Annie Besant
Autobiography
Cardiff Theosophical Society in Wales
206 Newport Road, Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24 -1DL
Annie Besant
Autobiography
ANNIE BESANT
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
SECOND EDITION
PREFACE.
It is a
difficult thing to tell the story of a life, and yet more
difficult when
that life is one's own. At the best, the telling has a
savour of
vanity, and the only excuse for the proceeding is that the
life, being an
average one, reflects many others, and in troublous
times like ours
may give the experience of many rather than of one.
And so the
autobiographer does his work because he thinks that, at the
cost of some unpleasantness
to himself, he may throw light on some of
the typical
problems that are vexing the souls of his contemporaries,
and perchance
may stretch out a helping hand to some brother who is
struggling in
the darkness, and so bring him cheer when despair has
him in its
grip. Since all of us, men and women of this restless and
eager
generation--surrounded by forces we dimly see but cannot as yet
understand,
discontented with old ideas and half afraid of new, greedy
for the
material results of the knowledge brought us by Science but
looking askance
at her agnosticism as regards the soul, fearful of
superstition
but still more fearful of atheism, turning from the husks
of outgrown
creeds but filled with desperate hunger for spiritual
ideals--since all
of us have the same anxieties, the same griefs, the
same yearning
hopes, the same passionate desire for knowledge, it may
well be that
the story of one may help all, and that the tale of one
should that
went out alone into the darkness and on the other side
found light,
that struggled through the Storm and on the other side
found Peace,
may bring some ray of light and of peace into the
darkness and
the storm of other lives.
ANNIE BESANT.
THE
THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY,
17 & 19,
AVENUE ROAD, REGENT'S PARK, LONDON.
_August_, 1893.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
II. EARLY CHILDHOOD
III. GIRLHOOD
IV. MARRIAGE
V. THE STORM OF DOUBT
VI. CHARLES BRADLAUGH
VII. ATHEISM AS I KNEW AND TAUGHT IT
VIII. AT WORK
IX. THE KNOWLTON PAMPHLET
X. AT WAR ALL ROUND
XI. MR. BRADLAUGH'S STRUGGLE
XII. STILL FIGHTING
XIII. SOCIALISM
XIV. THROUGH STORM TO PEACE
LIST OF BOOKS
QUOTED
CHAPTER I.
"OUT OF
THE EVERYWHERE INTO THE HERE."
On
light(?) of a
A friendly
astrologer has drawn for me the following chart, showing the
position of the
planets at this, to me fateful, moment; but I know
nothing of
astrology, so feel no wiser as I gaze upon my horoscope.
Keeping in view
the way in which sun, moon, and planets influence the
physical
condition of the earth, there is nothing incongruous with the
orderly course
of nature in the view that they also influence the
physical bodies
of men, these being part of the physical earth, and
largely moulded
by its conditions. Any one who knows the
characteristics
ascribed to those who are born under the several signs
of the Zodiac,
may very easily pick out the different types among his
own
acquaintances, and he may then get them to go to some astrologer
and find out
under what signs they were severally born. He will very
quickly
discover that two men of completely opposed types are not born
under the same
sign, and the invariability of the concurrence will
convince him
that law, and not chance, is at work. We are born into
earthly life
under certain conditions, just as we were physically
affected by
them pre-natally, and these will have their bearing on our
subsequent
physical evolution. At the most, astrology, as it is now
practised, can
only calculate the interaction between these physical
conditions at
any given moment, and the conditions brought to them by a
given person
whose general constitution and natal condition are known.
It cannot say
what the person will do, nor what will happen to him, but
only what will
be the physical district, so to speak, in which he will
find himself,
and the impulses that will play upon him from external
nature and from
his own body. Even on those matters modern astrology is
not quite
reliable--judging from the many blunders made--or else its
professors are
very badly instructed; but that there is a real science
of astrology I
have no doubt, and there are some men who are past
masters in it.
[Illustration:
Horoscope of Annie Besant.]
It has always
been somewhat of a grievance to me that I was born in
blood and all
my heart are Irish. My dear mother was of purest Irish
descent, and my
father was Irish on his mother's side, though belonging
to the
sturdy English
type, farming their own land in honest, independent
fashion. Of
late years they seem to have developed more in the
direction of
brains, from the time, in fact, that Matthew Wood became
Mayor of
religious and
gracious royal husband, aided the Duke of
niggard hand,
and received a baronetcy for his services from the Duke
of
Chancellor in
the person of the gentle-hearted and pure-living Lord
Hatherley,
while others have distinguished themselves in various ways
in the service
of their country. But I feel playfully inclined to
grudge the
English blood they put into my father's veins, with his
Irish mother,
his Galway birth, and his Trinity College, Dublin,
education. For
the Irish tongue is musical in my ear, and the Irish
nature dear to
my heart. Only in
a worn-out
ragged woman the way to some old monument, she will say:
"Sure,
then, my darlin', it's just up the hill and round the corner,
and then any
one will tell you the way. And it's there you'll see the
place where the
blessed Saint Patrick set his foot, and his blessing be
on yer."
Old women as poor as she in other nations would never be as
bright and as
friendly and as garrulous. And where, out of
will you see a
whole town crowd into a station to say good-bye to half
a dozen
emigrants, till the platform is a heaving mass of men and
women,
struggling, climbing over each other for a last kiss, crying,
keening,
laughing, all in a breath, till all the air is throbbing and
there's a lump
in your throat and tears in your eyes as the train
steams out?
Where, out of
streets on an
outside car, beside a taciturn Jarvey, who, on suddenly
discovering
that you are shadowed by "Castle" spies, becomes
loquaciously
friendly, and points out everything that he thinks will
interest you?
Blessings on the quick tongues and warm hearts, on the
people so easy
to lead, so hard to drive. And blessings on the ancient
land once
inhabited by mighty men of wisdom, that in later times became
the
the Wheel turns
round.
My maternal
grandfather was a typical Irishman, much admired by me and
somewhat feared
also, in the childish days. He belonged to a decayed
Irish family,
the Maurices, and in a gay youth, with a beautiful wife
as
light-hearted as himself, he had merrily run through what remained
to him in the
way of fortune. In his old age, with abundant snow-white
hair, he still
showed the hot Irish blood on the lightest provocation,
stormily angry
for a moment and easily appeased. My mother was the
second daughter
in a large family, in a family that grew more numerous
as pounds grew
fewer, and she was adopted by a maiden aunt, a quaint
memory of whom
came through my mother's childhood into mine, and had
its moulding
effect on both our characters. This maiden aunt was, as
are most Irish
folk of decayed families, very proud of her family tree
with its roots
in the inevitable "kings." Her particular kings were the
"seven
kings of
parchment, in
all its impressive majesty, over the mantelpiece of their
descendant's
modest drawing-room. This heraldic monster was regarded
with deep
respect by child Emily, a respect in no wise deserved, I
venture to
suppose, by the disreputable royalties of whom she was a
fortunately
distant twig. Chased out of
shown, they had
come over the sea to
reckless
plundering lives. But so strangely turns the wheel of time
that these
ill-doing and barbarous scamps became a kind of moral
thermometer in
the home of the gentle Irish lady in the early half of
the present
century. For my mother has told me that when she had
committed some
act of childish naughtiness, her aunt would say, looking
gravely over
her spectacles at the small culprit, "Emily, your conduct
is unworthy of
the descendant of the seven kings of
with her sweet
grey Irish eyes and her curling masses of raven black
hair, would cry
in penitent shame over her unworthiness, with some
vague idea that
those royal, and to her very real, ancestors would
despise her
small, sweet, rosebud self, so wholly unworthy of their
disreputable
majesties.
Thus those shadowy
forms influenced her in childhood, and exercised
over her a
power that made her shrink from aught that was unworthy,
petty or mean.
To her the lightest breath of dishonour was to be
avoided at any
cost of pain, and she wrought into me, her only
daughter, that
same proud and passionate horror at any taint of shame
or merited
disgrace. To the world always a brave front was to be kept,
and a stainless
reputation, for suffering might be borne but dishonour
never. A
gentlewoman might starve, but she must not run in debt; she
might break her
heart, but it must be with a smile on her face. I have
often thought
that the training in this reticence and pride of honour
was a strange
preparation for my stormy, public, much attacked and
slandered life;
and certain it is that this inwrought shrinking from
all criticism
that touched personal purity and personal honour added a
keenness of
suffering to the fronting of public odium that none can
appreciate who
has not been trained in some similar school of dignified
self-respect.
And yet perhaps there was another result from it that in
value
outweighed the added pain: it was the stubbornly resistant
feeling that
rose and inwardly asserted its own purity in face of
foulest lie,
and turning scornful face against the foe, too proud
either to
justify itself or to defend, said to itself in its own heart,
when
condemnation was loudest: "I am not what you think me, and your
verdict does
not change my own self. You cannot make me vile whatever
you think of me,
and I will never, in my own eyes, be that which you
deem me to be
now." And the very pride became a shield against
degradation,
for, however lost my public reputation, I could never bear
to become
sullied in my own sight--and that is a thing not without its
use to a woman
cut off, as I was at one time, from home, and friends,
and Society. So
peace to the maiden aunt's ashes, and to those of her
absurd kings,
for I owe them something after all. And I keep grateful
memory of that
unknown grand-aunt, for what she did in training my dear
mother, the
tenderest, sweetest, proudest, purest of women. It is well
to be able to
look back to a mother who served as ideal of all that was
noblest and
dearest during childhood and girlhood, whose face made the
beauty of home,
and whose love was both sun and shield. No other
experience in
life could quite make up for missing the perfect tie
between mother
and child--a tie that in our case never relaxed and
never weakened.
Though her grief at my change of faith and consequent
social
ostracism did much to hasten her death-hour, it never brought a
cloud between
our hearts; though her pleading was the hardest of all to
face in later
days, and brought the bitterest agony, it made no gulf
between us, it
cast no chill upon our mutual love. And I look back at
her to-day with
the same loving gratitude as ever encircled her to me
in her earthly
life. I have never met a woman more selflessly devoted
to those she
loved, more passionately contemptuous of all that was mean
or base, more
keenly sensitive on every question of honour, more iron
in will, more
sweet in tenderness, than the mother who made my girlhood
sunny as
dreamland, who guarded me, until my marriage, from every touch
of pain that
she could ward off or bear for me, who suffered more in
every trouble
that touched me in later life than I did myself, and who
died in the
little house I had taken for our new home in
out, ere old
age touched her, by sorrow, poverty, and pain, in May,
1874.
My earliest
personal recollections are of a house and garden that we
lived in when I
was three and four years of age, situated in Grove
Road,
dinner-table to
see that all was bright for the home-coming husband; my
brother--two
years older than myself--and I watching "for papa"; the
loving welcome,
the game of romps that always preceded the dinner of
the elder
folks. I can remember on
in my little
cot, and shouting out triumphantly: "Papa! mamma! I am
four years
old!" and the grave demand of my brother, conscious of
superior age,
at dinner-time: "May not Annie have a knife to-day, as
she is four
years old?"
It was a sore
grievance during that same year, 1851, that I was not
judged old
enough to go to the Great Exhibition, and I have a faint
memory of my
brother consolingly bringing me home one of those folding
pictured strips
that are sold in the streets, on which were imaged
glories that I
longed only the more to see. Far-away, dusky, trivial
memories,
these. What a pity it is that a baby cannot notice, cannot
observe, cannot
remember, and so throw light on the fashion of the
dawning of the
external world on the human consciousness. If only we
could remember
how things looked when they were first imaged on the
retinae; what
we felt when first we became conscious of the outer world;
what the
feeling was as faces of father and mother grew out of the
surrounding
chaos and became familiar things, greeted with a smile,
lost with a
cry; if only memory would not become a mist when in later
years we strive
to throw our glances backward into the darkness of our
infancy, what
lessons we might learn to help our stumbling psychology,
how many questions
might be solved whose answers we are groping for in
the West in
vain.
The next scene
that stands out clearly against the background of the
past is that of
my father's death-bed. The events which led to his
death I know
from my dear mother. He had never lost his fondness for
the profession
for which he had been trained, and having many medical
friends, he
would now and then accompany them on their hospital rounds,
or share with
them the labours of the dissecting-room. It chanced that
during the
dissection of the body of a person who had died of rapid
consumption, my
father cut his finger against the edge of the
breast-bone.
The cut did not heal easily, and the finger became swollen
and inflamed.
"I would have that finger off, Wood, if I were you," said
one of the
surgeons, a day or two afterwards, on seeing the state of
the wound. But
the others laughed at the suggestion, and my father, at
first inclined
to submit to the amputation, was persuaded to "leave
Nature
alone."
About the middle
of August, 1852, he got wet through, riding on the top
of an omnibus,
and the wetting resulted in a severe cold, which
"settled
on his chest." One of the most eminent doctors of the day, as
able as he was
rough in manner, was called to see him. He examined him
carefully,
sounded his lungs, and left the room followed by my mother.
"Well?"
she asked, scarcely anxious as to the answer, save as it might
worry her
husband to be kept idly at home. "You must keep up his
spirits,"
was the thoughtless answer. "He is in a galloping
consumption;
you will not have him with you six weeks longer." The wife
staggered back,
and fell like a stone on the floor. But love triumphed
over agony, and
half an hour later she was again at her husband's side,
never to leave
it again for ten minutes at a time, night or day, till
he was lying
with closed eyes asleep in death.
I was lifted on
to the bed to "say good-bye to dear papa" on the day
before his
death, and I remember being frightened at his eyes which
looked so
large, and his voice which sounded so strange, as he made me
promise always
to be "a very good girl to darling mamma, as papa was
going right
away." I remember insisting that "papa should kiss Cherry,"
a doll given me
on my birthday, three days before, by his direction,
and being
removed, crying and struggling, from the room. He died on the
following day,
October 5th, and I do not think that my elder brother
and I--who were
staying at our maternal grandfather's--went to the
house again
until the day of the funeral. With the death, my mother
broke down, and
when all was over they carried her senseless from the
room. I
remember hearing afterwards how, when she recovered her senses,
she
passionately insisted on being left alone, and locked herself into
her room for
the night; and how on the following morning her mother, at
last persuading
her to open the door, started back at the face she saw
with the cry:
"Good God, Emily! your hair is white!" It was even so;
her hair,
black, glossy and abundant, which, contrasting with her large
grey eyes, had
made her face so strangely attractive, had turned grey
in that night
of agony, and to me my mother's face is ever framed in
exquisite
silver bands of hair as white as the driven unsullied snow.
I have heard
that the love between my father and mother was a very
beautiful
thing, and it most certainly stamped her character for life.
He was keenly
intellectual and splendidly educated; a mathematician and
a good
classical scholar, thoroughly master of French, German, Italian,
Spanish, and
Portuguese, with a smattering of Hebrew and Gaelic, the
treasures of
ancient and of modern literature were his daily household
delight.
Nothing pleased him so well as to sit with his wife, reading
aloud to her
while she worked; now translating from some foreign poet,
now rolling
forth melodiously the exquisite cadences of "Queen Mab."
Student of
philosophy as he was, he was deeply and steadily sceptical;
and a very
religious relative has told me that he often drove her from
the room by his
light, playful mockery of the tenets of the Christian
faith. His
mother and sister were strict Roman Catholics, and near the
end forced a
priest into his room, but the priest was promptly ejected
by the wrath of
the dying man, and by the almost fierce resolve of the
wife that no
messenger of the creed he detested should trouble her
darling at the
last.
Deeply read in
philosophy, he had outgrown the orthodox beliefs of his
day, and his
wife, who loved him too much to criticise, was wont to
reconcile her
own piety and his scepticism by holding that "women ought
to be
religious," while men had a right to read everything and think as
they would,
provided that they were upright and honourable in their
lives. But the
result of his liberal and unorthodox thought was to
insensibly
modify and partially rationalise her own beliefs, and she
put on one side
as errors the doctrines of eternal punishment, the
vicarious
atonement, the infallibility of the Bible, the equality of
the Son with
the Father in the Trinity, and other orthodox beliefs, and
rejoiced in her
later years in the writings of such men as Jowett,
Colenso, and
Stanley. The last named, indeed, was her ideal Christian
gentleman,
suave, polished, broad-minded, devout in a stately way. The
baldness of a
typical Evangelical service outraged her taste as much as
the crudity of
Evangelical dogmas outraged her intellect; she liked to
feel herself a
Christian in a dignified and artistic manner, and to be
surrounded by
solemn music and splendid architecture when she "attended
Divine
service." Familiarity with celestial personages was detestable
to her, and she
did her duty of saluting them in a courtly and reverent
fashion.
Westminster Abbey was her favourite church, with its dim light
and shadowy
distances; there in a carven stall, with choristers
chanting in
solemn rhythm, with the many-coloured glories of the
painted windows
repeating themselves on upspringing arch and clustering
pillars, with
the rich harmonies of the pealing organ throbbing up
against screen
and monument, with the ashes of the mighty dead around,
and all the
stately memories of the past inwrought into the very
masonry, there
Religion appeared to her to be intellectually dignified
and emotionally
satisfactory.
To me, who took
my religion in strenuous fashion, this dainty and
well-bred piety
seemed perilously like Laodicean lukewarmness, while
my headlong
vigour of conviction and practice often jarred on her as
alien from the
delicate balance and absence of extremes that should
characterise
the gentlewoman. She was of the old _régime_; I of the
stuff from
which fanatics are made: and I have often thought, in
looking back,
that she must have had on her lips many a time unspoken
a phrase that
dropped from them when she lay a-dying: "My little one,
you have never
made me sad or sorry except for your own sake; you have
always been too
religious." And then she murmured to herself: "Yes,
it has been
darling Annie's only fault; she has always been too
religious."
Methinks that, as the world judges, the dying voice spake
truly, and the
dying eyes saw with a real insight. For though I was
then kneeling
beside her bed, heretic and outcast, the heart of me was
religious in
its very fervour of repudiation of a religion, and in its
rebellious
uprising against dogmas that crushed the reason and did not
satisfy the
soul. I went out into the darkness alone, not because
religion was
too good for me, but because it was not good enough; it
was too meagre,
too commonplace, too little exacting, too bound up
with earthly
interests, too calculating in its accommodations to
social
conventionalities. The Roman Catholic Church, had it captured
me, as it
nearly did, would have sent me on some mission of danger and
sacrifice and
utilised me as a martyr; the Church established by law
transformed me
into an unbeliever and an antagonist.
For as a child
I was mystical and imaginative religious to the very
finger-tips,
and with a certain faculty for seeing visions and
dreaming
dreams. This faculty is not uncommon with the Keltic races,
and makes them
seem "superstitious" to more solidly-built peoples.
Thus, on the
day of my father's funeral, my mother sat with vacant
eyes and fixed
pallid face--the picture comes back to me yet, it so
impressed my
childish imagination--following the funeral service,
stage after
stage, and suddenly, with the words, "It is all over!"
fell back
fainting. She said afterwards that she had followed the
hearse, had attended
the service, had walked behind the coffin to the
grave. Certain
it is that a few weeks later she determined to go to
the Kensal
Green Cemetery, where the body of her husband had been
laid, and went
thither with a relative; he failed to find the grave,
and while
another of the party went in search of an official to
identify the
spot, my mother said, "If you will take me to the chapel
where the first
part of the service was read, I will find the grave."
