ideal of the labor movement as expressed by, . lingg, louis, chicago anarchist, , . lombroso, on corrective measures to be used with anarchists, - ; on the complicity of criminality and politics, . lovett, william, . luccheni, italian assassin, . lynchings, an explanation given for, , . lyons, unsuccessful insurrection at, in , - . m mcdowell, malcomb, on character of deputy marshals in chicago railway strike, - . mckinley, president, assassination of, , . mcnamaras, the, , . mafia, the, an organization of italians which pursues terrorist tactics, . malatesta, enrico, italian revolutionist, - , , . manufacturers' association, lawless work of the, . mariana, jesuit who upheld assassination of tyrants, , . marx, karl, view of bakounin held by, ; meeting of bakounin and, ; assailed by bakounin upon latter's entrance into the international, - ; quoted on the insurrection at lyons in , - ; on bakounin's "abolition of the state," ; on the commune of paris, ; education and early career of, - ; the communist manifesto, - ; resignation of, from central council of communist league, - ; gives evidence of perception of lack of revolutionary promise in sectarian organizations, secret societies, and political conspiracies, ; gigantic intellectual labors of, in laying foundations of a scientific socialism, ; the international launched by, - ; essence of socialism of, in preamble of the provisional rules of the international, - ; statement of idea of, as to revolutionary character of political activity, - ; immense work of, in connection with the international, and publishing of "capital" by, ; summing up of services of, by jaurès, - ; the battle between bakounin and, ff.; annoyance and humiliation of, by victory of bakouninists at basel congress, - ; bitter attack made on bakounin and his circle by, - ; motives of, in destroying the international by moving seat of general council to new york, - ; bismarck's attempt to corrupt, ; view held by, of the state and its functions, ; quoted on "parliamentary crétinism," - ; battles of workingmen fought on lines laid down by, ; immensity of task actually executed by, - . merlino, italian anarchist, . michel, louise, french anarchist, . milwaukee, character of special police employed during molders' strike in, - . mine owners' association, anarchism of, in colorado, - . moll, joseph, , . molly maguires, an organization of irishmen which pursued terrorist tactics, . most, johann, a product of bismarck's man-hunting policy and legal tyranny, ; the freiheit of, , ; brings terrorist ideas of bakounin and nechayeff to america, - ; early history of, - ; emma goldman's description of, ; effect of agitation and doctrines of, on socialism in america, - ; climax of theories of, reached in the haymarket tragedy, chicago, - ; article on "revolutionary principles" by, - ; history of terrorist tactics in america centers about career of, ; responsibility of anti-socialist laws for misguided efforts and final downfall of, - ; ejected from socialist party for advocating violence in war with bismarck, - . motor bandits, career of, in france, - . museux, quoted on ravachol, . "muzzle bill," bismarck's, . n national brothers, the, - . nechayeff, sergei, young russian revolutionist, ; collaboration of, with bakounin, ff.; question of share of "words addressed to students" and "the revolutionary catechism" to be attributed to, ; activities of, in russia, - ; murder of iwanoff by, ; quarrels with bakounin, steals his papers, and flees to london, ; subsequent career and death, - . nobiling, dr. karl, , . o o'brien, j. b., . o'connor, feargus, , . orchard, harry, crimes of, paid for by detective agencies, - . owen, robert, ; utopian socialism of, ; in the webbs' critique of, the economic fallacies of syndicalism are revealed, - . ozerof, revolutionary enthusiast, friend of bakounin, , , . p paris, anarchist movement in ( ), ; acts of violence in, - . parliamentarism, criticism of, by syndicalists, , ; attitude of socialism toward, - . parliamentary strength of socialism at present day, - . pelloutier, leader in french labor movement, . peukert, anarchist in austria-hungary, , ; found to be a police spy, - . pinkerton detectives, the tools of anarchists of the capitalist class in the united states, ff. place, francis, . plechanoff, george, ; quoted, ; breaks with the bakouninists, . pini, french anarchist and robber, . police agents, work of, against anarchism, socialism, and trade-union movements, - , - ; infamous rôles played by, in united states, - , - , - ; list of notable, who have played a double part in labor movements, . policing by the state, a check on anarchism of individuals, . political action, dependence of marx's program on, - ; fight of anarchists against, ; criticism of, by syndicalists, ff.; direct action placed over against, by the syndicalists, ff. pougatchoff, bakounin's