CHAPTER IV

MEN AND BROTHERS

‘OH, my friends, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown! Oh, my friends

and fellow-countrymen, the slaves of an iron-handed and a grinding

despotism! Oh, my friends and fellow-sufferers, and fellow-workmen, and

fellow-men! I tell you that the hour is come, when we must rally round

one another as One united power, and crumble into dust the oppressors

that too long have battened upon the plunder of our families, upon the

sweat of our brows, upon the labour of our hands, upon the strength of

our sinews, upon the God-created glorious rights of Humanity, and upon

the holy and eternal privileges of Brotherhood!’

‘Good!’ ‘Hear, hear, hear!’ ‘Hurrah!’ and other cries, arose in many

voices from various parts of the densely crowded and suffocatingly close

Hall, in which the orator, perched on a stage, delivered himself of this

and what other froth and fume he had in him. He had declaimed himself

into a violent heat, and was as hoarse as he was hot. By dint of roaring

at the top of his voice under a flaring gaslight, clenching his fists,

knitting his brows, setting his teeth, and pounding with his arms, he had

taken so much out of himself by this time, that he was brought to a stop,

and called for a glass of water.

As he stood there, trying to quench his fiery face with his drink of

water, the comparison between the orator and the crowd of attentive faces

turned towards him, was extremely to his disadvantage. Judging him by

Nature’s evidence, he was above the mass in very little but the stage on

which he stood. In many great respects he was essentially below them.

He was not so honest, he was not so manly, he was not so good-humoured;

he substituted cunning for their simplicity, and passion for their safe

solid sense. An ill-made, high-shouldered man, with lowering brows, and

his features crushed into an habitually sour expression, he contrasted

most unfavourably, even in his mongrel dress, with the great body of his

hearers in their plain working clothes. Strange as it always is to

consider any assembly in the act of submissively resigning itself to the

dreariness of some complacent person, lord or commoner, whom

three-fourths of it could, by no human means, raise out of the slough of

inanity to their own intellectual level, it was particularly strange, and

it was even particularly affecting, to see this crowd of earnest faces,

whose honesty in the main no competent observer free from bias could

doubt, so agitated by such a leader.

Good! Hear, hear! Hurrah! The eagerness both of attention and

intention, exhibited in all the countenances, made them a most impressive

sight. There was no carelessness, no languor, no idle curiosity; none of

the many shades of indifference to be seen in all other assemblies,

visible for one moment there. That every man felt his condition to be,

somehow or other, worse than it might be; that every man considered it

incumbent on him to join the rest, towards the making of it better; that

every man felt his only hope to be in his allying himself to the comrades

by whom he was surrounded; and that in this belief, right or wrong

(unhappily wrong then), the whole of that crowd were gravely, deeply,

faithfully in earnest; must have been as plain to any one who chose to

see what was there, as the bare beams of the roof and the whitened brick

walls. Nor could any such spectator fail to know in his own breast, that

these men, through their very delusions, showed great qualities,

susceptible of being turned to the happiest and best account; and that to

pretend (on the strength of sweeping axioms, howsoever cut and dried)

that they went astray wholly without cause, and of their own irrational

wills, was to pretend that there could be smoke without fire, death

without birth, harvest without seed, anything or everything produced from

nothing.

The orator having refreshed himself, wiped his corrugated forehead from

left to right several times with his handkerchief folded into a pad, and

concentrated all his revived forces, in a sneer of great disdain and

bitterness.

‘But oh, my friends and brothers! Oh, men and Englishmen, the

down-trodden operatives of Coketown! What shall we say of that man—that

working-man, that I should find it necessary so to libel the glorious

name—who, being practically and well acquainted with the grievances and

wrongs of you, the injured pith and marrow of this land, and having heard

you, with a noble and majestic unanimity that will make Tyrants tremble,

resolve for to subscribe to the funds of the United Aggregate Tribunal,

and to abide by the injunctions issued by that body for your benefit,

whatever they may be—what, I ask you, will you say of that working-man,

since such I must acknowledge him to be, who, at such a time, deserts his

post, and sells his flag; who, at such a time, turns a traitor and a

craven and a recreant, who, at such a time, is not ashamed to make to you

the dastardly and humiliating avowal that he will hold himself aloof, and

will _not_ be one of those associated in the gallant stand for Freedom

and for Right?’

The assembly was divided at this point. There were some groans and

hisses, but the general sense of honour was much too strong for the

condemnation of a man unheard. ‘Be sure you’re right, Slackbridge!’

‘Put him up!’ ‘Let’s hear him!’ Such things were said on many sides.

Finally, one strong voice called out, ‘Is the man heer? If the man’s

heer, Slackbridge, let’s hear the man himseln, ’stead o’ yo.’ Which was

received with a round of applause.