The idea seemed
to her friend, of course, to be absurd; but he would
not cross the
newly-made widow, so took her to the chapel. She looked
round, left the
chapel door, and followed the path along which the
corpse had been
borne till she reached the grave, where she was
quietly
standing when the caretaker arrived to point it out. The grave
is at some
distance from the chapel, and is not on one of the main
roads; it had
nothing on it to mark it, save the wooden peg with the
number, and
this would be no help to identification at a distance
since all the
graves are thus marked, and at a little way off these
pegs are not
visible. How she found the grave remained a mystery in
the family, as
no one believed her straightforward story that she had
been present at
the funeral. With my present knowledge the matter is
simple enough,
for I now know that the consciousness can leave the
body, take part
in events going on at a distance, and, returning,
impress on the
physical brain what it has experienced. The very fact
that she asked
to be taken to the chapel is significant, showing that
she was picking
up a memory of a previous going from that spot to the
grave; she
could only find the grave if she started from _the place
from which she
had started before_. Another proof of this
ultra-physical
capacity was given a few months later, when her infant
son, who had
been pining himself ill for "papa," was lying one night
in her arms. On
the next morning she said to her sister: "Alf is going
to die."
The child had no definite disease, but was wasting away, and
it was argued
to her that the returning spring would restore the
health lost
during the winter. "No," was her answer. "He was lying
asleep in my
arms last night, and William" (her husband) "came to me
and said that
he wanted Alf with him, but that I might keep the other
two." In
vain she was assured that she had been dreaming, that it was
quite natural
that she should dream about her husband, and that her
anxiety for the
child had given the dream its shape. Nothing would
persuade her
that she had not seen her husband, or that the
information he
had given her was not true. So it was no matter of
surprise to her
when in the following March her arms were empty, and a
waxen form lay
lifeless in the baby's cot.
My brother and
I were allowed to see him just before he was placed in
his coffin; I
can see him still, so white and beautiful, with a black
spot in the
middle of the fair, waxen forehead, and I remember the
deadly cold
which startled me when I was told to kiss my little
brother. It was
the first time that I had touched Death. That black
spot made a
curious impression on me, and long afterwards, asking what
had caused it,
I was told that at the moment after his death my mother
had
passionately kissed the baby brow. Pathetic thought, that the
mother's kiss
of farewell should have been marked by the first sign of
corruption on
the child's face!
I do not
mention these stories because they are in any fashion
remarkable or
out of the way, but only to show that the sensitiveness
to impressions
other than physical ones, that was a marked feature in
my own
childhood, was present also in the family to which I belonged.
For the
physical nature is inherited from parents, and sensitiveness
to psychic
impressions is a property of the physical body; in our
family, as in
so many Irish ones, belief in "ghosts" of all
descriptions
was general, and my mother has told me of the banshee
that she had
heard wailing when the death-hour of one of the family
was near. To me
in my childhood, elves and fairies of all sorts were
very real
things, and my dolls were as really children as I was myself
a child. Punch
and Judy were living entities, and the tragedy in which
they bore part
cost me many an agony of tears; to this day I can
remember running
away when I heard the squawk of the coming Punch, and
burying my head
in the pillows that I might shut out the sound of the
blows and the
cry of the ill-used baby. All the objects about me were
to me alive,
the flowers that I kissed as much as the kitten I petted,
and I used to
have a splendid time "making believe" and living out all
sorts of lovely
stories among my treasured and so-called inanimate
playthings. But
there was a more serious side to this dreamful fancy
when it joined
hands with religion.
CHAPTER II.
EARLY
CHILDHOOD.
And now began
my mother's time of struggle and of anxiety. Hitherto,
since her
marriage, she had known no money troubles, for her husband
was earning a
good income; he was apparently vigorous and well: no
thought of
anxiety clouded their future. When he died, he believed
that he left
his wife and children safe, at least, from pecuniary
distress. It
was not so. I know nothing of the details, but the
outcome of all
was that nothing was left for the widow and children,
save a trifle
of ready money. The resolve to which my mother came was
characteristic.
Two of her husband's relatives, Western and Sir
William Wood,
offered to educate her son at a good city school, and to
start him in
commercial life, using their great city influence to push
him forward.
But the young lad's father and mother had talked of a
different
future for their eldest boy; he was to go to a public
school, and
then to the University, and was to enter one of the
"learned
professions"--to take orders, the mother wished; to go to the
Bar, the father
hoped. On his death-bed there was nothing more
earnestly urged
by my father than that Harry should receive the best
possible
education, and the widow was resolute to fulfil that last
wish. In her
eyes, a city school was not "the best possible
education,"
and the Irish pride rebelled against the idea of her son
not being
"a University man." Many were the lectures poured out on the
young widow's
head about her "foolish pride," especially by the female
members of the
Wood family; and her persistence in her own way caused
a considerable
alienation between herself and them. But Western and
William, though
half-disapproving, remained her friends, and lent many
a helping hand
to her in her first difficult struggles. After much
cogitation, she
resolved that the boy should be educated at Harrow,
where the fees
are comparatively low to lads living in the town, and
that he should
go thence to Cambridge or to Oxford, as his tastes
should direct.
A bold scheme for a penniless widow, but carried out to
the letter; for
never dwelt in a delicate body a more resolute mind
and will than
that of my dear mother.
In a few
months' time--during which we lived, poorly enough, in
Richmond Terrace,
Clapham, close to her father and mother--to Harrow,
then, she
betook herself, into lodgings over a grocer's shop, and set
herself to look
for a house. This grocer was a very pompous man, fond
of long words,
and patronised the young widow exceedingly, and one day
my mother
related with much amusement how he had told her that she was
sure to get on
if she worked hard. "Look at me!" he said, swelling
visibly with
importance; "I was once a poor boy, without a penny of my
own, and now I
am a comfortable man, and have my submarine villa to go
to every
evening." That "submarine villa" was an object of amusement
when we passed
it in our walks for many a long day.
"There is
Mr. ----'s submarine villa," some one would say, laughing:
and I, too, used
to laugh merrily, because my elders did, though my
understanding
of the difference between suburban and submarine was on
a par with that
of the honest grocer.
My mother had
fortunately found a boy, whose parents were glad to place
him in her
charge, of about the age of her own son, to educate with
him; and by
this means she was able to pay for a tutor, to prepare the
two boys for
school. The tutor had a cork leg, which was a source of
serious trouble
to me, for it stuck out straight behind when we knelt
down to family
prayers--conduct which struck me as irreverent and
unbecoming, but
which I always felt a desire to imitate. After about a
year my mother
found a house which she thought would suit her scheme,
namely, to
obtain permission from Dr. Vaughan, the then head-master of
Harrow, to take
some boys into her house, and so gain means of
education for
her own son. Dr. Vaughan, who must have been won by the
gentle, strong,
little woman, from that time forth became her earnest
friend and helper;
and to the counsel and active assistance both of
himself and of
his wife, was due much of the success that crowned her
toil. He made
only one condition in granting the permission she asked,
and that was,
that she should also have in her house one of the masters
of the school,
so that the boys should not suffer from the want of a
house-tutor.
This condition, of course, she readily accepted, and the
arrangement
lasted for ten years, until after her son had left school
for Cambridge.
The house she
took is now, I am sorry to say, pulled down, and
replaced by a
hideous red-brick structure. It was very old and
rambling,
rose-covered in front, ivy-covered behind; it stood on the
top of Harrow
Hill, between the church and the school, and had once
been the
vicarage of the parish, but the vicar had left it because it
was so far
removed from the part of the village where all his work
lay. The
drawing-room opened by an old-fashioned half-window,
half-door--which
proved a constant source of grief to me, for whenever
I had on a new
frock I always tore it on the bolt as I flew
through--into a
large garden which sloped down one side of the hill,
and was filled
with the most delightful old trees, fir and laurel,
may, mulberry,
hazel, apple, pear, and damson, not to mention currant
and gooseberry
bushes innumerable, and large strawberry beds spreading
down the sunny
slopes. There was not a tree there that I did not
climb, and one,
a widespreading Portugal laurel, was my private
country house.
I had there my bedroom and my sitting-rooms, my study,
and my larder.
The larder was supplied by the fruit-trees, from which
I was free to
pick as I would, and in the study I would sit for hours
with some
favourite book--Milton's "Paradise Lost" the chief favourite
of all. The
birds must often have felt startled, when from the small
swinging form
perching on a branch, came out in childish tones the
"Thrones,
dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers," of Milton's
stately and
sonorous verse. I liked to personify Satan, and to declaim
the grand
speeches of the hero-rebel, and many a happy hour did I pass
in Milton's
heaven and hell, with for companions Satan and "the Son,"
Gabriel and
Abdiel. Then there was a terrace running by the side of
the churchyard,
always dry in the wettest weather, and bordered by an
old wooden
fence, over which clambered roses of every shade; never was
such a garden
for roses as that of the Old Vicarage. At the end of the
terrace was a
little summer-house, and in this a trap-door in the
fence, which
swung open and displayed one of the fairest views in
England. Sheer
from your feet downwards went the hill, and then far
below stretched
the wooded country till your eye reached the towers of
Windsor Castle,
far away on the horizon. It was the view at which
Byron was never
tired of gazing, as he lay on the flat tombstone close
by--Byron's
tomb, as it is still called--of which he wrote:--
"Again I behold where for hours I have
pondered,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I
lay,
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I
wandered,
To catch the last gleam of the sun's
setting ray."
Reader mine, if
ever you go to Harrow, ask permission to enter the old
garden, and try
the effect of that sudden burst of beauty, as you
swing back the
small trap-door at the terrace end.
Into this house
we moved on my eighth birthday, and for eleven years it
was
"home" to me, left always with regret, returned to always with joy.
Almost
immediately afterwards I left my mother for the first time; for
one day,
visiting a family who lived close by, I found a stranger
sitting in the
drawing-room, a lame lady with a strong face, which
softened
marvellously as she smiled at the child who came dancing in;
she called me
to her presently, and took me on her lap and talked to
me, and on the
following day our friend came to see my mother, to ask
if she would
let me go away and be educated with this lady's niece,
coming home for
the holidays regularly, but leaving my education in
her hands. At
first my mother would not hear of it, for she and I
scarcely ever
left each other; my love for her was an idolatry, hers
for me a
devotion. (A foolish little story, about which I was
unmercifully
teased for years, marked that absolute idolatry of her,
which has not
yet faded from my heart. In tenderest rallying one day
of the child
who trotted after her everywhere, content to sit, or
stand, or wait,
if only she might touch hand or dress of "mamma," she
said:
"Little one" (the name by which she always called me), "if you
cling to mamma
in this way, I must really get a string and tie you to
my apron, and
how will you like that?" "O mamma, darling," came the
fervent answer,
"do let it be in a knot." And, indeed, the tie of love
between us was
so tightly knotted that nothing ever loosened it till
the sword of
Death cut that which pain and trouble never availed to
slacken in the
slightest degree.) But it was urged upon her that the
advantages of
education offered were such as no money could purchase
for me; that it
would be a disadvantage for me to grow up in a
houseful of
boys--and, in truth, I was as good a cricketer and climber
as the best of
them--that my mother would soon be obliged to send me
to school,
unless she accepted an offer which gave me every advantage
of school
without its disadvantages. At last she yielded, and it was
decided that
Miss Marryat, on returning home, should take me with her.
Miss
Marryat--the favourite sister of Captain Marryat, the famous
novelist--was a
maiden lady of large means. She had nursed her brother
through the
illness that ended in his death, and had been living with
her mother at
Wimbledon Park. On her mother's death she looked round
for work which
would make her useful in the world, and finding that one
of her brothers
had a large family of girls, she offered to take charge
of one of them,
and to educate her thoroughly. Chancing to come to
Harrow, my good
fortune threw me in her way, and she took a fancy to
me and thought
she would like to teach two little girls rather than
one. Hence her
offer to my mother.
Miss Marryat
had a perfect genius for teaching, and took in it the
greatest
delight. From time to time she added another child to our
party,
sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl. At first, with Amy Marryat
and myself,
there was a little boy, Walter Powys, son of a clergyman
with a large
family, and him she trained for some years, and then sent
him on to
school admirably prepared. She chose "her children"--as she
loved to call
us--in very definite fashion. Each must be gently born
and gently
trained, but in such position that the education freely
given should be
a relief and aid to a slender parental purse. It was
her delight to
seek out and aid those on whom poverty presses most
heavily, when
the need for education for the children weighs on the
proud and the
poor. "Auntie" we all called her, for she thought "Miss
Marryat"
seemed too cold and stiff. She taught us everything herself
except music,
and for this she had a master, practising us in
composition, in
recitation, in reading aloud English and French, and
later, German,
devoting herself to training us in the soundest, most
thorough
fashion. No words of mine can tell how much I owe her, not
only of
knowledge, but of that love of knowledge which has remained
with me ever
since as a constant spur to study.
Her method of
teaching may be of interest to some, who desire to train
children with
least pain, and the most enjoyment to the little ones
themselves.
First, we never used a spelling-book--that torment of the
small
child--nor an English grammar. But we wrote letters, telling of
the things we
had seen in our walks, or told again some story we had
read; these
childish compositions she would read over with us,
correcting all
faults of spelling, of grammar, of style, of cadence; a
clumsy sentence
would be read aloud, that we might hear how unmusical
it sounded, an
error in observation or expression pointed out. Then, as
the letters
recorded what we had seen the day before, the faculty of
observation was
drawn out and trained. "Oh, dear! I have nothing to
say!"
would come from a small child, hanging over a slate. "Did you not
go out for a
walk yesterday?" Auntie would question. "Yes," would be
sighed out;
"but there's nothing to say about it." "Nothing to say! And
you walked in
the lanes for an hour and saw nothing, little No-eyes?
You must use
your eyes better to-day." Then there was a very favourite
"lesson,"
which proved an excellent way of teaching spelling. We used
to write out
lists of all the words we could think of which sounded the
same but were
differently spelt. Thus: "key, quay," "knight, night,"
and so on, and
great was the glory of the child who found the largest
number. Our
French lessons--as the German later--included reading from
the very first.
On the day on which we began German we began reading
Schiller's
"Wilhelm Tell," and the verbs given to us to copy out were
those that had
occurred in the reading. We learned much by heart, but
always things
that in themselves were worthy to be learned. We were
never given the
dry questions and answers which lazy teachers so much
affect. We were
taught history by one reading aloud while the others
worked--the
boys as well as the girls learning the use of the needle.
"It's like
a girl to sew," said a little fellow, indignantly, one day.
"It is
like a baby to have to run after a girl if you want a button
sewn on,"
quoth Auntie. Geography was learned by painting skeleton
maps--an exercise
much delighted in by small fingers--and by putting
together puzzle
maps, in which countries in the map of a continent, or
counties in the
map of a country, were always cut out in their proper
shapes. I liked
big empires in those days; there was a solid
satisfaction in
putting down Russia, and seeing what a large part of
the map was
filled up thereby.
The only
grammar that we ever learned as grammar was the Latin, and
that not until
composition had made us familiar with the use of the
rules therein
given. Auntie had a great horror of children learning by
rote things
they did not understand, and then fancying they knew them.
"What do
you mean by that expression, Annie?" she would ask me. After
feeble attempts
to explain, I would answer: "Indeed, Auntie, I know in
my own head,
but I can't explain." "Then, indeed, Annie, you do not
know in your
own head, or you could explain, so that I might know in my
own head."
And so a healthy habit was fostered of clearness of thought
and of
expression. The Latin grammar was used because it was more
perfect than
the modern grammars, and served as a solid foundation for
modern
languages.
Miss Marryat
took a beautiful place, Fern Hill, near Charmouth, in
Dorsetshire, on
the borders of Devon, and there she lived for some five
years, a centre
of beneficence in the district. She started a Sunday
School, and a
Bible Class after awhile for the lads too old for the
school, who
clamoured for admission to her class in it. She visited the
poor, taking
help wherever she went, and sending food from her own
table to the
sick. It was characteristic of her that she would never
give
"scraps" to the poor, but would have a basin brought in at dinner,
and would cut
the best slice to tempt the invalid appetite. Money she
rarely, if
ever, gave, but she would find a day's work, or busy herself
to seek
permanent employment for any one seeking aid. Stern in
rectitude
herself, and iron to the fawning or the dishonest, her
influence,
whether she was feared or loved, was always for good. Of the
strictest sect
of the Evangelicals, she was an Evangelical. On the
Sunday no books
were allowed save the Bible or the "Sunday at Home";
but she would
try to make the day bright by various little devices; by
a walk with her
in the garden; by the singing of hymns, always
attractive to
children; by telling us wonderful missionary stories of
Moffat and
Livingstone, whose adventures with savages and wild beasts
were as
exciting as any tale of Mayne Reid's. We used to learn passages
from the Bible
and hymns for repetition; a favourite amusement was a
"Bible
puzzle," such as a description of some Bible scene, which was to
be recognised
by the description. Then we taught in the Sunday School,
for Auntie
would tell us that it was useless for us to learn if we did
not try to help
those who had no one to teach them. The Sunday-school
lessons had to
be carefully prepared on the Saturday, for we were
always taught
that work given to the poor should be work that cost
something to
the giver. This principle, regarded by her as an
illustration of
the text, "Shall I give unto the Lord my God that which
has cost me
nothing?" ran through all her precept and her practice.
When in some
public distress we children went to her crying, and asking
whether we
could not help the little children who were starving, her
prompt reply
was, "What will you give up for them?" And then she said
that if we
liked to give up the use of sugar, we might thus each save
sixpence a week
to give away. I doubt if a healthier lesson can be
given to
children than that of personal self-denial for the good of
others.
Daily, when our
lessons were over, we had plenty of fun; long walks and
rides, rides on
a lovely pony, who found small children most amusing,
and on which
the coachman taught us to stick firmly, whatever his
eccentricities
of the moment; delightful all-day picnics in the lovely
country round
Charmouth, Auntie our merriest playfellow. Never was a
healthier home,
physically and mentally, made for young things than in
that quiet
village. And then the delight of the holidays! The pride of
my mother at
the good report of her darling's progress, and the renewal
of acquaintance
with every nook and corner in the dear old house and
garden.
The dreamy
tendency in the child, that on its worldly side is fancy,
imagination, on
its religious side is the germ of mysticism, and I
believe it to
be far more common than many people think. But the
remorseless
materialism of the day--not the philosophic materialism of
the few, but
the religious materialism of the many--crushes out all the
delicate
buddings forth of the childish thought, and bandages the eyes
that might
otherwise see. At first the child does not distinguish
between what it
"sees" and what it "fancies"; the one is as real, as
objective, to
it as the other, and it will talk to and play with its
dream-comrades
as merrily as with children like itself. As a child, I
myself very
much preferred the former, and never knew what it was to be
lonely. But
clumsy grown-ups come along and tramp right through the
dream-garden,
and crush the dream-flowers, and push the dream-children
aside, and then
say, in their loud, harsh voices--not soft and singable
like the
dream-voices--"You must not tell such naughty stories, Miss
Annie; you give
me the shivers, and your mamma will be very vexed with
you." But
this tendency in me was too strong to be stifled, and it
found its food
in the fairy tales I loved, and in the religious
allegories that
I found yet more entrancing. How or when I learned to
read, I do not
know, for I cannot remember the time when a book was not
a delight. At
five years of age I must have read easily, for I remember
being often
unswathed from a delightful curtain, in which I used to
roll myself
with a book, and told to "go and play," while I was still a
five-years'-old
dot. And I had a habit of losing myself so completely
in the book
that my name might be called in the room where I was, and I
never hear it,
so that I used to be blamed for wilfully hiding myself,
when I had
simply been away in fairyland, or lying trembling beneath
some friendly
cabbage-leaf as a giant went by.