idealizing of, . pouget, Émil, french anarchist, ; origin of modern syndicalism with, ; sabotage introduced by, at trade-union congress in toulouse, ; attack of syndicalism on democracy voiced by, ; on the syndicalist's contempt for democracy, . poverty, as a cause of reliance upon violence by french trade-unions, . propaganda of the deed, origin of the, - ; inspiration of, found in the teachings of bakounin, ; revolutionary demonstrations organized under doctrines of, - ; as the chief expression of anarchism, makes the name anarchism synonymous with violence and crime, ; progress of, as shown by anarchist activities in germany, austria-hungary, and france, - ; influence of, in italy, spain, and belgium, - ; bringing of, to america by johann most, - . _see_ terrorism. proudhon, acquaintance between bakounin and, ; the father of anarchism, . proudhonian anarchists, inability of, to comprehend socialism of marx, - . pryor, judge roger a., condemnation by, of use of private detectives by corporations, - . pullman strike, employment and character of private detectives in, - . r ravachol, french terrorist, - , . razin, stenka, leader of russian peasant insurrection, ; bakounin's robber worship of, . reclus, Élisée, ; quoted concerning ravachol, . _red flag_, hasselmann's paper, . reinsdorf, august, assassin of german emperor, - . "revolutionary catechism," by bakounin and nechayeff, - . rey, aristide, . richard, albert, , . rittinghausen, delegate to congress of the international, quoted, - ; on the futility of insurrection as a policy, . robber-worship, bakounin's, , . rochdale pioneers, the, . rochefort, henri, remarks of, on anarchists, - . rubin, w. b., investigation of character of special police by, - . rull, juan, spanish gang leader, . s sabotage, danger of use of, in united states, - ; appearance of, and explanation, ; as really another name for the propaganda of the deed, . saffi, italian revolutionist, . saignes, eugène, , . saint-simon, . salmons, c. h., on outrages by private detectives during burlington strike, . sand, george, , . schapper, karl, , . secret societies organized by bakounin, - . shelley, p. b., psychology of the anarchists depicted by, . small, albion w., estimate of marx by, . socialism, early use of word, n.; split between anarchism and, in , - , - ; rapid spread of, in america after panic of , - ; disastrous effect on, of most's agitation in america, - ; contrasted with anarchism on the point of the latter's inspiring deeds of violence by terrorists, - ; different types attracted by anarchism and, - ; burden of anarchism placed on, by catholic clergy, ; growth of, ff., - ; early days of, in france, - ; in england, - ; in germany, - ; communist manifesto of marx and engels a part of the basic literature of, ; the utopian, destroyed by marx's scientific theory, - ; the blending of labor and, a matter of decades, ; essence of marx's, found in the preamble of the provisional rules of the international, - ; routing of, by anarchist doctrines in congress of international at basel in , - ; inquiry into and exposition of the aims of the marxian, - ; attacks on, by anarchists after hague congress of , ff.; fruitless war waged on german social democracy by bismarck, - ; defeat and humiliation of bismarck by, - ; strength of, throughout europe shown in elections of , - ; difference between aims and methods of, and those of syndicalism, - ; antagonism between syndicalism and, ff., ; statism of, criticised by syndicalists, - , ; real position of, regarding state ownership and state capitalism, - ; criticism of, by syndicalists on grounds of parliamentarism, ; real attitude of, toward control of parliaments, - ; battle of, is against both the old anarchists, and the new anarchists of the wealthy class in the united states, - ; statistics of increase in vote of, - ; parliamentary strength of, - ; conditions which retard progress of, in united states, - ; tendency of labor movement in all lands toward, - ; international congresses of party, ; results of inseparableness of democracy and, - ; slow but sure and steady progress of, - . sombart, werner, quoted on syndicalism and the "social sybarites," ; quoted on tendency of labor movement in all lands toward socialism, . sorel, quoted to show hostility of syndicalism to democracy, . spain, revolution of in, - ; repression of terrorist tactics in, . spies, august, "revenge circular" of, . state, check placed on anarchism of the individual by the, - ; activity of, in opposition to labor in united states, - . statism, criticism of, of the socialist party, by syndicalists, - ; statement of attitude of socialism toward, - ; economic fallacies of syndicalists regarding, pointed out by the webbs on their critique of owen's trade-union socialism, - . steinert, henry, quoted on special police and