Slackbridge, the orator, looked about him with a withering smile; and,

holding out his right hand at arm’s length (as the manner of all

Slackbridges is), to still the thundering sea, waited until there was a

profound silence.

‘Oh, my friends and fellow-men!’ said Slackbridge then, shaking his head

with violent scorn, ‘I do not wonder that you, the prostrate sons of

labour, are incredulous of the existence of such a man. But he who sold

his birthright for a mess of pottage existed, and Judas Iscariot existed,

and Castlereagh existed, and this man exists!’

Here, a brief press and confusion near the stage, ended in the man

himself standing at the orator’s side before the concourse. He was pale

and a little moved in the face—his lips especially showed it; but he

stood quiet, with his left hand at his chin, waiting to be heard. There

was a chairman to regulate the proceedings, and this functionary now took

the case into his own hands.

‘My friends,’ said he, ‘by virtue o’ my office as your president, I askes

o’ our friend Slackbridge, who may be a little over hetter in this

business, to take his seat, whiles this man Stephen Blackpool is heern.

You all know this man Stephen Blackpool. You know him awlung o’ his

misfort’ns, and his good name.’

With that, the chairman shook him frankly by the hand, and sat down

again. Slackbridge likewise sat down, wiping his hot forehead—always

from left to right, and never the reverse way.

‘My friends,’ Stephen began, in the midst of a dead calm; ‘I ha’ hed

what’s been spok’n o’ me, and ’tis lickly that I shan’t mend it. But I’d

liefer you’d hearn the truth concernin myseln, fro my lips than fro onny

other man’s, though I never cud’n speak afore so monny, wi’out bein

moydert and muddled.’

Slackbridge shook his head as if he would shake it off, in his

bitterness.

‘I’m th’ one single Hand in Bounderby’s mill, o’ a’ the men theer, as

don’t coom in wi’ th’ proposed reg’lations. I canna coom in wi’ ’em. My

friends, I doubt their doin’ yo onny good. Licker they’ll do yo hurt.’

Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and frowned sarcastically.

‘But ’t an’t sommuch for that as I stands out. If that were aw, I’d coom

in wi’ th’ rest. But I ha’ my reasons—mine, yo see—for being hindered;

not on’y now, but awlus—awlus—life long!’

Slackbridge jumped up and stood beside him, gnashing and tearing. ‘Oh,

my friends, what but this did I tell you? Oh, my fellow-countrymen, what

warning but this did I give you? And how shows this recreant conduct in

a man on whom unequal laws are known to have fallen heavy? Oh, you

Englishmen, I ask you how does this subornation show in one of

yourselves, who is thus consenting to his own undoing and to yours, and

to your children’s and your children’s children’s?’

There was some applause, and some crying of Shame upon the man; but the

greater part of the audience were quiet. They looked at Stephen’s worn

face, rendered more pathetic by the homely emotions it evinced; and, in

the kindness of their nature, they were more sorry than indignant.

‘’Tis this Delegate’s trade for t’ speak,’ said Stephen, ‘an’ he’s paid

for ’t, an’ he knows his work. Let him keep to ’t. Let him give no heed

to what I ha had’n to bear. That’s not for him. That’s not for nobbody

but me.’

There was a propriety, not to say a dignity in these words, that made the

hearers yet more quiet and attentive. The same strong voice called out,

‘Slackbridge, let the man be heern, and howd thee tongue!’ Then the

place was wonderfully still.

‘My brothers,’ said Stephen, whose low voice was distinctly heard, ‘and

my fellow-workmen—for that yo are to me, though not, as I knows on, to

this delegate here—I ha but a word to sen, and I could sen nommore if I

was to speak till Strike o’ day. I know weel, aw what’s afore me. I

know weel that yo aw resolve to ha nommore ado wi’ a man who is not wi’

yo in this matther. I know weel that if I was a lyin parisht i’ th’

road, yo’d feel it right to pass me by, as a forrenner and stranger.

What I ha getn, I mun mak th’ best on.’

‘Stephen Blackpool,’ said the chairman, rising, ‘think on ’t agen. Think

on ’t once agen, lad, afore thou’rt shunned by aw owd friends.’

There was an universal murmur to the same effect, though no man

articulated a word. Every eye was fixed on Stephen’s face. To repent of

his determination, would be to take a load from all their minds. He

looked around him, and knew that it was so. Not a grain of anger with

them was in his heart; he knew them, far below their surface weaknesses

and misconceptions, as no one but their fellow-labourer could.

‘I ha thowt on ’t, above a bit, sir. I simply canna coom in. I mun go

th’ way as lays afore me. I mun tak my leave o’ aw heer.’

He made a sort of reverence to them by holding up his arms, and stood for

the moment in that attitude; not speaking until they slowly dropped at

his sides.