I was between
seven and eight years of age when I first came across
some children's
allegories of a religious kind, and a very little
later came
"Pilgrim's Progress," and Milton's "Paradise Lost."
Thenceforth my
busy fancies carried me ever into the fascinating world
where
boy-soldiers kept some outpost for their absent Prince, bearing
a shield with
his sign of a red cross on it; where devils shaped as
dragons came
swooping down on the pilgrim, but were driven away
defeated after
hard struggle; where angels came and talked with little
children, and
gave them some talisman which warned them of coming
danger, and
lost its light if they were leaving the right path. What a
dull, tire-some
world it was that I had to live in, I used to think to
myself, when I
was told to be a good child, and not to lose my temper,
and to be tidy,
and not mess my pinafore at dinner. How much easier to
be a Christian
if one could have a red-cross shield and a white
banner, and
have a real devil to fight with, and a beautiful Divine
Prince to smile
at you when the battle was over. How much more
exciting to
struggle with a winged and clawed dragon, that you knew
meant mischief,
than to look after your temper, that you never
remembered you
ought to keep until you had lost it. If I had been Eve
in the garden,
that old serpent would never have got the better of me;
but how was a
little girl to know that she might not pick out the
rosiest,
prettiest apple from a tree that had no serpent to show it
was a forbidden
one? And as I grew older the dreams and fancies grew
less fantastic,
but more tinged with real enthusiasm. I read tales of
the early
Christian martyrs, and passionately regretted I was born so
late when no
suffering for religion was practicable; I would spend
many an hour in
daydreams, in which I stood before Roman judges,
before
Dominican Inquisitors, was flung to lions, tortured on the
rack, burned at
the stake; one day I saw myself preaching some great
new faith to a
vast crowd of people, and they listened and were
converted, and
I became a great religious leader. But always, with a
shock, I was
brought back to earth, where there were no heroic deeds
to do, no lions
to face, no judges to defy, but only some dull duty to
be performed.
And I used to fret that I was born so late, when all the
grand things
had been done, and when there was no chance of preaching
and suffering
for a new religion.
From the age of
eight my education accented the religious side of my
character.
Under Miss Marryat's training my religious feeling received
a strongly
Evangelical bent, but it was a subject of some distress to
me that I could
never look back to an hour of "conversion"; when
others gave
their experiences, and spoke of the sudden change they had
felt, I used to
be sadly conscious that no such change had occurred in
me, and I felt
that my dreamy longings were very poor things compared
with the
vigorous "sense of sin" spoken of by the preachers, and used
dolefully to
wonder if I were "saved." Then I had an uneasy sense that
I was often
praised for my piety when emulation and vanity were more
to the front
than religion; as when I learned by heart the Epistle of
James, far more
to distinguish myself for my good memory than from any
love of the
text itself; the sonorous cadences of many parts of the
Old and New
Testaments pleased my ear, and I took a dreamy pleasure in
repeating them
aloud, just as I would recite for my own amusement
hundreds of
lines of Milton's "Paradise Lost," as I sat swinging on
some branch of
a tree, lying back often on some swaying bough and
gazing into the
unfathomable blue of the sky, till I lost myself in an
ecstasy of
sound and colour, half chanting the melodious sentences and
peopling all
the blue with misty forms. This facility of learning by
heart, and the
habit of dreamy recitation, made me very familiar with
the Bible and
very apt with its phrases. This stood me in good stead
at the
prayer-meetings dear to the Evangelical, in which we all took
part; in turn
we were called on to pray aloud--a terrible ordeal to
me, for I was
painfully shy when attention was called to me; I used to
suffer agonies
while I waited for the dreaded words, "Now, Annie dear,
will you speak
to our Lord." But when my trembling lips had forced
themselves into
speech, all the nervousness used to vanish and I was
swept away by
an enthusiasm that readily clothed itself in balanced
sentences, and
alack! at the end, I too often hoped that God and
Auntie had
noticed that I prayed very nicely--a vanity certainly not
intended to be
fostered by the pious exercise. On the whole, the
somewhat
Calvinistic teaching tended, I think, to make me a little
morbid,
especially as I always fretted silently after my mother. I
remember she
was surprised on one of my home-comings, when Miss
Marryat noted
"cheerfulness" as a want in my character, for at home I
was ever the
blithest of children, despite my love of solitude; but
away, there was
always an aching for home, and the stern religion cast
somewhat of a
shadow over me, though, strangely enough, hell never
came into my
dreamings except in the interesting shape it took in
"Paradise
Lost." After reading that, the devil was to me no horned and
hoofed horror,
but the beautiful shadowed archangel, and I always
hoped that
Jesus, my ideal Prince, would save him in the end. The
things that
really frightened me were vague, misty presences that I
felt were near,
but could not see; they were so real that I knew just
where they were
in the room, and the peculiar terror they excited lay
largely in the
feeling that I was just going to see them. If by chance
I came across a
ghost story it haunted me for months, for I saw
whatever
unpleasant spectre was described; and there was one horrid
old woman in a
tale by Sir Walter Scott, who glided up to the foot of
your bed and
sprang on it in some eerie fashion and glared at you, and
who made my
going to bed a terror to me for many weeks. I can still
recall the
feeling so vividly that it almost frightens me now!
CHAPTER III.
GIRLHOOD.
In the spring
of 1861 Miss Marryat announced her intention of going
abroad, and
asked my dear mother to let me accompany her. A little
nephew whom she
had adopted was suffering from cataract, and she
desired to
place him under the care of the famous Düsseldorf oculist.
Amy Marryat had
been recalled home soon after the death of her mother,
who had died in
giving birth to the child adopted by Miss Marryat, and
named at her
desire after her favourite brother Frederick (Captain
Marryat). Her
place had been taken by a girl a few months older than
myself, Emma Mann,
one of the daughters of a clergyman, who had
married Miss
Stanley, closely related, indeed, if I remember rightly,
a sister of the
Miss Mary Stanley who did such noble work in nursing
in the Crimea.
For some months
we had been diligently studying German, for Miss
Marryat thought
it wise that we should know a language fairly well
before we
visited the country of which it was the native tongue. We
had been
trained also to talk French daily during dinner, so we were
not quite
"helpless foreigners" when we steamed away from St.
Catherine's
Docks, and found ourselves on the following day in
Antwerp, amid
what seemed to us a very Babel of conflicting tongues.
Alas for our
carefully spoken French, articulated laboriously! We were
lost in that
swirl of disputing luggage-porters, and could not
understand a
word! But Miss Marryat was quite equal to the occasion,
being by no
means new to travelling, and her French stood the test
triumphantly,
and steered us safely to a hotel. On the morrow we
started again
through Aix-la-Chapelle to Bonn, the town which lies on
the borders of
the exquisite scenery of which the Siebengebirge and
Rolandseck
serve as the magic portal. Our experiences in Bonn were not
wholly
satisfactory. Dear Auntie was a maiden lady, looking on all
young men as
wolves to be kept far from her growing lambs. Bonn was a
university
town, and there was a mania just then prevailing there for
all things
English. Emma was a plump, rosy, fair-haired typical
English maiden,
full of frolic and harmless fun; I a very slight,
pale,
black-haired girl, alternating between wild fun and extreme
pensiveness. In
the boarding-house to which we went at first--the
"Château
du Rhin," a beautiful place overhanging the broad, blue
Rhine--there
chanced to be staying the two sons of the late Duke of
Hamilton, the
Marquis of Douglas and Lord Charles, with their tutor.
They had the
whole drawing-room floor: we a sitting-room on the ground
floor and
bedrooms above. The lads discovered that Miss Marryat did
not like her
"children" to be on speaking terms with any of the "male
sect."
Here was a fine
source of amusement. They would make their horses
caracole on the
gravel in front of our window; they would be just
starting for
their ride as we went for walk or drive, and would salute
us with doffed
hat and low bow; they would waylay us on our way
downstairs with
demure "Good morning"; they would go to church and
post themselves
so that they could survey our pew, and Lord
Charles--who
possessed the power of moving at will the whole skin of
the
scalp--would wriggle his hair up and down till we were choking
with laughter,
to our own imminent risk. After a month of this Auntie
was literally
driven out of the pretty château, and took refuge in a
girls' school,
much to our disgust; but still she was not allowed to
be at rest.
Mischievous students would pursue us wherever we went;
sentimental
Germans, with gashed cheeks, would whisper complimentary
phrases as we
passed; mere boyish nonsense of most harmless kind, but
the rather
stern English lady thought it "not proper," and after three
months of Bonn
we were sent home for the holidays, somewhat in
disgrace. But
we had some lovely excursions during those months; such
clambering up
mountains, such rows on the swift-flowing Rhine, such
wanderings in
exquisite valleys. I have a long picture-gallery to
retire into
when I want to think of something fair, in recalling the
moon as it
silvered the Rhine at the foot of Drachenfels, or the soft,
mist-veiled
island where dwelt the lady who is consecrated for ever by
Roland's love.
A couple of
months later we rejoined Miss Marryat in Paris, where we
spent seven
happy, workful months. On Wednesdays and Saturdays we were
free from
lessons, and many a long afternoon was passed in the
galleries of
the Louvre, till we became familiar with the masterpieces
of art gathered
there from all lands. I doubt if there was a beautiful
church in Paris
that we did not visit during those weekly wanderings;
that of St.
Germain de l'Auxerrois was my favourite--the church whose
bell gave the
signal for the massacre of St. Bartholomew--for it
contained such
marvellous stained glass, deepest, purest glory of
colour that I
had ever seen. The solemn beauty of Notre Dame, the
somewhat gaudy
magnificence of La Sainte Chapelle, the stateliness of
La Madeleine,
the impressive gloom of St. Roch, were all familiar to
us. Other
delights were found in mingling with the bright crowds which
passed along
the Champs Elysees and sauntered in the Bois de Boulogne,
in strolling in
the garden of the Tuileries, in climbing to the top of
every monument
whence view of Paris could be gained. The Empire was
then in its
heyday of glitter, and we much enjoyed seeing the
brilliant escort
of the imperial carriage, with plumes and gold and
silver dancing
and glistening in the sunlight, while in the carriage
sat the
exquisitely lovely empress, with the little boy beside her,
touching his
cap shyly, but with something of her own grace, in answer
to a
greeting--the boy who was thought to be born to an imperial
crown, but
whose brief career was to find an ending from the spears of
savages in a
quarrel in which he had no concern.
In the spring
of 1862 it chanced that the Bishop of Ohio visited
Paris, and Mr.
Forbes, then English chaplain at the Church of the Rue
d'Aguesseau,
arranged to have a confirmation. As said above, I was
under deep
"religious impressions," and, in fact, with the exception
of that little
aberration in Germany, I was decidedly a pious girl. I
looked on
theatres (never having been to one) as traps set by Satan
for the
destruction of foolish souls; I was quite determined never to
go to a ball,
and was prepared to "suffer for conscience' sake
"--little
prig that I was--if I was desired to go to one. I was
consequently
quite prepared to take upon myself the vows made in my
name at my
baptism, and to renounce the world, the flesh, and the
devil, with a
heartiness and sincerity only equalled by my profound
ignorance of
the things I so readily resigned. That confirmation was
to me a very
solemn matter; the careful preparation, the prolonged
prayers, the
wondering awe as to the "seven-fold gifts of the Spirit,"
which were to
be given by "the laying on of hands," all tended to
excitement. I
could scarcely control myself as I knelt at the altar
rails, and felt
as though the gentle touch of the aged bishop, which
fluttered for
an instant on my bowed head, were the very touch of the
wing of that
"Holy Spirit, heavenly Dove," whose presence had been so
earnestly
invoked. Is there anything easier, I wonder, than to make a
young and
sensitive girl "intensely religious"? This stay in Paris
roused into
activity an aspect of my religious nature that had
hitherto been
latent. I discovered the sensuous enjoyment that lay in
introducing
colour and fragrance and pomp into religious services, so
that the
gratification of the aesthetic emotions became dignified with
the garb of
piety. The picture-galleries of the Louvre, crowded with
Madonnas and
saints, the Roman Catholic churches with their
incense-laden
air and exquisite music, brought a new joy into my life,
a more vivid
colour to my dreams. Insensibly, the colder, cruder
Evangelicalism
that I had never thoroughly assimilated, grew warmer
and more
brilliant, and the ideal Divine Prince of my childhood took
on the more
pathetic lineaments of the Man of Sorrows, the deeper
attractiveness
of the suffering Saviour of Men. Keble's "Christian
Year" took
the place of "Paradise Lost," and as my girlhood began to
bud towards
womanhood, all its deeper currents set in the direction of
religious
devotion. My mother did not allow me to read love stories,
and my
daydreams of the future were scarcely touched by any of the
ordinary hopes
and fears of a girl lifting her eyes towards the world
she is shortly
to enter. They were filled with broodings over the days
when
girl-martyrs were blessed with visions of the King of Martyrs,
when sweet St.
Agnes saw her celestial Bridegroom, and angels stooped
to whisper
melodies in St. Cecilia's raptured ear. "Why then and not
now?" my
heart would question, and I would lose myself in these
fancies, never
happier than when alone.
The summer of
1862 was spent with Miss Marryat at Sidmouth, and, wise
woman that she
was, she now carefully directed our studies with a view
to our coming
enfranchisement from the "schoolroom." More and more
were we trained
to work alone; our leading-strings were slackened, so
that we never
felt them save when we blundered; and I remember that
when I once
complained, in loving fashion, that she was "teaching me
so
little," she told me that I was getting old enough to be trusted to
work by myself,
and that I must not expect to "have Auntie for a
crutch all
through life." And I venture to say that this gentle
withdrawal of
constant supervision and teaching was one of the wisest
and kindest
things that this noble-hearted woman ever did for us. It
is the usual
custom to keep girls in the schoolroom until they "come
out";
then, suddenly, they are left to their own devices, and,
bewildered by
their unaccustomed freedom, they waste time that might
be priceless
for their intellectual growth. Lately, the opening of
universities to
women has removed this danger for the more ambitious;
but at the time
of which I am writing no one dreamed of the changes
soon to be made
in the direction of the "higher education of women."
During the
winter of 1862-63 Miss Marryat was in London, and for a few
months I remained
there with her, attending the admirable French
classes of M.
Roche. In the spring I returned home to Harrow, going up
each week to
the classes; and when these were over, Auntie told me
that she
thought all she could usefully do was done, and that it was
time that I
should try my wings alone. So well, however, had she
succeeded in
her aims, that my emancipation from the schoolroom was
but the
starting-point of more eager study, though now the study
turned into the
lines of thought towards which my personal tendencies
most attracted
me. German I continued to read with a master, and
music, under
the marvellously able teaching of Mr. John Farmer,
musical
director of Harrow School, took up much of my time. My dear
mother had a
passion for music, and Beethoven and Bach were her
favourite
composers. There was scarcely a sonata of Beethoven's that I
did not learn,
scarcely a fugue of Bach's that I did not master.
Mendelssohn's
"Lieder" gave a lighter recreation, and many a happy
evening did we
spend, my mother and I, over the stately strains of the
blind Titan,
and the sweet melodies of the German wordless orator.
Musical
"At Homes," too, were favourite amusements at Harrow, and at
these my facile
fingers made me a welcome guest.
Thus set free
from the schoolroom at 16˝, an only daughter, I could do
with my time as
I would, save for the couple of hours a day given to
music, for the
satisfaction of my mother. From then till I became
engaged, just
before I was 19, my life flowed on smoothly, one current
visible to all
and dancing in the sunlight, the other running
underground,
but full and deep and strong. As regards my outer life,
no girl had a
brighter, happier life than mine; studying all the
mornings and
most of the afternoons in my own way, and spending the
latter part of
the day in games and walks and rides--varied with
parties at
which I was one of the merriest of guests. I practised
archery so
zealously that I carried up triumphantly as prize for the
best score the
first ring I ever possessed, while croquet found me a
most eager
devotee. My darling mother certainly "spoiled" me, so far
as were
concerned all the small roughnesses of life. She never allowed
a trouble of
any kind to touch me, and cared only that all worries
should fall on
her, all joys on me. I know now what I never dreamed
then, that her
life was one of serious anxiety. The heavy burden of my
brother's
school and college life pressed on her constantly, and her
need of money
was often serious. A lawyer whom she trusted absolutely
cheated her
systematically, using for his own purposes the remittances
she made for
payment of liabilities, thus keeping upon her a constant
drain. Yet for
me all that was wanted was ever there. Was it a ball to
which we were going?
I need never think of what I would wear till the
time for
dressing arrived, and there laid out ready for me was all I
wanted, every
detail complete from top to toe. No hand but hers must
dress my hair,
which, loosed, fell in dense curly masses nearly to my
knees; no hand
but hers must fasten dress and deck with flowers, and
if I sometimes
would coaxingly ask if I might not help by sewing in
laces, or by
doing some trifle in aid, she would kiss me and bid me
run to my books
or my play, telling me that her only pleasure in life
was caring for
her "treasure." Alas! how lightly we take the
self-denying
labour that makes life so easy, ere yet we have known
what life means
when the protecting motherwing is withdrawn. So
guarded and
shielded had been my childhood and youth from every touch
of pain and
anxiety that love could bear for me, that I never dreamed
that life might
be a heavy burden, save as I saw it in the poor I was
sent to help;
all the joy of those happy years I took, not
ungratefully I
hope, but certainly with as glad unconsciousness of
anything rare
in it as I took the sunlight. Passionate love, indeed, I
gave to my
darling, but I never knew all I owed her till I passed out
of her tender
guardianship, till I left my mother's home. Is such
training wise?
I am not sure. It makes the ordinary roughnesses of
life come with
so stunning a shock, when one goes out into the world,
that one is apt
to question whether some earlier initiation into
life's sterner
mysteries would not be wiser for the young. Yet it is a
fair thing to
have that joyous youth to look back upon, and at least
it is a
treasury of memory that no thief can steal in the struggles of
later life.
"Sunshine" they called me in those bright days of merry
play and earnest
study. But that study showed the bent of my thought
and linked
itself to the hidden life; for the Fathers of the early
Christian
Church now became my chief companions, and I pored over the
Shepherd of
Hernias, the Epistles of Polycarp, Barnabas, Ignatius, and
Clement, the
commentaries of Chrysostom, the confessions of Augustine.
With these I
studied the writings of Pusey, Liddon, and Keble, with
many another
smaller light, joying in the great conception of a
Catholic
Church, lasting through the centuries, built on the
foundations of
apostles and of martyrs, stretching from the days of
Christ Himself
down to our own--"One Lord, one Faith one Baptism," and
I myself a
child of that Holy Church. The hidden life grew stronger,
constantly fed
by these streams of study; weekly communion became the
centre round
which my devotional life revolved, with its ecstatic
meditation, its
growing intensity of conscious contact with the
Divine; I
fasted, according to the ordinances of the Church;
occasionally
flagellated myself to see if I could bear physical pain,
should I be
fortunate enough ever to tread the pathway trodden by the
saints; and
ever the Christ was the figure round which clustered all
my hopes and
longings, till I often felt that the very passion of, my
devotion would
draw Him down from His throne in heaven, present
visibly in form
as I felt Him invisibly in spirit. To serve Him
through His
Church became more and more a definite ideal in my life,
and my thoughts
began to turn towards some kind of "religious life,"
in which I
might prove my love by sacrifice and turn my passionate
gratitude into
active service.