detectives, . stellmacher, anarchist in austria-hungary, , . stephens, joseph rayner, , . stirner, max, "the ego and his own" by, quoted, . "study upon the german jews," bakounin's, - . supreme court of united states, act of, declaring unconstitutional the eight-hour law on government work, - . syndicalism, program of, outlined at congress of international in , - ; forecast of, contained in bakounin's arguments, ; revival in of anarchism under name of, ; explanation of, and reason for existence, ff.; wherein aim and methods differ from those of socialism, - ; connection of the "intellectuals" with, - ; reasons found for, in certain french and italian conditions, - ; essential differences between anarchism and, - ; necessary antagonism between socialism and, ff.; objections to the outline of a new society contemplated by, ff.; criticism of parliamentarism of socialism by, ; attacks of, on democracy, - ; antagonism of socialism and, in aim and methods, ff.; proven to be the logical descendant of anarchism, - ; its fate to be the same as that of anarchism, - ; claim of, that revolutionary movement must pursue economic aims and disregard political relations, . t tennyson, quotation from, . terrorism, doctrine of, brought into western europe by bakounin, , - , ff.; set forth in "revolutionary catechism" by bakounin and nechayeff, - ; practical introduction of, in insurrections of the early seventies, ff., - ; criticism of, by socialists, ; advent of the propaganda of the deed, and resultant acts of violence in italy, - ; carried into germany, austria-hungary, and france, - ; doctrine of, spread in america by johann most, - ; protest voiced by tucker, american anarchist, against terrorist tactics, - ; failure of, to take deep root in america, - ; acts of, committed by anarchists in france, - ; causes of, ff.; due to hysteria and pseudo-insanity, - ; wrong attitude of society as to corrective measures, - ; burden of, placed by catholics on socialism, - ; glorification of, in annals of history, ; egoistic conception of history carried to an extreme in, - ; caused by corruption of courts and oppressive laws, - ; complicity of criminality and, ; use of, by european governments, - , ff.; introduced into the international by bakounin, and struggles of marxists against, - ; part played by, in bismarck's war on social democracy, , , ; attempts of bismarck to provoke, ff.; reaction of, on bismarck, ; employed by ruling class in america, by means of private detectives and special police, - . thompson, william, . tolstoi, berth's characterization of, . tortellier, french agitator and anarchist, ; declaration of, against political action, . trade unions, at basis of spanish revolution of , ; entrance into, of anarchism, resulting in syndicalism, ff. _see_ labor movement. tucker, benjamin r., new york anarchist, quoted on "the beast of communism," - . u united states, unsettled conditions in, after panic of , - ; development of socialist and trade-union organizations in, ; bakounin's terrorist ideas brought to, by johann most, ; acts of violence in, - ; protests of anarchists of, against terrorism, - ; failure of anarchism to take firm root in, ; anarchism of the powerful in, ff.; system of extra-legal police agents in, - , ff.; account of tragic episodes in history of labor disputes in, - ; abetting by the state of mercenary anarchists in, - ; figures of socialist and labor vote in, ; socialists of, wholly lacking in representation in congress, , ; conditions in, calculated to retard progress of socialist and labor movement, - . universal german working men's association, organization of, . utopian socialism destroyed by marx's scientific socialism, . v vaillant, august, french terrorist, , - , . valzania, italian revolutionist, . vincenzo, tomburri, italian revolutionist, . violence, analysis of causes of, - . _see_ terrorism. vliegen, dutch labor leader, on the general strike, - . von schweitzer, leader in german labor movement, reported to have sold out to bismarck, . vote of socialists and laborites ( - ), , . w webb, sidney and beatrice, economic fallacies of syndicalism indicated by, - . weitling, early german socialist agitator, . western federation of miners, crimes falsely attributed to, - . west virginia, governmental tyranny during labor troubles in, ; outrages committed by special police in, . wickersham, george w., testimony of, as to packing of a jury by private detectives, . william i., emperor, attempts on life of, , - . "words addressed to students," bakounin and nechayeff's, . wyden, secret conference of german social democrats at, - . y yvetot, quoted on syndicalism and anarchism, . z zenker, quoted on anarchist movement in austria-hungary, - ; on association formed by most for uniting revolutionists, ; on motives behind deeds of violence, . zola, psychology of the anarchist depicted by, .