‘Monny’s the pleasant word as soom heer has spok’n wi’ me; monny’s the

face I see heer, as I first seen when I were yoong and lighter heart’n

than now. I ha’ never had no fratch afore, sin ever I were born, wi’ any

o’ my like; Gonnows I ha’ none now that’s o’ my makin’. Yo’ll ca’ me

traitor and that—yo I mean t’ say,’ addressing Slackbridge, ‘but ’tis

easier to ca’ than mak’ out. So let be.’

He had moved away a pace or two to come down from the platform, when he

remembered something he had not said, and returned again.

‘Haply,’ he said, turning his furrowed face slowly about, that he might

as it were individually address the whole audience, those both near and

distant; ‘haply, when this question has been tak’n up and discoosed,

there’ll be a threat to turn out if I’m let to work among yo. I hope I

shall die ere ever such a time cooms, and I shall work solitary among yo

unless it cooms—truly, I mun do ’t, my friends; not to brave yo, but to

live. I ha nobbut work to live by; and wheerever can I go, I who ha

worked sin I were no heighth at aw, in Coketown heer? I mak’ no

complaints o’ bein turned to the wa’, o’ bein outcasten and overlooken

fro this time forrard, but hope I shall be let to work. If there is any

right for me at aw, my friends, I think ’tis that.’

Not a word was spoken. Not a sound was audible in the building, but the

slight rustle of men moving a little apart, all along the centre of the

room, to open a means of passing out, to the man with whom they had all

bound themselves to renounce companionship. Looking at no one, and going

his way with a lowly steadiness upon him that asserted nothing and sought

nothing, Old Stephen, with all his troubles on his head, left the scene.

Then Slackbridge, who had kept his oratorical arm extended during the

going out, as if he were repressing with infinite solicitude and by a

wonderful moral power the vehement passions of the multitude, applied

himself to raising their spirits. Had not the Roman Brutus, oh, my

British countrymen, condemned his son to death; and had not the Spartan

mothers, oh my soon to be victorious friends, driven their flying

children on the points of their enemies’ swords? Then was it not the

sacred duty of the men of Coketown, with forefathers before them, an

admiring world in company with them, and a posterity to come after them,

to hurl out traitors from the tents they had pitched in a sacred and a

God-like cause? The winds of heaven answered Yes; and bore Yes, east,

west, north, and south. And consequently three cheers for the United

Aggregate Tribunal!

Slackbridge acted as fugleman, and gave the time. The multitude of

doubtful faces (a little conscience-stricken) brightened at the sound,

and took it up. Private feeling must yield to the common cause. Hurrah!

The roof yet vibrated with the cheering, when the assembly dispersed.

Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool fall into the loneliest of lives, the

life of solitude among a familiar crowd. The stranger in the land who

looks into ten thousand faces for some answering look and never finds it,

is in cheering society as compared with him who passes ten averted faces

daily, that were once the countenances of friends. Such experience was

to be Stephen’s now, in every waking moment of his life; at his work, on

his way to it and from it, at his door, at his window, everywhere. By

general consent, they even avoided that side of the street on which he

habitually walked; and left it, of all the working men, to him only.

He had been for many years, a quiet silent man, associating but little

with other men, and used to companionship with his own thoughts. He had

never known before the strength of the want in his heart for the frequent

recognition of a nod, a look, a word; or the immense amount of relief

that had been poured into it by drops through such small means. It was

even harder than he could have believed possible, to separate in his own

conscience his abandonment by all his fellows from a baseless sense of

shame and disgrace.

The first four days of his endurance were days so long and heavy, that he

began to be appalled by the prospect before him. Not only did he see no

Rachael all the time, but he avoided every chance of seeing her; for,

although he knew that the prohibition did not yet formally extend to the

women working in the factories, he found that some of them with whom he

was acquainted were changed to him, and he feared to try others, and

dreaded that Rachael might be even singled out from the rest if she were

seen in his company. So, he had been quite alone during the four days,

and had spoken to no one, when, as he was leaving his work at night, a

young man of a very light complexion accosted him in the street.

‘Your name’s Blackpool, ain’t it?’ said the young man.

Stephen coloured to find himself with his hat in his hand, in his

gratitude for being spoken to, or in the suddenness of it, or both. He

made a feint of adjusting the lining, and said, ‘Yes.’

‘You are the Hand they have sent to Coventry, I mean?’ said Bitzer, the

very light young man in question.

Stephen answered ‘Yes,’ again.

‘I supposed so, from their all appearing to keep away from you. Mr.

Bounderby wants to speak to you. You know his house, don’t you?’

Stephen said ‘Yes,’ again.

‘Then go straight up there, will you?’ said Bitzer. ‘You’re expected,

and have only to tell the servant it’s you. I belong to the Bank; so, if

you go straight up without me (I was sent to fetch you), you’ll save me a

walk.’

Stephen, whose way had been in the contrary direction, turned about, and

betook himself as in duty bound, to the red brick castle of the giant

Bounderby.