Looking back
to-day over my life, I see that its keynote--through all
the blunders,
and the blind mistakes, and clumsy follies--has been
this longing
for sacrifice to something felt as greater than the self.
It has been so
strong and so persistent that I recognise it now as a
tendency
brought over from a previous life and dominating the present
one; and this
is shown by the fact that to follow it is not the act of
a deliberate
and conscious will, forcing self into submission and
giving up with
pain something the heart desires, but the following it
is a joyous
springing forward along the easiest path, the "sacrifice"
being the
supremely attractive thing, not to make which would be to
deny the
deepest longings of the soul, and to feel oneself polluted
and
dishonoured. And it is here that the misjudgment comes in of many
generous hearts
who have spoken sometimes lately so strongly in my
praise. For the
efforts to serve have not been painful acts of
self-denial,
but the yielding to an overmastering desire. We do not
praise the
mother who, impelled by her protecting love, feeds her
crying infant
and stills its wailings at her breast; rather should we
blame her if
she turned aside from its weeping to play with some toy.
And so with all
those whose ears are opened to the wailings of the
great orphan
Humanity; they are less to be praised for helping than
they would be to
be blamed if they stood aside. I now know that it is
those wailings
that have stirred my heart through life, and that I
brought with me
the ears open to hear them from previous lives of
service paid to
men. It was those lives that drew for the child the
alluring
pictures of martyrdom, breathed into the girl the passion of
devotion, sent
the woman out to face scoff and odium, and drove her
finally into
the Theosophy that rationalises sacrifice, while opening
up
possibilities of service beside which all other hopes grow pale.
The Easter of
1866 was a memorable date in my life. I was introduced
to the
clergyman I married, and I met and conquered my first religious
doubt. A little
mission church had been opened the preceding Christmas
in a very poor
district of Clapham. My grandfather's house was near at
hand, in Albert
Square, and a favourite aunt and myself devoted
ourselves a
good deal to this little church, as enthusiastic girls and
women will. At
Easter we decorated it with spring flowers, with dewy
primroses and
fragrant violets, and with the yellow bells of the wild
daffodil, to
the huge delight of the poor who crowded in, and of the
little London
children who had, many of them, never seen a flower.
Here I met the
Rev. Frank Besant, a young Cambridge man, who had just
taken orders,
and was serving the little mission church as deacon;
strange that at
the same time I should meet the man I was to marry,
and the doubts
which were to break the marriage tie. For in the Holy
Week preceding
that Easter Eve, I had been--as English and Roman
Catholics are
wont to do--trying to throw the mind back to the time
when the
commemorated events occurred, and to follow, step by step,
the last days
of the Son of Man, living, as it were, through those
last hours, so
that I might be ready to kneel before the cross on Good
Friday, to
stand beside the sepulchre on Easter Day. In order to
facilitate the
realisation of those last sacred days of God incarnate
on earth,
working out man's salvation, I resolved to write a brief
history of that
week, compiled from the Four Gospels, meaning them to
try and realise
each day the occurrences that had happened on the
corresponding
date in A.D. 33, and so to follow those "blessed feet"
step by step,
till they were
"...
nailed for our advantage to the bitter cross."
With the
fearlessness which springs from ignorance I sat down to my
task. My method
was as follows:--
MATTHEW. |
MARK. | LUKE.
| JOHN.
| | |
PALM SUNDAY. | PALM SUNDAY. | PALM SUNDAY. | PALM SUNDAY.
| | |
Rode into | Rode into | Rode into | Rode into
Jerusalem. | Jerusalem. | Jerusalem. | Jerusalem.
Purified the | Returned to | Purified the | Spoke in
Temple. Returned | Bethany. | Temple. | the Temple.
to Bethany. | | Note: "Taught |
| | daily in the |
| | temple." |
| | |
MONDAY. |
MONDAY. | MONDAY.
| MONDAY.
| | |
Cursed the | Cursed the | Like Matthew. | ----
fig-tree. | fig-tree. | |
Taught in the | Purified the | |
Temple, and spake | Temple. Went | |
many parables. | out of city. | |
No breaks shown, | | |
but the fig-tree | | |
(xxi.19) did not | | |
wither till | | |
Tuesday (see |
| |
Mark). | | |
| | |
TUESDAY. |
TUESDAY. | TUESDAY.
| TUESDAY.
| | |
All chaps. xxi. | Saw fig-tree | Discourses |
----
20, xxii.-xxv., | withered up. | No date |
spoken on | Then . | shown. |
Tuesday, for xxvi. | discourses | |
2 gives Passover |
| |
as "after two | | |
days." | | |
| | |
WEDNESDAY. |
WEDNESDAY. | WEDNESDAY. | WEDNESDAY.
| | |
Blank. |
---- | ----
| ----
(Possibly remained in Bethany; the alabaster
box of oinment.)
| | |
THURSDAY. |
THURSDAY. | THURSDAY.
| THURSDAY.
| | |
Preparation of | Same as Matt.| Same as Matt. |
Discourses
Passover. Eating | | | with disciples,
of Passover, and | | | but _before_ the
institution of the | | | Passover. Washes
Holy Eucharist. | | | the disciples'
Gethsemane. | | | feet. Nothing
Betrayal by Judas. | | | said of Holy
Led captive to | | | Eucharist, nor
Caiaphas. Denied | | | of agony in
by St. Peter. |
| | Gethsemane.
| | | Malchus' ear.
| | | Led captive to
| | | Annas first.
| | | Then to Caiaphas.
| | | Denied
| | | by St. Peter.
| | |
FRIDAY. |
FRIDAY. | FRIDAY.
| FRIDAY
| | |
Led to Pilate. | As Matthew, | Led to | Taken to
Judas hangs | but hour of | Pilate. Sent | Pilate. Jews
himself. Tried. | crucifixion | to Herod. | would not enter,
Condemned to | given, | Sent back to | that they
death. Scourged | 9 a.m. | Pilate. Rest | might eat
and mocked. Led | | as in | the Passover.
to crucifixion. | | Matthew; but | Scourged by
Darkness from 12 | | _one_ | Pilate before
to 3. Died at 3. | | malefactor | condemnation,
| | repents. |
and mocked. Shown
| | | by Pilate to
| | | Jews at 12.
I became uneasy
as I proceeded with my task, for discrepancies leaped
at me from my
four columns; the uneasiness grew as the contradictions
increased,
until I saw with a shock of horror that my "harmony" was a
discord, and a
doubt of the veracity of the story sprang up like a
serpent hissing
in my face. It was struck down in a moment, for to me
to doubt was
sin, and to have doubted on the very eve of the Passion
was an added
crime. Quickly I assured myself that these apparent
contradictions
were necessary as tests of faith, and I forced myself
to repeat
Tertullian's famous "Credo quia impossible," till, from a
wooden recital,
it became a triumphant affirmation. I reminded myself
that St. Peter
had said of the Pauline Epistles that in them were
"some
things hard to be understood, which they that are unlearned and
unstable wrest
... unto their own destruction." I shudderingly
recognised that
I must be very unlearned and unstable to find discord
among the Holy
Evangelists, and imposed on myself an extra fast as
penance for my
ignorance and lack of firmness in the faith. For my
mental position
was one to which doubt was one of the worst of sins. I
knew that there
were people like Colenso, who questioned the
infallibility
of the Bible, but I remembered how the Apostle John had
fled from the
Baths when Cerinthus entered them, lest the roof should
fall on the
heretic, and crush any one in his neighbourhood, and I
looked on all
heretics with holy horror. Pusey had indoctrinated me
with his stern
hatred of all heresy, and I was content to rest with
him on that
faith, "which must be old because it is eternal, and must
be unchangeable
because it is true." I would not even read the works
of my mothers
favourite Stanley, because he was "unsound," and because
Pusey had
condemned his "variegated use of words which destroys all
definiteness of
meaning"--a clever and pointed description, be it said
in passing, of
the Dean's exquisite phrases, capable of so many
readings. It
can then be imagined with what a stab of pain this first
doubt struck
me, and with what haste I smothered it up, buried it, and
smoothed the
turf over its grave. _But it had been there_, and it left
its mark.
CHAPTER IV.
MARRIAGE.
The last year
of my girlish freedom was drawing to its close; how shall
I hope to make
commonsense readers understand how I became betrothed
maiden ere yet
nineteen, girl-wife when twenty years had struck?
Looking back
over twenty-five years, I feel a profound pity for the
girl standing
at that critical point of life, so utterly, hopelessly
ignorant of all
that marriage meant, so filled with impossible dreams,
so unfitted for
the _rôle_ of wife. As I have said, my day-dreams held
little place
for love, partly from the absence of love novels from my
reading, partly
from the mystic fancies that twined themselves round
the figure of
the Christ. Catholic books of devotion--English or Roman,
it matters not,
for to a large extent they are translations of the same
hymns and
prayers--are exceedingly glowing in their language, and the
dawning
feelings of womanhood unconsciously lend to them a passionate
fervour. I
longed to spend my time in worshipping Jesus, and was, as
far as my inner
life was concerned, absorbed in that passionate love of
"the
Saviour" which, among emotional Catholics, really is the human
passion of love
transferred to an ideal--for women to Jesus, for men to
the Virgin
Mary. In order to show that I am not here exaggerating, I
subjoin a few
of the prayers in which I found daily delight, and I do
this in order
to show how an emotional girl may be attracted by these
so-called
devotional exercises:--
"O
crucified Love, raise in me fresh ardours of love and consolation,
that it may
henceforth be the greatest torment I can endure ever to
offend Thee;
that it may be my greatest delight to please Thee."
"Let the
remembrance of Thy death, O Lord Jesu, make me to desire and
pant after
Thee, that I may delight in Thy gracious presence."
"O most
sweet Jesu Christ, I, unworthy sinner, yet redeemed by Thy
precious
blood.... Thine I am and will be, in life and in death."
"O Jesu,
beloved, fairer than the sons of men, draw me after Thee with
the cords of
Thy love."
"Blessed
are Thou, O most merciful God, who didst vouchsafe to espouse
me to the
heavenly Bridegroom in the waters of baptism, and hast
imparted Thy
body and blood as a new gift of espousal and the meet
consummation of
Thy love."
"O most
sweet Lord Jesu, transfix the affections of my inmost soul with
that most
joyous and most healthful wound of Thy love, with true,
serene, most
holy, apostolical charity; that my soul may ever languish
and melt with
entire love and longing for Thee. Let it desire Thee and
faint for Thy
courts; long to be dissolved and be with Thee."
"Oh, that
I could embrace Thee with that most burning love of angels."
"Let Him
kiss me with the kisses of His mouth; for Thy love is better
than wine. Draw
me, we will run after Thee. The king hath brought me
into his
chambers.... Let my soul, O Lord, feel the sweetness of Thy
presence. May
it taste how sweet Thou art.... May the sweet and burning
power of Thy
love, I beseech Thee, absorb my soul."
All girls have
in them the germ of passion, and the line of its
development
depends on the character brought into the world, and the
surrounding
influences of education. I had but two ideals in my
childhood and
youth, round whom twined these budding tendrils of
passion; they
were my mother and the Christ. I know this may seem
strange, but I
am trying to state things as they were in this
life-story, and
not give mere conventionalisms, and so it was. I had
men friends,
but no lovers--at least, to my knowledge, for I have since
heard that my
mother received two or three offers of marriage for me,
but declined
them on account of my youth and my childishness--friends
with whom I
liked to talk, because they knew more than I did; but they
had no place in
my day-dreams. These were more and more filled with the
one Ideal Man,
and my hopes turned towards the life of the Sister of
Mercy, who ever
worships the Christ, and devotes her life to the
service of His
poor. I knew my dear mother would set herself against
this idea, but
it nestled warm at my heart, for ever that idea of
escaping from
the humdrum of ordinary life by some complete sacrifice
lured me
onwards with its overmastering fascination.
Now one unlucky
result of this view of religion is the idealisation of
the clergyman,
the special messenger and chosen servant of the Lord.
Far more lofty
than any title bestowed by earthly monarch is that
patent of nobility
straight from the hand of the "King of kings," that
seems to give
to the mortal something of the authority of the immortal,
and to crown
the head of the priest with the diadem that belongs to
those who are
"kings and priests unto God." Viewed in this way, the
position of the
priest's wife seems second only to that of the nun, and
has, therefore,
a wonderful attractiveness, an attractiveness in which
the particular
clergyman affected plays a very subordinate part; it is
the
"sacred office," the nearness to "holy things," the
consecration
which seems to
include the wife--it is these things that shed a glamour
over the
clerical life which attracts most those who are most apt to
self-devotion,
most swayed by imagination. And the saddest pity of all
this is that
the glamour is most over those whose brains are quick,
whose hearts
are pure, who are responsive to all forms of noble
emotions, all
suggestions of personal self-sacrifice; if such in later
life rise to
the higher emotions whose shadows have attracted them, and
to that higher
self-sacrifice whose whispers reached them in their
early youth,
then the false prophet's veil is raised, the poverty of
the conception
seen, and the life is either wrecked, or through
storm-wind and
surge of battling billows, with loss of mast and sail,
is steered by
firm hand into the port of a nobler faith.
That summer of
1866 saw me engaged to the young clergyman I had met at
the mission
church in the spring, our knowledge of each other being an
almost
negligeable quantity. We were thrown together for a week, the
only two young
ones in a small party of holiday-makers, and in our
walks, rides,
and drives we were naturally companions; an hour or two
before he left
he asked me to marry him, taking my consent for granted
as I had
allowed him such full companionship--a perfectly fair
assumption with
girls accustomed to look on all men as possible
husbands, but
wholly mistaken as regarded myself, whose thoughts were
in quite other
directions. Startled, and my sensitive pride touched by
what seemed to
my strict views an assumption that I had been flirting,
I hesitated,
did not follow my first impulse of refusal, but took
refuge in
silence; my suitor had to catch his train, and bound me
over to silence
till he could himself speak to my mother, urging
authoritatively
that it would be dishonourable of me to break his
confidence, and
left me--the most upset and distressed little person
on the Sussex
coast. The fortnight that followed was the first unhappy
one of my life,
for I had a secret from my mother, a secret which I
passionately
longed to tell her, but dared not speak at the risk of
doing a
dishonourable thing. On meeting my suitor on our return to
town I
positively refused to keep silence any longer, and then out
of sheer
weakness and fear of inflicting pain I drifted into an
engagement with
a man I did not pretend to love. "Drifted" is the
right word, for
two or three months passed, on the ground that I was
so much of a
child, before my mother would consent to a definite
engagement; my
dislike of the thought of marriage faded before the
idea of
becoming the wife of a priest, working ever in the Church and
among the poor.
I had no outlet for my growing desire for usefulness
in my happy and
peaceful home-life, where all religious enthusiasm was
regarded as
unbalanced and unbecoming; all that was deepest and truest
in my nature
chafed against my easy, useless days, longed for work,
yearned to
devote itself, as I had read women saints had done, to the
service of the
Church and of the poor, to the battling against sin and
misery--what
empty names sin and misery then were to me! "You will
have more
opportunities for doing good as a clergyman's wife than as
anything
else," was one of the pleas urged on my reluctance.
In the autumn I
was definitely betrothed, and I married fourteen months
later. Once, in
the interval, I tried to break the engagement, but, on
my broaching
the subject to my mother, all her pride rose up in revolt.
Would I, her
daughter, break my word, would I dishonour myself by
jilting a man I
had pledged myself to marry? She could be stern where
honour was
involved, that sweet mother of mine, and I yielded to her
wish as I had
been ever wont to do, for a look or a word from her had
ever been my
law, save where religion was concerned. So I married in
the winter of
1867 with no more idea of the marriage relation than if I
had been four
years old instead of twenty. My dreamy life, into which
no knowledge of
evil had been allowed to penetrate, in which I had been
guarded from
all pain, shielded from all anxiety, kept, innocent on all
questions of
sex, was no preparation for married existence, and left me
defenceless to
face a rude awakening. Looking back on it all, I
deliberately
say that no more fatal blunder can be made than to train a
girl to
womanhood in ignorance of all life's duties and burdens, and
then to let her
face them for the first time away from all the old
associations,
the old helps, the old refuge on the mother's breast.
That
"perfect innocence" may be very beautiful, but it is a perilous
possession, and
Eve should have the knowledge of good and evil ere she
wanders forth
from the paradise of a mother's love. Many an unhappy
marriage dates from
its very beginning, from the terrible shock to a
young girl's
sensitive modesty and pride, her helpless bewilderment and
fear. Men, with
their public school and college education, or the
knowledge that
comes by living in the outside world, may find it hard
to realise the
possibility of such infantile ignorance in many girls.
None the less,
such ignorance is a fact in the case of some girls at
least, and no
mother should let her daughter, blindfold, slip her neck
under the
marriage yoke.
Before leaving
the harbourage of girlhood to set sail on the troublous
sea of life,
there is an occurrence of which I must make mention, as
it marks my
first awakening of interest in the outer world of
political
struggle. In the autumn of 1867 my mother and I were staying
with some dear
friends of ours, the Robertses, at Pendleton, near
Manchester. Mr.
Roberts was "the poor man's lawyer," in the
affectionate
phrase used of him by many a hundred men. He was a close
friend of
Ernest Jones, and was always ready to fight a poor man's
battle without
fee. He worked hard in the agitation which saved women
from working in
the mines, and I have heard him tell how he had seen
them toiling,
naked to the waist, with short petticoats barely
reaching to
their knees, rough, foul-tongued, brutalised out of all
womanly decency
and grace; and how he had seen little children working
there too,
babies of three and four set to watch a door, and falling
asleep at their
work to be roused by curse and kick to the unfair
toil. The old
man's eye would begin to flash and his voice to rise as
he told of
these horrors, and then his face would soften as he added
that, after it
was all over and the slavery was put an end to, as he
went through a
coal district the women standing at their doors would
lift up their
children to see "Lawyer Roberts" go by, and would bid
"God bless
him" for what he had done. This dear old man was my first
tutor in
Radicalism, and I was an apt pupil. I had taken no interest
in politics,
but had unconsciously reflected more or less the decorous
Whiggism which
had always surrounded me. I regarded "the poor" as folk
to be educated,
looked after, charitably dealt with, and always
treated with
most perfect courtesy, the courtesy being due from me, as
a lady, to all
equally, whether they were rich or poor. But to Mr.
Roberts
"the poor" were the working-bees, the wealth producers, with a
right to
self-rule not to looking after, with a right to justice, not
to charity, and
he preached his doctrines to me in season and out of
season. I was a
pet of his, and used often to drive him to his office
in the morning,
glorying much in the fact that my skill was trusted in
guiding a horse
through the crowded Manchester streets. During these
drives, and on
all other available occasions, Mr. Roberts would preach
to me the cause
of the people. "What do you think of John Bright?" he
demanded
suddenly one day, looking at me with fiery eyes from under
heavy brows.
"I have never thought of him at all," was the careless
answer.
"Isn't he a rather rough sort of man, who goes about making
rows?"
"There, I thought so!" he thundered at me fiercely. "That's
just what I
say. I believe some of you fine ladies would not go to
heaven if you
had to rub shoulders with John Bright, the noblest man
God ever gave
to the cause of the poor."
This was the
hot-tempered and lovable "demagogue," as he was called,
with whom we
were staying when Colonel Kelly and Captain Deasy, two
Fenian leaders,
were arrested in Manchester and put on their trial. The
whole Irish
population became seething with excitement, and on
September 18th
the police van carrying them to Salford Gaol was stopped
at the Bellevue
Railway Arch by the sudden fall of one of the horses,
shot from the
side of the road. In a moment the van was surrounded, and
crowbars were
wrenching at the van door. It resisted; a body of police
was rapidly
approaching, and if the rescue was to be effective the door
must be opened.
The rescuers shouted to Brett, the constable inside, to
pass out his
keys; he refused, and some one exclaimed, "Blow off the
lock!" In
a moment the muzzle of a revolver was against the lock, and
it was blown
off; but Brett, stooping down to look through the keyhole,
received the
bullet in his head, and fell dying as the door flew open.
Another moment,
and Allen, a lad of seventeen, had wrenched open the
doors of the
compartments occupied by Kelly and Deasy, dragged them
out, and while
two or three hurried them off to a place of safety, the
others threw
themselves between the fugitives and the police, and with
levelled
revolvers guarded their flight. The Fenian leaders once safe,
they scattered,
and young William Allen, whose one thought had been for
his chiefs,
seeing them safe, fired his revolver in the air, for he
would not shed
blood in his own defence. Disarmed by his own act, he
was set on by
the police, brutally struck down, kicked and stoned, and
was dragged off
to gaol, faint and bleeding, to meet there some of his
comrades in much
the same plight as himself. Then Manchester went mad,
and
race-passions flared up into flame; no Irish workman was safe in a
crowd of
Englishmen, no Englishman safe in the Irish quarter. The
friends of the
prisoners besieged "Lawyer Roberts's" house, praying his
aid, and he
threw his whole fiery soul into their defence. The man who
had fired the
accidentally fatal shot was safely out of the way, and
none of the
others had hurt a human being. A Special Commission was
issued, with
Mr. Justice Blackburn at its head--"the hanging judge,"
groaned Mr.
Roberts--and it was soon in Manchester, for all Mr.
Roberts's
efforts to get the venue of the trial changed were futile,
though of fair
trial then in Manchester there was no chance. On October
25th the
prisoners were actually brought up before the magistrates in
irons, and Mr.
Ernest Jones, their counsel, failing in his protest
against this
outrage, threw down his brief and left the court. So great
was the haste
with which the trial was hurried on that on the 29th
Allen, Larkin,
Gould (O'Brien), Maguire, and Condon were standing in
the dock before
the Commission charged with murder.
My first
experience of an angry crowd was on that day as we drove to
the court; the
streets were barricaded, the soldiers were under arms,
every approach
to the court crowded with surging throngs. At last our
carriage was
stopped as we were passing at a foot's pace through an
Irish section
of the crowd, and various vehement fists came through the
window, with
hearty curses at the "d----d English who were going to see
the boys
murdered." The situation was critical, for we were two women
and three
girls, when I bethought myself that we were unknown, and
gently touched
the nearest fist: "Friends, these are Mr. Roberts' wife
and
daughters." "Roberts! Lawyer Roberts! God bless Roberts! Let his
carriage
through." And all the scowling faces became smile-wreathen,
and curses
changed to cheers, as a road to the court steps was cleared
for us.
Alas! if there
was passion on behalf of the prisoners outside, there
was passion
against them within, and the very opening of the trial
showed the
spirit that animated the prosecution and the bench. Digby
Seymour, Q.C.,
and Ernest Jones, were briefed for the defence, and Mr.
Roberts did not
think that they exercised sufficiently their right of
challenge; he
knew, as we all did, that many on the panel had loudly
proclaimed
their hostility to the Irish, and Mr. Roberts persisted in
challenging
them as his counsel would not. In vain Judge Blackburn
threatened to
commit the rebellious solicitor: "These men's lives are
at stake, my
lord," was his indignant plea. "Remove that man!" cried
the angry
judge, but as the officers of the court came forward very
slowly--for all
poor men loved and honoured the sturdy fighter--he
changed his
mind and let him stay. Despite all his efforts, the jury
contained a man
who had declared that he "didn't care what the evidence
was, he would
hang every d----d Irishman of the lot." And the result
showed that he
was not alone in his view, for evidence of the most
disreputable
kind was admitted; women of the lowest type were put into
the box as
witnesses, and their word taken as unchallengeable; thus was
destroyed an
_alibi_ for Maguire, afterwards accepted by the Crown, a
free pardon
being issued on the strength of it. Nothing could save the
doomed men from
the determined verdict, and I could see from where I
was sitting
into a little room behind the bench, where an official was
quietly preparing
the black caps before the verdict had been delivered.
The foregone
"Guilty" was duly repeated as verdict on each of the five
cases, and the
prisoners asked if they had anything to say why sentence
of death should
not be passed on them. Allen, boy as he was, made a
very brave and
manly speech; he had not fired, save in the air--if he
had done so he
might have escaped; he had helped to free Kelly and
Deasy, and did
not regret it; he was willing to die for Ireland.
Maguire and
Condon (he also was reprieved) declared they were not
present, but,
like Allen, were ready to die for their country. Sentence
of death was
passed, and, as echo to the sardonic "The Lord have mercy
on your
souls," rang back from the dock in five clear voices, with
never a quiver
of fear in them, "God save Ireland!" and the men passed
one by one from
the sight of my tear-dimmed eyes.
It was a
sorrowful time that followed; the despair of the heart-broken
girl who was
Allen's sweetheart, and who cried to us on her knees,
"Save my
William!" was hard to see; nothing we or any one could do
availed to
avert the doom, and on November 23rd Allen, Larkin, and
O'Brien were
hanged outside Salford Gaol. Had they striven for freedom
in Italy
England would have honoured them; here she buried them as
common
murderers in quicklime in the prison yard.
I have found,
with a keen sense of pleasure, that Mr. Bradlaugh and
myself were in
1867 to some extent co-workers, although we knew not of
each other's
existence, and although he was doing much, and I only
giving such
poor sympathy as a young girl might, who was only just
awakening to
the duty of political work. I read in the _National
Reformer_ for
November 24, 1867, that in the preceding week he was
pleading on
Clerkenwell Green for these men's lives:--"According to
the evidence at
the trial, Deasy and Kelly were illegally arrested.
They had been
arrested for vagrancy of which no evidence was given, and
apparently
remanded for felony without a shadow of justification. He
had yet to
learn that in England the same state of things existed as in
Ireland; he had
yet to learn that an illegal arrest was sufficient
ground to
detain any of the citizens of any country in the prisons of
this one. If he
were illegally held, he was justified in using enough
force to
procure his release. Wearing a policeman's coat gave no
authority when
the officer exceeded his jurisdiction. He had argued
this before
Lord Chief Justice Erie in the Court of Common Pleas, and
that learned
judge did not venture to contradict the argument which he
submitted.
There was another reason why they should spare these men,
although he
hardly expected the Government to listen, because the
Government sent
down one of the judges who was predetermined to convict
the prisoners;
it was that the offence was purely a political one. The
death of Brett
was a sad mischance, but no one who read the evidence
could regard
the killing of Brett as an intentional murder. Legally, it
was murder;
morally, it was homicide in the rescue of a political
captive. If it
were a question of the rescue of the political captives
of Varignano,
or of political captives in Bourbon, in Naples, or in
Poland, or in
Paris, even earls might be found so to argue. Wherein is
our sister Ireland
less than these? In executing these men, they would
throw down the
gauntlet for terrible reprisals. It was a grave and
solemn
question. It had been said by a previous speaker that they were
prepared to go
to any lengths to save these Irishmen. They were not. He
wished they
were. If they were, if the men of England, from one end to
the other, were
prepared to say, 'These men shall not be executed,'
they would not
be. He was afraid they had not pluck enough for that.
Their moral
courage was not equal to their physical strength. Therefore
he would not
say that they were prepared to do so. They must plead _ad
misericordiam_.
He appealed to the press, which represented the power
of England; to
that press which in its panic-stricken moments had done
much harm, and
which ought now to save these four doomed men. If the
press demanded
it, no Government would be mad enough to resist. The
memory of the
blood which was shed in 1798 rose up like a bloody ghost
against them
to-day. He only feared that what they said upon the
subject might
do the poor men more harm than good. If it were not so,
he would coin
words that should speak in words of fire. As it was, he
could only say
to the Government: You are strong to-day; you hold these
men's lives in
your hands; but if you want to reconcile their country
to you, if you
want to win back Ireland, if you want to make her
children love
you--then do not embitter their hearts still more by
taking the
lives of these men. Temper your strength with mercy; do not
use the sword
of justice like one of vengeance, for the day may come
when it shall
be broken in your hands, and you yourselves brained by
the hilt of the
weapon you have so wickedly wielded." In October he
had printed a
plea for Ireland, strong and earnest, asking:--
"Where is
our boasted English freedom when you cross to Kingstown pier?
Where has it
been for near two years? The Habeas Corpus Act suspended,
the gaols
crowded, the steamers searched, spies listening at shebeen
shops for
sedition, and the end of it a Fenian panic in England. Oh,
before it be
too late, before more blood stain the pages of our present
history, before
we exasperate and arouse bitter animosities, let us try
and do justice
to our sister land. Abolish once and for all the land
laws, which in
their iniquitous operation have ruined her peasantry.
Sweep away the
leech-like Church which has sucked her vitality, and has
given her back
no word even of comfort in her degradation. Turn her
barracks into
flax mills, encourage a spirit of independence in her
citizens,
restore to her people the protection of the law, so that they
may speak
without fear of arrest, and beg them to plainly and boldly
state their
grievances. Let a commission of the best and wisest amongst
Irishmen, with
some of our highest English judges added, sit solemnly
to hear all
complaints, and then let us honestly legislate, not for the
punishment of
the discontented, but to remove the causes of the
discontent. It
is not the Fenians who have depopulated Ireland's
strength and
increased her misery. It is not the Fenians who have
evicted tenants
by the score. It is not the Fenians who have checked
cultivation.
Those who have caused the wrong at least should frame the
remedy."
In December,
1867, I sailed out of the safe harbour of my happy and
peaceful
girlhood on to the wide sea of life, and the waves broke
roughly as soon
as the bar was crossed. We were an ill-matched pair, my
husband and I,
from the very outset; he, with very high ideas of a
husband's
authority and a wife's submission, holding strongly to the
"master-in-my-own-house
theory," thinking much of the details of home
arrangements,
precise, methodical, easily angered and with difficulty
appeased. I,
accustomed to freedom, indifferent to home details,
impulsive, very
hot-tempered, and proud as Lucifer. I had never had a
harsh word
spoken to me, never been ordered to do anything, had had my
way smoothed
for my feet, and never a worry had touched me. Harshness
roused first
incredulous wonder, then a storm of indignant tears, and
after a time a
proud, defiant resistance, cold and hard as iron. The
easy-going,
sunshiny, enthusiastic girl changed--and changed pretty
rapidly--into a
grave, proud, reticent woman, burying deep in her own
heart all her
hopes, her fears, and her disillusions. I must have been
a very
unsatisfactory wife from the beginning, though I think other
treatment might
gradually have turned me into a fair imitation of the
proper
conventional article. Beginning with the ignorance before
alluded to, and
so scared and outraged at heart from the very first;
knowing nothing
of household management or economical use of money--I
had never had
an allowance or even bought myself a pair of
gloves--though
eager to perform my new duties creditably; unwilling to
potter over
little things, and liking to do swiftly what I had to do,
and then turn
to my beloved books; at heart fretting for my mother but
rarely speaking
of her, as I found my longing for her presence raised
jealous
vexation; with strangers about me with whom I had no sympathy;
visited by
ladies who talked to me only about babies and
servants--troubles
of which I knew nothing and which bored me
unutterably--and
who were as uninterested in all that had filled my
life, in
theology, in politics, in science, as I was uninterested in
the discussions
on the housemaid's young man and on the cook's
extravagance in
using "butter, when dripping would have done perfectly
well, my
dear"; was it wonderful that I became timid, dull, and
depressed?
All my eager,
passionate enthusiasm, so attractive to men in a young
girl, were
doubtless incompatible with "the solid comfort of a wife,"
and I must have
been inexpressibly tiring to the Rev. Frank Besant.
And, in truth,
I ought never to have married, for under the soft,
loving, pliable
girl there lay hidden, as much unknown to herself as to
her
surroundings, a woman of strong dominant will, strength that panted
for expression
and rebelled against restraint, fiery and passionate
emotions that
were seething under compression--a most undesirable
partner to sit
in the lady's arm-chair on the domestic rug before the
fire. [_Que le
diable faisait-elle dans cette galčre,_] I have often
thought,
looking back at my past self, and asking, Why did that foolish
girl make her
bed so foolishly? But self-analysis shows the
contradictories
in my nature that led me into so mistaken a course. I
have ever been
the queerest mixture of weakness and strength, and have
paid heavily
for the weakness. As a child I used to suffer tortures of
shyness, and if
my shoe-lace was untied would feel shamefacedly that
every eye was
fixed on the unlucky string; as a girl I would shrink
away from
strangers and think myself unwanted and unliked, so that I
was full of
eager gratitude to any one who noticed me kindly; as the
young mistress
of a house, I was afraid of my servants, and would let
careless work
pass rather than bear the pain of reproving the ill-doer;
when I have
been lecturing and debating with no lack of spirit on the
platform, I
have preferred to go without what I wanted at the hotel
rather than to
ring and make the waiter fetch it; combative on the
platform in
defence of any cause I cared for, I shrink from quarrel or
disapproval in
the home, and am a coward at heart in private while a
good fighter in
public. How often have I passed unhappy quarters of an
hour screwing
up my courage to find fault with some subordinate whom my
duty compelled
me to reprove, and how often have I jeered at myself for
a fraud as the
doughty platform combatant, when shrinking from blaming
some lad or
lass for doing their work badly! An unkind look or word has
availed to make
me shrink into myself as a snail into its shell, while
on the platform
opposition makes me speak my best. So I slid into
marriage
blindly and stupidly, fearing to give pain; fretted my heart
out for a year;
then, roused by harshness and injustice, stiffened and
hardened, and
lived with a wall of ice round me within which I waged
mental
conflicts that nearly killed me; and learned at last how to live
and work in
armour that turned the edge of the weapons that struck it,
and left the
flesh beneath unwounded, armour laid aside, but in the
presence of a
very few.
My first
serious attempts at writing were made in 1868, and I took up
two very
different lines of composition; I wrote some short stories of
a very flimsy
type, and also a work of a much more ambitious character,
"The Lives
of the Black Letter Saints." For the sake of the
unecclesiastically
trained it may be as well to mention that in the
Calendar of the
Church of England there are a number of Saints' Days;
some of these
are printed in red, and are Red Letter Days, for which
services are
appointed by the Church; others are printed in black, and
are Black
Letter Days, and have no special services fixed for them. It
seemed to me
that it would be interesting to take each of these days
and write a
sketch of the life of the saint belonging to it, and
accordingly I
set to work to do so, and gathered various books of
history and
legend where-from to collect my "facts." I do not in the
least know what
became of that valuable book; I tried Macmillans with
it, and it was
sent on by them to some one who was preparing a series
of Church books
for the young; later I had a letter from a Church
brotherhood
offering to publish it, if I would give it as "an act of
piety" to
their order; its ultimate fate is to me unknown.
The short
stories were more fortunate. I sent the first to the _Family
Herald_, and
some weeks afterwards received a letter from which dropped
a cheque as I
opened it. Dear me! I have earned a good deal of money
since by my
pen, but never any that gave me the intense delight of that
first thirty
shillings. It was the first money I had ever earned, and
the pride of
the earning was added to the pride of authorship. In my
childish
delight and practical religion, I went down on my knees and
thanked God for
sending it to me, and I saw myself earning heaps of
golden guineas,
and becoming quite a support of the household. Besides,
it was "my
very own," I thought, and a delightful sense of independence
came over me. I
had not then realised the beauty of the English law,
and the
dignified position in which it placed the married woman; I did
not understand
that all a married woman earned by law belonged to her
owner, and that
she could have nothing that belonged to her of
right.[1] I did
not want the money: I was only so glad to have
something of my
own to give, and it was rather a shock to learn that it
was not really
mine at all.
From time to
time after that I earned a few pounds for stories in the
same journal;
and the _Family Herald_, let me say, has one peculiarity
which should render
it beloved by poor authors; it pays its contributor
when it accepts
the paper, whether it prints it immediately or not;
thus my first
story was not printed for some weeks after I received the
cheque, and it
was the same with all the others accepted by the same
journal.
Encouraged by these small successes, I began writing a novel!
It took a long
time to do, but was at last finished, and sent off to
the _Family
Herald_. The poor thing came back, but with a kind note,
telling me that
it was too political for their pages, but that if I
would write one
of "purely domestic interest," and up to the same
level, it would
probably be accepted. But by that time I was in the
full struggle
of theological doubt, and that novel of "purely domestic
interest"
never got itself written.
I contributed
further to the literature of my country a theological
pamphlet, of
which I forget the exact title, but it dealt with the duty
of fasting
incumbent on all faithful Christians, and was very patristic
in its tone.
In January,
1869, my little son was born, and as I was very ill for
some months
before, and was far too much interested in the tiny
creature
afterwards, to devote myself to pen and paper, my literary
career was
checked for a while. The baby gave a new interest and a new
pleasure to
life, and as we could not afford a nurse I had plenty to do
in looking
after his small majesty. My energy in reading became less
feverish when
it was done by the side of the baby's cradle, and the
little one's
presence almost healed the abiding pain of my mother's
loss.
I may pass very
quickly over the next two years. In August, 1870, a
little sister
was born to my son, and the recovery was slow and
tedious, for my
general health had been failing for some time.
[Illustration:
_From a photograph by Dighton's Art Studio, Cheltenham_.
ANNIE BESANT
1869.]
The boy was a
bright, healthy little fellow, but the girl was delicate
from birth,
suffering from her mother's unhappiness, and born somewhat
prematurely in
consequence of a shock. When, in the spring of 1871, the
two children
caught the whooping cough, my Mabel's delicacy made the
ordeal
well-nigh fatal to her. She was very young for so trying a
disease, and
after a while bronchitis set in and was followed by
congestion of
the lungs. For weeks she lay in hourly peril of death We
arranged a
screen round the fire like a tent, and kept it full of steam
to ease the
panting breath; and there I sat, day and night, all through
those weary
weeks, the tortured baby on my knees. I loved my little
ones
passionately, for their clinging love soothed the aching at my
heart, and
their baby eyes could not critically scan the unhappiness
that grew
deeper month by month; and that steam-filled tent became my
world, and
there, alone, I fought with Death for my child. The doctor
said that
recovery was impossible, and that in one of the paroxysms of
coughing she
must die; the most distressing thing was that, at last,
even a drop or
two of milk would bring on the terrible convulsive
choking, and it
seemed cruel to add to the pain of the apparently dying
child. At
length, one morning the doctor said she could not last
through the
day; I had sent for him hurriedly, for the body had
suddenly
swollen up as a result of the perforation of one of the
pleurae, and
the consequent escape of air into the cavity of the chest.
While he was
there one of the fits of coughing came on, and it seemed
as though it
must be the last. He took a small bottle of chloroform out
of his pocket,
and putting a drop on a handkerchief held it near the
child's face,
till the drug soothed the convulsive struggle. "It can't
do any harm at
this stage," he said, "and it checks the suffering." He
went away,
saying that he feared he would never see the child alive
again. One of
the kindest friends I had in my married life was that
same doctor,
Mr. Lauriston Winterbotham; he was as good as he was
clever, and,
like so many of his noble profession, he had the merits of
discretion and
silence. He never breathed a word as to my unhappiness,
until in 1878
he came up to town to give evidence as to cruelty
which--had the
deed of separation not been held as condonation--would
have secured me
a divorce _a mensa et thoro._
The child,
however, recovered, and her recovery was due, I think, to
that chance
thought of Mr. Winterbotham's about the chloroform, for I
used it
whenever the first sign of a fit of coughing appeared, and so
warded off the
convulsive attack and the profound exhaustion that
followed, in
which a mere flicker of breath at the top of the throat
was the only
sign of life, and sometimes even that disappeared, and I
thought her
gone. For years the child remained ailing and delicate,
requiring the
tenderest care, but those weeks of anguish left a deeper
trace on mother
than on child. Once she was out of danger I collapsed
physically, and
lay in bed for a week unmoving, and then rose to face a
struggle which
lasted for three years and two months, and nearly cost
me my life, the
struggle which transformed me from a Christian into an
Atheist. The
agony of the struggle was in the first nineteen months--a
time to be
looked back upon with shrinking, as it was a hell to live
through at the
time. For no one who has not felt it knows the fearful
anguish
inflicted by doubt on the earnestly religious soul. There is in
life no other
pain so horrible, so keen in its torture, so crushing in
its weight. It
seems to shipwreck everything, to destroy the one steady
gleam of
happiness "on the other side" that no earthly storm could
obscure; to
make all life gloomy with a horror of despair, a darkness
that verily may
be felt. Nothing but an imperious intellectual and
moral necessity
can drive into doubt a religious mind, for it is as
though an
earthquake shook the foundations of the soul, and the very
being quivers
and sways under the shock. No life in the empty sky; no
gleam in the
blackness of the night; no voice to break the deadly
silence; no
hand outstretched to save. Empty-brained triflers who have
never tried to
think, who take their creed as they take their fashions,
speak of
Atheism as the outcome of foul life and vicious desires. In
their shallow
heartlessness and shallower thought they cannot even
dimly imagine
the anguish of entering the mere penumbra of the Eclipse
of Faith, much
less the horror of that great darkness in which the
orphaned soul
cries out into the infinite emptiness: "Is it a Devil
that has made
the world? Is the echo, 'Children, ye have no Father,'
true? Is all
blind chance, is all the clash of unconscious forces, or
are we the
sentient toys of an Almighty Power that sports with our
agony, whose
peals of awful mockery of laughter ring back answer to the
wailings of our
despair?"
How true are
the noble words of Mrs. Hamilton King:--
"For some may follow Truth from dawn to
dark,
As a child follows by his mother's hand,
Knowing no fear, rejoicing all the way;
And unto some her face is as a Star
Set through an avenue of thorns and fires,
And waving branches black without a leaf;
And still It draws them, though the feet must
bleed,
Though garments must be rent, and eyes be
scorched:
And if the valley of the shadow of death
Be passed, and to the level road they come,
Still with their faces to the polar star,
It is not with the same looks, the same
limbs,
But halt, and maimed, and of infirmity.
And for the rest of the way they have to go
It is not day but night, and oftentimes
A night of clouds wherein the stars are
lost."[2]
Aye! but never
lost is the Star of Truth to which the face is set, and
while that
shines all lesser lights may go. It was the long months of
suffering
through which I had been passing, with the seemingly
purposeless
torturing of my little one as a climax, that struck the
first stunning
blow at my belief in God as a merciful Father of men. I
had been
visiting the poor a good deal, and had marked the patient
suffering of
their lives; my idolised mother had been defrauded by a
lawyer she had
trusted, and was plunged into debt by his non-payment of
the sums that
should have passed through his hands to others; my own
bright life had
been enshrouded by pain and rendered to me degraded by
an intolerable
sense of bondage; and here was my helpless, sinless babe
tortured for
weeks and left frail and suffering. The smooth brightness
of my previous
life made all the disillusionment more startling, and
the sudden
plunge into conditions so new and so unfavourable dazed and
stunned me. My
religious past became the worst enemy of the suffering
present. All my
personal belief in Christ, all my intense faith in His
constant
direction of affairs, all my habit of continual prayer and of
realisation of
His Presence--all were against me now. The very height
of my trust was
the measure of the shock when the trust gave way. To me
He was no
abstract idea, but a living reality, and all my heart rose up
against this
Person in whom I believed, and whose individual finger I
saw in my
baby's agony, my own misery, the breaking of my mother's
proud heart
under a load of debt, and all the bitter suffering of the
poor. The
presence of pain and evil in a world made by a good God; the
pain falling on
the innocent, as on my seven months' old babe; the pain
begun here
reaching on into eternity unhealed; a sorrow-laden world; a
lurid, hopeless
hell; all these, while I still believed, drove me
desperate, and
instead of like the devils believing and trembling, I
believed and
hated. All the hitherto dormant and unsuspected strength
of my nature
rose up in rebellion; I did not yet dream of denial, but I
would no longer
kneel.
As the first
stirrings of this hot rebellion moved in my heart I met a
clergyman of a
very noble type, who did much to help me by his ready
and wise
sympathy. Mr. Besant brought him to see me during the crisis
of the child's
illness; he said little, but on the following day I
received from
him the following note:--
"_April_
21, 1871.
"My Dear
Mrs. Besant,--I am painfully conscious that I gave you but
little help in
your trouble yesterday. It is needless to say that it
was not from
want of sympathy. Perhaps it would be nearer the truth to
say that it was
from excess of sympathy. I shrink intensely from
meddling with
the sorrow of any one whom I feel to be of a sensitive
nature. 'The
heart hath its own bitterness, and the stranger meddleth
not therewith.'
It is to me a positively fearful thought that I might
awaken such a
reflection as
"'And common was the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.'
Conventional
consolations, conventional verses out of the Bible, and
conventional
prayers are, it seems to me, an intolerable aggravation of
suffering. And
so I acted on a principle that I mentioned to your
husband that
'there is no power so great as that of one human faith
looking upon
another human faith.' The promises of God, the love of
Christ for
little children, and all that has been given to us of hope
and comfort,
are as deeply planted in your heart as in mine, and I did
not care to
quote them. But when I talk face to face with one who is in
sore need of
them, my faith in them suddenly becomes so vast and
heart-stirring
that I think I must help most by talking naturally, and
letting the
faith find its own way from soul to soul. Indeed, I could
not find words
for it if I tried. And yet I am compelled, as a
messenger of
the glad tidings of God, to solemnly assure you that all
is well. We
have no key to the 'mystery of pain' excepting the Cross of
Christ. But
there is another and a deeper solution in the hands of our
Father; and it
will be ours when we can understand it. There is--in the
place to which
we travelsome blessed explanation of your baby's pain
and your grief,
which will fill with light the darkest heart. Now you
must believe
without having seen; that is true faith. You must
"'Reach a hand through time to catch
The far-off interest of tears.'
That you may
have strength so to do is part of your share in the
prayers of
"Yours
very faithfully,
"W.
D----."
A noble letter,
but the storm was beating too fiercely to be stilled,
and one night
in that summer of 1871 stands out clearly before me. Mr.
Besant was
away, and there had been a fierce quarrel before he left. I
was outraged,
desperate, with no door of escape from a life that,
losing its hope
in God, had not yet learned to live for hope for man.
No door of
escape? The thought came like a flash: "There is one!" And
before me there
swung open, with lure of peace and of safety, the
gateway into
silence and security, the gateway of the tomb. I was
standing by the
drawing-room window, staring hopelessly at the evening
sky; with the
thought came the remembrance that the means was at
hand--the
chloroform that had soothed my baby's pain, and that I had
locked away
upstairs. I ran up to my room, took out the bottle, and
carried it
downstairs, standing again at the window in the summer
twilight, glad
that the struggle was over and peace at hand. I uncorked
the bottle, and
was raising it to my lips, when, as though the words
were spoken
softly and clearly, I heard: "O coward, coward, who used to
dream of
martyrdom, and cannot bear a few short years of pain!" A rush
of shame swept
over me, and I flung the bottle far away among the
shrubs in the
garden at my feet, and for a moment I felt strong as for
a struggle, and
then fell fainting on the floor. Only once again in all
the strifes of
my career did the thought of suicide recur, and then it
was but for a
moment, to be put aside as unworthy a strong soul.
My new friend,
Mr. D----, proved a very real help. The endless torture
of hell, the
vicarious sacrifice of Christ, the trustworthiness of
revelation,
doubts on all these hitherto accepted doctrines grew and
heaped
themselves on my bewildered soul. My questionings were neither
shirked nor
discouraged by Mr. D----; he was not horrified nor was he
sanctimoniously
rebukeful, but met them all with a wide comprehension
inexpressibly
soothing to one writhing in the first agonies of doubt.
He left
Cheltenham in the early autumn of 1871, but the following
extracts from a
letter written in November will show the kind of net in
which I was
struggling (I had been reading M'Leod Campbell's work "On
the Atonement"):--
"You
forget one great principle--that God is impassive, cannot suffer.
Christ, _quâ_
God, did not suffer, but as Son of _Man_ and in His
humanity.
Still, it may be correctly stated that He felt to sin and
sinners 'as God
eternally feels'--_i.e., abhorrence of sin, and love of
the sinner_.
But to infer from that that the Father in His Godhead
feels the
sufferings which Christ experienced solely in humanity, and
because
incarnate is, I think, wrong.
"(2) I
felt strongly inclined to blow you up for the last part of your
letter. You
assume, I think quite gratuitously, that God condemns the
major part of
His children to objectless future suffering. You say that
if He does not,
He places a book in their hands which threatens what He
does not mean
to inflict. But how utterly this seems to me opposed to
the gospel of
Christ! All Christ's references to eternal punishment may
be resolved
into references to the Valley of Hinnom, by way of imagery;
with the
exception of the Dives parable, where is distinctly inferred a
moral amendment
beyond the grave. I speak of the unselfish desire of
Dives to save
his brothers. The more I see of the controversy, the more
baseless does
the eternal punishment theory appear. It seems then, to
me, that
instead of feeling aggrieved and shaken, you ought to feel
encouraged and
thankful that God is so much better than you were taught
to believe Him.
You will have discovered by this time in Maurice's
'What is
Revelation?' (I suppose you have the 'Sequel,' too?), that
God's truth is
our truth, and His love is our love, only more perfect
and full. There
is no position more utterly defeated in modern
philosophy and
theology than Dean Mansel's attempt to show that God's
love, justice,
&c., are different in kind from ours. Mill and Maurice,
from totally
alien points of view, have shown up the preposterous
nature of the
notion.
"(3) A
good deal of what you have thought is, I fancy, based on a
strange
forgetfulness of your former experience. If you have known
Christ--(whom
to know is eternal life)--and that you have known Him I
am certain--can
you really say that a few intellectual difficulties,
nay, a few
moral difficulties if you will, are able at once to
obliterate the
testimony of that higher state of being?
"Why, the
keynote of all my theology is that Christ is lovable because,
and _just_
because, He is the perfection of all that I know to be noble
and generous,
and loving, and tender, and true. If an angel from heaven
brought me a
gospel which contained doctrines that would not stand the
test of such
perfect lovableness--doctrines hard, or cruel, or
unjust--I
should reject him and his trumpery gospel with scorn, knowing
that neither
could be Christ's. Know Christ and judge religions by Him;
don't judge Him
by religions, and then complain because they find
yourself
looking at Him through a blood-coloured glass."
"I am
saturating myself with Maurice, who is the antidote given by God
to this age
against all dreary doublings and temptings of the devil to
despair."
Many a one, in
this age of controversy over all things once held
sacred, has
found peace and new light on this line of thought, and has
succeeded in
thus reconciling theological doctrines with the demands of
the conscience
for love and justice in a world made by a just and
loving God. I
could not do so. The awakening to what the world was, to
the facts of
human misery, to the ruthless tramp of nature and of
events over the
human heart, making no difference between innocent and
guilty--the
shock had been too great for the equilibrium to be restored
by arguments
that appealed to the emotions and left the intellect
unconvinced.
Months of this long-drawn-out mental anguish wrought their
natural effects
on physical health, and at last I broke down
completely, and
lay for weeks helpless and prostrate, in raging and
unceasing
head-pain, unable to sleep, unable to bear the light, lying
like a log on
the bed, not unconscious, but indifferent to everything,
consciousness
centred, as it were, in the ceaseless pain. The doctor
tried every
form of relief, but, entrenched in its citadel, the pain
defied his puny
efforts. He covered my head with ice, he gave me
opium--which
only drove me mad--he did all that skill and kindness
could do, but
all in vain. Finally the pain wore itself out, and the
moment he dared
to do so, he tried mental diversion; he brought me
books on
anatomy, on science, and persuaded me to study them; and out
of his busy
life would steal an hour to explain to me knotty points on
physiology. He
saw that if I were to be brought back to reasonable
life, it could
only be by diverting thought from the channels in which
the current had
been running to a dangerous extent. I have often felt
that I owed
life and sanity to that good man, who felt for the
helpless,
bewildered child-woman, beaten down by the cyclone of doubt
and misery.
So it will
easily be understood that my religious wretchedness only
increased the
unhappiness of homelife, for how absurd it was that any
reasonable
human being should be so tossed with anguish over
intellectual
and moral difficulties on religious matters, and should
make herself
ill over these unsubstantial troubles. Surely it was a
woman's
business to attend to her husband's comforts and to see after
her children,
and not to break her heart over misery here and hell
hereafter, and
distract her brain with questions that had puzzled the
greatest
thinkers and still remained unsolved! And, truly, women or men
who get
themselves concerned about the universe at large, would do well
not to plunge
hastily into marriage, for they do not run smoothly in
the
double-harness of that honourable estate. _Sturm und Drang_ should
be faced alone,
and the soul should go out alone into the wilderness to
be tempted of
the devil, and not bring his majesty and all his imps
into the placid
circle of the home. Unhappy they who go into marriage
with the
glamour of youth upon them and the destiny of conflict
imprinted on
their nature, for they make misery for their partner in
marriage as
well as for themselves. And if that partner, strong in
traditional
authority and conventional habits, seeks to "break in" the
turbulent and
storm-tossed creature--well, it comes to a mere trial of
strength and
endurance, whether that driven creature will fall panting
and crushed, or
whether it will turn in its despair, assert its Divine
right to
intellectual liberty, rend its fetters in pieces, and,
discovering its
own strength in its extremity, speak at all risks its
"No"
when bidden to live a lie.
When that
physical crisis was over I decided on my line of action. I
resolved to
take Christianity as it had been taught in the Churches,
and carefully
and thoroughly examine its dogmas one by one, so that I
should never
again say "I believe" where I had not proved, and that,
however
diminished my area of belief, what was left of it might at
least be firm
under my feet. I found that four chief problems were
pressing for
solution, and to these I addressed myself. How many are
to-day the
souls facing just these problems, and disputing every inch
of their old
ground of faith with the steadily advancing waves of
historical and
scientific criticism! Alas! for the many Canutes, as the
waves wash over
their feet. These problems were:--
(1) The
eternity of punishment after death.
(2) The meaning
of "goodness" and "love," as applied to a God who had
made this
world, with all its sin and misery.
(3) The nature
of the atonement of Christ, and the "justice" of God in
accepting a
vicarious suffering from Christ, and a vicarious
righteousness
from the sinner.
(4) The meaning
of "inspiration" as applied to the Bible, and the
reconciliation
of the perfections of the author with the blunders and
immoralities of
the work.
It will be seen
that the deeper problems of religion--the deity of
Christ, the
existence of God, the immortality of the soul--were not yet
brought into
question, and, looking back, I cannot but see how orderly
was the
progression of thought, how steady the growth, after that first
terrible
earthquake, and the first wild swirl of agony. The points that
I set myself to
study were those which would naturally be first faced
by any one
whose first rebellion against the dogmas of the Churches was
a rebellion of
the moral nature rather than of the intellectual, a
protest of the
conscience rather than of the brain. It was not a desire
for moral
licence which gave me the impulse that finally landed me in
Atheism; it was
the sense of outraged justice and insulted right. I was
a wife and
mother, blameless in moral life, with a deep sense of duty
and a proud
self-respect; it was while I was this that doubt struck me,
and while I was
in the guarded circle of the home, with no dream of
outside work or
outside liberty, that I lost all faith in Christianity.
My education,
my mother's example, my inner timidity and self-distrust,
all fenced me
in from temptations from without. It was the uprising of
an outraged
conscience that made me a rebel against the Churches and
finally an
unbeliever in God. And I place this on record, because the
progress of
Materialism will never be checked by diatribes against
unbelievers, as
though they became unbelievers from desire for vice and
for licence to
do evil. What Religion has to face in the controversies
of to-day is
not the unbelief of the sty, but the unbelief of the
educated
conscience and of the soaring intellect; and unless it can arm
itself with a
loftier ethic and a grander philosophy than its opponent,
it will lose
its hold over the purest and the strongest of the younger
generation.
CHAPTER V.
THE STORM OF
DOUBT.
My reading of
heretical and Broad Church works on one side, and of
orthodox ones
on the other, now occupied a large part of my time, and
our removal to
Sibsey, in Lincolnshire, an agricultural village with a
scattered
population, increased my leisure. I read the works of
Robertson,
Stopford Brooke, Stanley, Greg, Matthew Arnold, Liddon,
Mansel, and
many another, and my scepticism grew deeper and deeper as
I read. The
Broad Church arguments appeared to me to be of the nature
of special
pleading, skilful evasions of difficulties rather than the
real meeting
and solving of them. For the problem was: Given a good
God, how can He
have created mankind, knowing beforehand that the vast
majority of
those whom He created were to be tortured for ever? Given
a just God, how
can He punish people for being sinful, when they have
inherited a
sinful nature without their own choice and of necessity?
Given a
righteous God, how can He allow sin to exist for ever, so that
evil shall be
as eternal as good, and Satan shall reign in hell as
long as Christ
in heaven? Worst of all puzzles, perhaps, was that of
the existence
of evil and of misery, and the racking doubt whether God
_could_ be
good, and yet look on the evil and the misery of the world
unmoved and
untouched. It seemed so impossible to believe that a
Creator could
be either cruel enough to be indifferent to the misery,
or weak enough
to be unable to stop it. The old dilemma faced me
incessantly:
"If He can prevent it and does not, He is not good; if He
wishes to
prevent it and cannot, He is not almighty." I racked my
brains for an
answer. I searched writings of believers for a clue, but
I found no way
of escape. Not yet had any doubt of the existence of
God crossed my
mind.
Mr. D----
continued to write me, striving to guide me along the path
which had led
his own soul to contentment, but I can only find room
here for two
brief extracts, which will show how to himself he solved
the problem. He
thought me mistaken in my view
"Of the
nature of the _sin_ and _error_ which is supposed to grieve
God. I take it
that sin is an absolutely necessary factor in the
production of
the perfect man. It was foreseen and allowed as means to
an end--as, in
fact, an education. The view of all the sin and misery
in the world
cannot grieve God any more than it can grieve you to see
Digby fail in
his first attempt to build a card-castle or a
rabbit-hutch.
All is part of the training. God looks at the ideal man
to which all
tends.... "No, Mrs. Besant; I never feel at all inclined
to give up the
search, or to suppose that the other side may be right.
I claim no merit
for it, but I have an invincible faith in the
morality of God
and the moral order of the world. I have no more doubt
about the
falsehood of the popular theology than I have about the
unreality of
six robbers who attacked me three nights ago in a horrid
dream. I exult
and rejoice in the grandeur and freedom of the little
bit of truth it
has been given me to see. I am told that 'Present-day
Papers,' by
Bishop Ewing (edited), are a wonderful help, many of them,
to puzzled
people; I mean to get them. But I am sure you will find
that the truth
will (even so little as we may be able to find out)
grow on you,
make you free, light your path, and dispel, at no distant
time, your
_painful_ difficulties and doubts. I should say on no
account give up
your reading. I think with you that you could not do
without it. It
will be a wonderful source of help and peace to you.
For there are
struggles far more fearful than those of intellectual
doubt. I am
keenly alive to the gathered-up sadness of which your last
two pages are
an expression. I was sorrier than I can say to read
them. They
reminded me of a long and very dark time in my own life,
when I thought
the light never would come. Thank God it came, or I
think I could
not have held out much longer. But you have evidently
strength to
bear it now. The more dangerous time, I should fancy, has
passed. You
will have to mind that the fermentation leaves clear
spiritual wine,
and not (as too often) vinegar. I wish I could write
something more
helpful to you in this great matter. But as I sit in
front of my
large bay window and see the shadows on the grass and the
sunlight on the
leaves, and the soft glimmer of the rosebuds left by
the storms, I
can but believe that all will be very well. 'Trust in
the Lord, wait
patiently for Him'--they are trite words. But He made
the grass, the
leaves, the rosebuds, and the sunshine, and He is the
Father of our
Lord Jesus Christ. And now the trite words have swelled
into a mighty
argument."
I found more
help in Theistic writers like Grey, and Agnostic like
Arnold, than I
did in the Broad Church teachers, but these, of course,
served to make
return to the old faith more and more impossible. The
Church services
were a weekly torture, but feeling as I did that I was
only a doubter,
I kept my doubts to myself. It was possible, I felt,
that all my
difficulties might be cleared up, and I had no right to
shake the faith
of others while in uncertainty myself. Others had
doubted and had
afterwards recovered their faith; for the doubter
silence was a
duty; the blinded had better keep their misery to
themselves.
During these
weary months of anxiety and torment I found some relief
from the mental
strain in practical parish work, nursing the sick,
trying to
brighten the lot of the poor. I learned then some of the
lessons as to
the agricultural labourer and the land that I was able
in after-years
to teach from the platform. The movement among the
agricultural
labourers, due to the energy and devotion of Joseph Arch,
was beginning
to be discussed in the fens, and my sympathies went
strongly with
the claims of the labourers, for I knew their
life-conditions.
In one cottage I had found four generations sleeping
in one
room--the great-grandfather and his wife, the unmarried
grandmother,
the unmarried mother, the little child; three men lodgers
completed the
tale of eight human beings crowded into that narrow,
ill-ventilated
garret. Other cottages were hovels, through the broken
roofs of which
poured the rain, and wherein rheumatism and ague lived
with the human
dwellers. How could I do aught but sympathise with any
combination
that aimed at the raising of these poor? But the
Agricultural
Labourers' Union was bitterly opposed by the farmers, and
they would give
no work to a "Union man." One example may serve for
all. There was
a young married man with two small children, who was
sinful enough
to go to a Union meeting and sinful enough to talk of it
on his return
home. No farmer would employ him in all the district
round. He
tramped about vainly looking for work, grew reckless, and
took to drink.
Visiting his cottage, consisting of one room and a
"lean-to,"
I found his wife ill with fever, a fever-stricken babe in
her arms, the
second child lying dead on the bed. In answer to my
soft-spoken
questions: Yes, she was pining (starving), there was no
work. Why did
she leave the dead child on the bed? Because she had no
other place for
it till the coffin came. And at night the unhappy,
driven man, the
fever-stricken wife, the fever-stricken child, the
dead child, all
lay in the one bed. The farmers hated the Union
because its
success meant higher wages for the men, and it never
struck them
that they might well pay less rent to the absent landlord
and higher wage
to the men who tilled their fields. They had only
civil words for
the burden that crushed them, hard words for the
mowers of their
harvests and the builders-up of their ricks; they made
common cause
with their enemies instead of with their friends, and
instead of
leaguing themselves together with the labourers as forming
together the
true agricultural interest, they leagued themselves with
the landlords
against the labourers, and so made ruinous fratricidal
strife instead
of easy victory over the common foe. And, seeing all
this, I learned
some useful lessons, and the political education
progressed
while the theological strife went on within.
In the early
autumn a ray of light broke the darkness. I was in London
with my mother,
and wandered one Sunday morning into St. George's
Hall, where the
Rev. Charles Voysey was preaching. There to my delight
I found, on
listening to the sermon and buying some literature on sale
in the
ante-room, that there were people who had passed through my own
difficulties,
and had given up the dogmas that I found so revolting. I
went again on
the following Sunday, and when the service was over I
noticed that
the outgoing stream of people were passing by Mr. and
Mrs. Voysey,
and that many who were evidently strangers spoke a word
of thanks to
him as they went on. Moved by a strong desire, after the
long months of
lonely striving, to speak to one who had struggled out
of Christian
difficulties, I said to Mr. Voysey, as I passed in my
turn, "I
must thank you for very great help in what you said this
morning,"
for in truth, never having yet doubted the existence of God,
the teaching of
Mr. Voysey that He was "loving unto _every_ man, and
His tender
mercy over _all_ His works," came like a gleam of light
across the
stormy sea of doubt and distress on which I had so long
been tossing.
The next Sunday saw me again at the Hall, and Mrs.
Voysey gave me
a cordial invitation to visit them in their Dulwich
home. I found
their Theism was free from the defects that had revolted
me in
Christianity, and they opened up to me new views of religion. I
read Theodore
Parker's "Discourse on Religion," Francis Newman's
works, those of
Miss Frances Power Cobbe, and of others; the anguish
of the tension
relaxed; the nightmare of an Almighty Evil passed away;
my belief in
God, not yet touched, was cleared from all the dark spots
that had
sullied it, and I no longer doubted whether the dogmas that
had shocked my
conscience were true or false. I shook them off, once
for all, with
all their pain and horror and darkness, and felt, with
joy and relief
inexpressible, that they were delusions of the
ignorance of
man, not the revelations of a God.
But there was
one belief that had not been definitely challenged, but
of which the
_rationale_ was gone with the orthodox dogmas now
definitely
renounced--the doctrine of the Deity of Christ. The whole
teaching of the
Broad Church school tends, of course, to emphasise the
humanity of
Christ at the expense of His Deity, and when eternal
punishment and
the substitutionary atonement had gone there seemed no
reason
remaining sufficient to account for so tremendous a miracle as
the incarnation
of the Deity. In the course of my reading I had become
familiar with
the idea of Avatâras in Eastern creeds, and I saw that
the incarnate
God was put forward as a fact by all ancient religions,
and thus the
way was paved for challenging the especially Christian
teaching, when
the doctrines morally repulsive were cleared away. But
I shrank from
the thought of placing in the crucible a doctrine so
dear from all
the associations of the past; there was so much that was
soothing and
ennobling in the idea of a union between Man and God,
between a
perfect man and a Divine life, between a human heart and an
almighty
strength. Jesus as God was interwoven with all art and all
beauty in
religion; to break with the Deity of Jesus was to break with
music, with
painting, with literature; the Divine Babe in His Mother's
arms; the
Divine Man in His Passion and His Triumph; the Friend of Man
encircled with
the majesty of the Godhead. Did inexorable Truth demand
that this ideal
Figure, with all its pathos, its beauty, its human
love, should
pass away into the Pantheon of the dead Gods of the Past?
Nor was this
all. If I gave up belief in Christ as God, I must give up
Christianity as
creed. Once challenge the unique position of the
Christ, and the
name Christian seemed to me to be a hypocrisy, and its
renouncement a
duty binding on the upright mind. I was a clergyman's
wife; what
would be the effect of such a step? Hitherto mental pain
alone had been
the price demanded inexorably from the searcher after
truth; but with
the renouncing of Christ outer warfare would be added
to the inner,
and who might guess the result upon my life? The
struggle was
keen but short; I decided to carefully review the
evidence for
and against the Deity of Christ, with the result that
that belief
followed the others, and I stood, no longer Christian,
face to face
with a dim future in which I sensed the coming conflict.
One effort I
made to escape it; I appealed to Dr. Pusey, thinking that
if he could not
answer my questionings, no answer to them could be
reasonably
hoped for. I had a brief correspondence with him, but was
referred only
to lines of argument familiar to me--as those of Liddon
in his
"Bampton Lectures"--and finally, on his invitation, went down
to Oxford to
see him. I found a short, stout gentleman, dressed in a
cassock,
looking like a comfortable monk; but keen eyes, steadfastly
gazing straight
into mine, told of the force and subtlety enshrined in
the fine,
impressive head. But the learned doctor took the wrong line
of treatment;
he probably saw I was anxious, shy, and nervous, and he
treated me as a
penitent going to confession and seeking the advice of
a director,
instead of as an inquirer struggling after truth, and
resolute to
obtain some firm standing-ground in the sea of doubt. He
would not deal
with the question of the Deity of Jesus as a question
for argument.
"You are speaking of your Judge," he retorted sternly,
when I pressed
a difficulty. The mere suggestion of an imperfection in
the character
of Jesus made him shudder, and he checked me with raised
hand. "You
are blaspheming. The very thought is a terrible sin." Would
he recommend me
any books that might throw light on the subject? "No,
no; you have
read too much already. You must pray; you must pray."
When I urged
that I could not believe without proof, I was told,
"Blessed
are they that have not seen and yet have believed"; and my
further
questioning was checked by the murmur, "O my child, how
undisciplined!
how impatient!" Truly, he must have found in me--hot,
eager,
passionate in my determination to _know_, resolute not to
profess belief
while belief was absent--nothing of the meek,
chastened,
submissive spirit with which he was wont to deal in
penitents
seeking his counsel as their spiritual guide. In vain did he
bid me pray as
though I believed; in vain did he urge the duty of
blind
submission to the authority of the Church, of blind, unreasoning
faith that
questioned not. I had not trodden the thorny path of doubt
to come to the
point from which I had started; I needed, and would
have, solid
grounds ere I believed. He had no conception of the
struggles of a
sceptical spirit; he had evidently never felt the pangs
of doubt; his
own faith was solid as a rock, firm, satisfied,
unshakable; he
would as soon have committed suicide as have doubted of
the infallibility
of the "Universal Church."
"It is not
your duty to ascertain the truth," he told me, sternly. "It
is your duty to
accept and believe the truth as laid down by the
Church. At your
peril you reject it. The responsibility is not yours
so long as you
dutifully accept that which the Church has laid down
for your
acceptance. Did not the Lord promise that the presence of the
Spirit should
be ever with His Church, to guide her into all truth?"
"But the
fact of the promise and its value are just the very points on
which I am
doubtful," I answered.
He shuddered.
"Pray, pray," he said. "Father, forgive her, for she
knows not what
she says."
It was in vain
that I urged on him the sincerity of my seeking,
pointing out
that I had everything to gain by following his
directions,
everything to lose by going my own way, but that it seemed
to me
untruthful to pretend to accept what was not really believed.
"Everything
to lose? Yes, indeed. You will be lost for time and lost
for
eternity."
"Lost or
not," I rejoined, "I must and will try to find out what is
true, and I
will not believe till I am sure."
"You have
no right to make terms with God," he retorted, "as to what
you will
believe or what you will not believe. You are full of
intellectual
pride."
I sighed
hopelessly. Little feeling of pride was there in me just
then, but only
a despairful feeling that in this rigid, unyielding
dogmatism there
was no comprehension of my difficulties, no help for
me in my
strugglings. I rose, and, thanking him for his courtesy, said
that I would
not waste his time further, that I must go home and face
the
difficulties, openly leaving the Church and taking the
consequences.
Then for the first time his serenity was ruffled.
"I forbid
you to speak of your disbelief," he cried. "I forbid you to
lead into your
own lost state the souls for whom Christ died."
[Illustration:
THOMAS SCOTT.]
Slowly and
sadly I took my way back to the station, knowing that my
last chance of
escape had failed me. I recognised in this famous
divine the
spirit of priest-craft, that could be tender and pitiful to
the sinner,
repentant, humble, submissive; but that was iron to the
doubter, the
heretic, and would crush out all questionings of
"revealed
truth," silencing by force, not by argument, all challenge
of the
traditions of the Church. Out of such men were made the
Inquisitors of
the Middle Ages, perfectly conscientious, perfectly
rigid,
perfectly merciless to the heretic. To them heretics are
centres of
infectious disease, and charity to the heretic is "the
worst cruelty
to the souls of men." Certain that they hold, "by no
merit of our
own, but by the mercy of our God, the one truth which He
has
revealed," they can permit no questionings, they can accept nought
but the most
complete submission. But while man aspires after truth,
while his mind
yearns after knowledge, while his intellect soars
upward into the
empyrean of speculation and "beats the air with
tireless
wing," so long shall those who demand faith from him be met
by challenge
for proof, and those who would blind him shall be
defeated by his
resolve to gaze unblenching on the face of Truth, even
though her eyes
should turn him into stone. It was during this same
autumn of 1872
that I first met Mr. and Mrs. Scott, introduced to them
by Mr. Voysey.
At that time Thomas Scott was an old man, with
beautiful white
hair, and eyes like those of a hawk gleaming from
under shaggy
eyebrows. He had been a man of magnificent physique, and,
though his
frame was then enfeebled, the splendid lion-like head kept
its impressive
strength and beauty, and told of a unique personality.
Well born and
wealthy, he had spent his earlier life in adventure in
all parts of
the world, and after his marriage he had settled down at
Ramsgate, and
had made his home a centre of heretical thought. His
wife, "his
right hand," as he justly called her, was young enough to
be his
daughter--a sweet, strong, gentle, noble woman, worthy of her
husband, and
than that no higher praise could be spoken. Mr. Scott for
many years
issued monthly a series of pamphlets, all heretical, though
very varying in
their shades of thought; all were well written,
cultured, and
polished in tone, and to this rule Mr. Scott made no
exception; his
writers might say what they liked, but they must have
something to
say, and must say it in good English. His correspondence
was enormous,
from Prime Ministers downwards. At his house met people
of the most
varied opinions; it was a veritable heretical _salon_.
Colenso of
Natal, Edward Maitland, E. Vansittart Neale, Charles Bray,
Sarah Hennell,
and hundreds more, clerics and laymen, scholars and
thinkers, all
coming to this one house, to which the _entrée_ was
gained only by
love of Truth and desire to spread Freedom among men.
For Thomas
Scott my first Freethought essay was written a few months
after, "On
the Deity of Jesus of Nazareth," by the wife of a benefited
clergyman. My
name was not mine to use, so it was agreed that any
essays from my
pen should be anonymous.
And now came
the return to Sibsey, and with it the need for definite
steps as to the
Church. For now I no longer doubted, I had rejected,
and the time
for silence was past. I was willing to attend the Church
services,
taking no part in any not directed to God Himself, but I
could no longer
attend the Holy Communion, for in that service, full
of recognition
of Jesus as Deity and of His atoning sacrifice, I could
no longer take
part without hypocrisy. This was agreed to, and well do
I remember the
pain and trembling wherewith on the first "Sacrament
Sunday"
after my return I rose and left the church. That the vicar's
wife should
"communicate" was as much a matter of course as that the
vicar should
"administer"; I had never done anything in public that
would draw
attention to me, and a feeling of deadly sickness nearly
overcame me as
I made my exit, conscious that every eye was on me, and
that my
non-participation would be the cause of unending comment. As a
matter of fact,
every one naturally thought I was taken suddenly ill,
and I was
overwhelmed with calls and inquiries. To any direct question
I answered
quietly that I was unable to take part in the profession of
faith required
by an honest communicant, but the statement was rarely
necessary, as
the idea of heresy in a vicar's wife is slow to suggest
itself to the
ordinary bucolic mind, and I proffered no information
where no
question was asked.
It happened
that, shortly after that (to me) memorable Christmas of
1872, a sharp
epidemic of typhoid fever broke out in the village of
Sibsey. The
drainage there was of the most primitive type, and the
contagion
spread rapidly. Naturally fond of nursing, I found in this
epidemic work
just fitted to my hand, and I was fortunate enough to be
able to lend
personal help that made me welcome in the homes of the
stricken poor.
The mothers who slept exhausted while I watched beside
their darlings'
bedsides will never, I like to fancy, think
over-harshly of
the heretic whose hand was as tender and often more
skilful than
their own. I think Mother Nature meant me for a nurse,
for I take a
sheer delight in nursing any one, provided only that
there is peril
in the sickness, so that there is the strange and
solemn feeling
of the struggle between the human skill one wields and
the supreme
enemy, Death. There is a strange fascination in fighting
Death, step by
step, and this is of course felt to the full where one
fights for life
as life, and not for a life one loves. When the
patient is
beloved the struggle is touched with agony, but where one
fights with
Death over the body of a stranger there is a weird
enchantment in
the contest without personal pain, and as one forces
back the hated
foe there is a curious triumph in the feeling which
marks the
death-grip yielding up its prey, as one snatches back to
earth the life
which had well-nigh perished.
The spring of
1873 brought me knowledge of a power that was to mould
much of my
future life. I delivered my first lecture, but delivered it
to rows of
empty pews in Sibsey Church. A queer whim took me that I
would like to
know how "it felt" to preach, and vague fancies stirred
in me that I
could speak if I had the chance. I saw no platform in the
distance, nor
had any idea of possible speaking in the future dawned
upon me. But
the longing to find outlet in words came upon me, and I
felt as though
I had something to say and was able to say it. So
locked alone in
the great, silent church, whither I had gone to
practise some
organ exercises, I ascended the pulpit steps and
delivered my
first lecture on the Inspiration of the Bible. I shall
never forget
the feeling of power and delight--but especially of
power--that
came upon me as I sent my voice ringing down the aisles,
and the passion
in me broke into balanced sentences and never paused
for musical
cadence or for rhythmical expression. All I wanted then
was to see the
church full of upturned faces, alive with throbbing
sympathy,
instead of the dreary emptiness of silent pews. And as
though in a
dream the solitude was peopled, and I saw the listening
faces and the
eager eyes, and as the sentences flowed unbidden from my
lips and my own
tones echoed back to me from the pillars of the
ancient church,
I knew of a verity that the gift of speech was mine,
and that if
ever--and then it seemed so impossible!--if ever the
chance came to
me of public work, this power of melodious utterance
should at least
win hearing for any message I had to bring.
But the
knowledge remained a secret all to my own self for many a long
month, for I
quickly felt ashamed of that foolish speechifying in an
empty church;
but, foolish as it was, I note it here, as it was the
first effort of
that expression in spoken words which later became to
me one of the
deepest delights of life. And, indeed, none can know,
save they who
have felt it, what joy there is in the full rush of
language that
moves and sways; to feel a crowd respond to the lightest
touch; to see
the faces brighten or darken at your bidding; to know
that the
sources of human emotion and human passion gush forth at the
word of the
speaker as the stream from the riven rock; to feel that
the thought
which thrills through a thousand hearers has its impulse
from you, and
throbs back to you the fuller from a thousand
heart-beats. Is
there any emotional joy in life more brilliant than
this, fuller of
passionate triumph, and of the very essence of
intellectual
delight?
In 1873 my
marriage tie was broken. I took no new step, but my absence
from the
Communion led to some gossip, and a relative of Mr. Besant
pressed on him
highly-coloured views of the social and professional
dangers which
would accrue if my heresy became known. My health, never
really restored
since the autumn of 1871, grew worse and worse,
serious heart
trouble having arisen from the constant strain under
which I lived.
At last, in July or August, 1873, the crisis came. I
was told that I
must conform to the outward observances of the Church,
and attend the
Communion; I refused. Then came the distinct
alternative;
conformity or exclusion from home--in other words,
hypocrisy or
expulsion. I chose the latter.
A bitterly sad
time followed. My dear mother was heart-broken. To her,
with her wide
and vague form of Christianity, loosely held, the
intensity of my
feeling that where I did not believe I would not
pretend belief,
was incomprehensible. She recognised far more fully
than I did all
that a separation from my home meant for me, and the
difficulties
that would surround a young woman, not yet twenty-six,
living alone.
She knew how brutally the world judges, and how the mere
fact that a
woman was young and alone justified any coarseness of
slander. Then I
did not guess how cruel men and women could be, how
venomous their
tongues; now, knowing it, having faced slander and
lived it down,
I deliberately say that were the choice again before me
I would choose
as I chose then; I would rather go through it all again
than live
"in Society" under the burden of an acted lie.
The hardest
struggle was against my mother's tears and pleading; to
cause her pain
was tenfold pain to me. Against harshness I had been
rigid as steel,
but it was hard to remain steadfast when my darling
mother, whom I
loved as I loved nothing else on earth, threw herself
on her knees
before me, imploring me to yield. It seemed like a crime
to bring such
anguish on her; and I felt as a murderer as the snowy
head was
pressed against my knees. And yet--to live a lie? Not even
for her was
that shame possible; in that worst crisis of blinding
agony my will
clung fast to Truth. And it is true now as it ever was
that he who
loves father or mother better than Truth is not worthy of
her, and the
flint-strewn path of honesty is the way to Light and
Peace.
Then there were
the children, the two little ones who worshipped me,
who was to them
mother, nurse, and playfellow. Were they, too,
demanded at my
hands? Not wholly--for a time. Facts which I need not
touch on here
enabled my brother to obtain for me a legal separation,
and when
everything was arranged, I found myself guardian of my little
daughter, and
possessor of a small monthly income sufficient for
respectable
starvation. With a great price I had obtained my freedom,
but--I was
free. Home, friends, social position, were the price
demanded and
paid, and, being free, I wondered what to do with my
freedom. I
could have had a home with my brother if I would give up my
heretical
friends and keep quiet, but I had no mind to put my limbs
into fetters
again, and in my youthful inexperience I determined to
find something
to do. The difficulty was the "something," and I spent
various
shillings in agencies, with a quite wonderful unanimity of
failures. I tried
fancy needle-work, offered to "ladies in reduced
circumstances,"
and earned 4s. 6d. by some weeks of stitching. I
experimented
with a Birmingham firm, who generously offered every one
the opportunity
of adding to their incomes, and on sending the small
fee demanded,
received a pencil-case, with an explanation that I was
to sell little
articles of that description, going as far as
cruet-stands,
to my friends. I did not feel equal to springing
pencil-cases
and cruet-stands on my acquaintances, so did not enter on
that line of
business, and similar failures in numerous efforts made
me feel, as so
many others have found, that the world-oyster is hard
to open.
However, I was resolute to build a nest for my wee daughter,
my mother, and
myself, and the first thing to do was to save my
monthly
pittance to buy furniture. I found a tiny house in Colby Road,
Upper Norwood,
near the Scotts, who were more than good to me, and
arranged to
take it in the spring, and then accepted a loving
invitation to
Folkestone, where my grandmother and two aunts were
living, to look
for work there. And found it. The vicar wanted a
governess, and
one of my aunts suggested me as a stop-gap, and thither
I went with my
little Mabel, our board and lodging being payment for
my work. I
became head cook, governess, and nurse, glad enough to have
found
"something to do" that enabled me to save my little income. But
I do not think
I will ever take to cooking for a permanence; broiling
and frying are
all right, and making pie-crust is rather pleasant; but
saucepans and
kettles blister your hands. There is a charm in making a
stew, to the
unaccustomed cook, from the excitement of wondering what
the result will
be, and whether any flavour save that of onions will
survive the
competition in the mixture. On the whole, my cooking
(strictly by
cookery book) was a success, but my sweeping was bad, for
I lacked
muscle. This curious episode came to an abrupt end, for one
of my little
pupils fell ill with diphtheria, and I was transformed
from cook to
nurse. Mabel I despatched to her grandmother, who adored
her with a love
condescendingly returned by the little fairy of three,
and never was
there a prettier picture than the red-gold curls nestled
against the
white, the baby-grace in exquisite contrast with the worn
stateliness of
her tender nurse. Scarcely was my little patient out of
danger when the
youngest boy fell ill of scarlet fever; we decided to
isolate him on
the top floor, and I cleared away carpets and curtains,
hung sheets
over the doorways and kept them wet with chloride of lime,
shut myself up
there with the boy, having my meals left on the
landing; and
when all risk was over, proudly handed back my charge,
the disease
touching no one else in the house.
And now the
spring of 1874 had come, and in a few weeks my mother and
I were to set
up house together. How we had planned all, and had
knitted on the
new life together we anticipated to the old one we
remembered! How
we had discussed Mabel's education, and the share
which should
fall to each! Day-dreams; day-dreams! never to be
realised.
My mother went
up to town, and in a week or two I received a telegram,
saying she was
dangerously ill, and as fast as express train would
take me I was
beside her. Dying, the doctor said; three days she might
live--no more.
I told her the death-sentence, but she said resolutely,
"I do not
feel that I am going to die just yet," and she was right.
There was an
attack of fearful prostration--the valves of the heart
had failed--a
very wrestling with Death, and then the grim shadow drew
backwards. I
nursed her day and night with a very desperation of
tenderness, for
now Fate had touched the thing dearest to me in life.
A second
horrible crisis came, and for the second time her tenacity
and my love
beat back the death-stroke. She did not wish to die, the
love of life
was strong in her; I would not let her die; between us we
kept the foe at
bay. Then dropsy supervened, and the end loomed slowly
sure.
It was then,
after eighteen months' abstention, that I took the
Sacrament for
the last time. My mother had an intense longing to
communicate
before she died, but absolutely refused to do so unless I
took it with
her. "If it be necessary to salvation," she persisted,
doggedly,
"I will not take it if darling Annie is to be shut out. I
would rather be
lost with her than saved without her." I went to a
clergyman I
knew well, and laid the case before him; as I expected, he
refused to
allow me to communicate. I tried a second, with the same
result. At last
a thought struck me. There was Dean Stanley, my
mother's
favourite, a man known to be of the broadest school within
the Church of
England; suppose I asked him? I did not know him, and I
felt the
request would be an impertinence; but there was just the
chance that he
might consent, and what would I not do to make my
darling's
death-bed easier? I said nothing to any one, but set out to
the Deanery,
Westminster, timidly asked for the Dean, and followed the
servant
upstairs with a sinking heart. I was left for a moment alone
in the library,
and then the Dean came in. I don't think I ever in my
life felt more
intensely uncomfortable than I did in that minute's
interval as he
stood waiting for me to speak, his clear, grave,
piercing eyes
gazing questioningly into mine. Very falteringly--it
must have been
very clumsily--I preferred my request, stating boldly,
with abrupt
honesty, that I was not a Christian, that my mother was
dying, that she
was fretting to take the Sacrament, that she would not
take it unless
I took it with her, that two clergymen had refused to
allow me to
take part in the service, that I had come to him in
despair,
feeling how great was the intrusion, but--she was dying.
His face changed
to a great softness. "You were quite right to come to
me," he
answered, in that low, musical voice of his, his keen gaze
having altered
into one no less direct, but marvellously gentle. "Of
course I will
go and see your mother, and I have little doubt that, if
you will not
mind talking over your position with me, we may see our
way clear to
doing as your mother wishes."
I could barely
speak my thanks, so much did the kindly sympathy move
me; the
revulsion from the anxiety and fear of rebuff was strong
enough to be
almost pain. But Dean Stanley did more than I asked. He
suggested that
he should call that afternoon, and have a quiet chat
with my mother,
and then come again on the following day to administer
the Sacrament.
"A
stranger's presence is always trying to a sick person," he said,
with rare
delicacy of thought, "and, joined to the excitement of the
service, it
might be too much for your dear mother. If I spend half an
hour with her
to-day, and administer the Sacrament to-morrow, it will,
I think, be
better for her."
So Dean Stanley
came that afternoon, all the way to Brompton, and
remained
talking with my mother for about half an hour, and then set
himself to
understand my own position. He finally told me that conduct
was far more
important than theory, and that he regarded all as
"Christians"
who recognised and tried to follow the moral law of
Christ. On the
question of the absolute Deity of Jesus he laid but
little stress;
Jesus was "in a special sense the Son of God," but it
was folly to
quarrel over words with only human meanings when dealing
with the
mystery of the Divine existence, and, above all, it was folly
to make such
words into dividing walls between earnest souls. The one
important
matter was the recognition of "duty to God and man," and all
who were one in
that recognition might rightfully join in an act of
worship, the
essence of which was not acceptance of dogma, but love of
God and
self-sacrifice for man. "The Holy Communion," he concluded, in
his soft tones,
"was never meant to divide from each other hearts that
are searching
after the one true God. It was meant by its founder as a
symbol of
unity, not of strife."
On the
following day Dean Stanley celebrated the Holy Communion by the
bedside of my
dear mother, and well was I repaid for the struggle it
had cost me to
ask so great a kindness from a stranger, when I saw the
comfort that
gentle, noble heart had given to her. He soothed away all
her anxiety
about my heresy with tactful wisdom, bidding her have no
fear of
differences of opinion where the heart was set on truth.
"Remember,"
she told me he said to her--"remember that our God is the
God of truth,
and that therefore the honest search for truth can never
be displeasing
in His eyes." Once again after that he came, and after
his visit to my
mother we had another long talk. I ventured to ask
him, the
conversation having turned that way, how, with views so broad
as his, he
found it possible to remain in communion with the Church of
England.
"I think," he answered, gently, "that I am of more service to
true religion
by remaining in the Church and striving to widen its
boundaries from
within, than if I left it and worked from without."
And he went on
to explain how, as Dean of Westminster, he was in a
rarely
independent position, and could make the Abbey of a wider
national
service than would otherwise be possible. In all he said on
this his love
for and his pride in the glorious Abbey were manifest,
and it was easy
to see that old historical associations, love of
music, of
painting, of stately architecture, were the bonds that held
him bound to
the "old historic Church of England." His emotions, not
his intellect,
kept him Churchman, and he shrank, with the
over-sensitiveness
of the cultured scholar, from the idea of allowing
the old
traditions to be handled roughly by inartistic hands.
Naturally of a
refined and delicate nature, he had been rendered yet
more
exquisitely sensitive by the training of the college and the
court; the
polished courtesy of his manners was but the natural
expression of a
noble and lofty mind--a mind whose very gentleness
sometimes
veiled its strength. I have often heard Dean Stanley harshly
spoken of, I
have heard his honesty roughly challenged; but never has
he been
attacked in my presence that I have not uttered my protest
against the
injustice done him, and thus striven to repay some small
fraction of
that great debt of gratitude which I shall ever owe his
memory.
And now the end
came swiftly. I had hurriedly furnished a couple of
rooms in the
little house, now ours, that I might take my mother into
the purer air
of Norwood, and permission was given to drive her down
in an invalid
carriage. The following evening she was suddenly taken
worse; we
lifted her into bed, and telegraphed for the doctor. But he
could do
nothing, and she herself felt that the hand of Death had
gripped her.
Selfless to the last, she thought but for my loneliness.
"I am
leaving you alone," she sighed from time to time; and truly I
felt, with an
anguish I did not dare to realise, that when she died I
should indeed
be alone on earth.
For two days
longer she was with me, my beloved, and I never left her
side for five
minutes. On May 10th the weakness passed into gentle
delirium, but
even then the faithful eyes followed me about the room,
until at length
they closed for ever, and as the sun sank low in the
heavens, the
breath came slower and slower, till the silence of Death
came down upon
us and she was gone.
Stunned and
dazed with the loss, I went mechanically through the next
few days. I
would have none touch my dead save myself and her
favourite
sister, who was with us at the last. Cold and dry-eyed I
remained, even
when they hid her from me with the coffin-lid, even all
the dreary way
to Kensal Green where her husband and her baby-son were
sleeping, and
when we left her alone in the chill earth, damp with the
rains of
spring. I could not believe that our day-dream was dead and
buried, and the
home in ruins ere yet it was fairly built. Truly, my
"house was
left unto me desolate," and the rooms, filled with sunshine
but unlighted
by her presence, seemed to echo from their bare walls,
"You are
all alone."
But my little
daughter was there, and her sweet face and dancing feet
broke the
solitude, while her imperious claims for love and tendance
forced me into
attention to the daily needs of life. And life was hard
in those days
of spring and summer, resources small, and work
difficult to
find. In truth, the two months after my mother's death
were the
dreariest my life has known, and they were months of
tolerably hard
struggle. The little house in Colby Road taxed my
slender
resources heavily, and the search for work was not yet
successful. I
do not know how I should have managed but for the help
ever at hand,
of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Scott. During this time I wrote
for Mr. Scott
pamphlets on Inspiration, Atonement, Mediation and
Salvation,
Eternal Torture, Religious Education of Children, Natural
_v_. Revealed
Religion, and the few guineas thus earned were very
valuable. Their
house, too, was always open to me, and this was no
small help, for
often in those days the little money I had was enough
to buy food for
two but not enough to buy it for three, and I would go
out and study
all day at the British Museum, so as to "have my dinner
in town,"
the said dinner being conspicuous by its absence. If I was
away for two
evenings running from the hospitable house in the
terrace, Mrs.
Scott would come down to see what had happened, and many
a time the
supper there was of real physical value to me. Well might I
write, in 1879,
when Thomas Scott lay dead: "It was Thomas Scott whose
house was open
to me when my need was sorest, and he never knew, this
generous, noble
heart, how sometimes, when I went in, weary and
overdone, from
a long day's study in the British Museum, with scarce
food to
struggle through the day--he never knew how his genial, 'Well,
little lady,'
in welcoming tone, cheered the then utter loneliness of
my life. To no
living man--save one--do I owe the debt of gratitude
that I owe to
Thomas Scott."
The small
amount of jewellery I possessed, and all my superfluous
clothes, were
turned into more necessary articles, and the child, at
least, never
suffered a solitary touch of want. My servant Mary was a
wonderful
contriver, and kept house on the very slenderest funds that
could be put
into a servant's hands, and she also made the little
place so bright
and fresh-looking that it was always a pleasure to go
into it.
Recalling those days of "hard living," I can now look on them
without regret.
More, I am glad to have passed through them, for they
have taught me
how to sympathise with those who are struggling as I
struggled then,
and I never can hear the words fall from pale lips, "I
am
hungry," without remembering how painful a thing hunger is, and
without curing
that pain, at least for the moment.
The presence of
the child was good for me, keeping alive my aching,
lonely heart:
she would play contentedly for hours while I was
working, a word
now and again being enough for happiness; when I had
to go out
without her, she would run to the door with me, and the
"good-bye"
would come from down-curved lips; she was ever watching at
the window for
my return, and the sunny face was always the first to
welcome me
home. Many and many a time have I been coming home, weary,
hungry, and
heart-sick, and the glimpse of the little face watching
has reminded me
that I must not carry in a grave face to sadden my
darling, and
the effort to throw off the depression for her sake threw
it off
altogether, and brought back the sunshine. She was the
sweetness and
joy of my life, my curly-headed darling, with her
red-gold hair
and glorious eyes, and passionate, wilful, loving
nature. The
torn, bruised tendrils of my heart gradually twined round
this little
life; she gave something to love and to tend, and thus
gratified one
of the strongest impulses of my nature.
CHAPTER VI.
CHARLES
BRADLAUGH.
During all
these months the intellectual life had not stood still; I
was slowly,
cautiously feeling my way onward. And in the intellectual
and social side
of my life I found a delight unknown in the old days
of bondage.
First, there was the joy of freedom, the joy of speaking
out frankly and
honestly each thought. Truly, I had a right to say:
"With a
great price obtained I this freedom," and having paid the
price, I
revelled in the liberty I had bought. Mr. Scott's valuable
library was at
my service; his keen brain challenged my opinions,
probed my
assertions, and suggested phases of thought hitherto
untouched. I
studied harder than ever, and the study now was unchecked
by any fear of
possible consequences. I had nothing left of the old
faith save
belief in "a God," and that began slowly to melt away. The
Theistic axiom:
"If there be a God at all He must be at least as good
as His highest
creature," began with an "if," and to that "if" I
turned my
attention. "Of all impossible things," writes Miss Frances
Power Cobbe,
"the most impossible must surely be that a man should
dream something
of the good and the noble, and that it should prove at
last that his
Creator was less good and less noble than he had
dreamed."
But, I questioned, are we sure that there is a Creator?
Granted that,
if there is, He must be above His highest creature,
but--is there
such a being? "The ground," says the Rev. Charles
Voysey,
"on which our belief in God rests is man. Man, parent of
Bibles and
Churches, inspirer of all good thoughts and good deeds.
Man, the
masterpiece of God's thought on earth. Man, the text-book of
all spiritual
knowledge. Neither miraculous nor infallible, man is
nevertheless
the only trustworthy record of the Divine mind in things
pertaining to
God. Man's reason, conscience, and affections are the
only true
revelation of his Maker." But what if God were only man's
own image
reflected in the mirror of man's mind? What if man were the
creator, not
the revelation of his God?
It was
inevitable that such thoughts should arise after the more
palpably
indefensible doctrines of Christianity had been discarded.
Once encourage
the human mind to think, and bounds to the thinking can
never again be
set by authority. Once challenge traditional beliefs,
and the
challenge will ring on every shield which is hanging in the
intellectual
arena. Around me was the atmosphere of conflict, and,
freed from its
long repression, my mind leapt up to share in the
strife with a
joy in the intellectual tumult, the intellectual strain.
I often
attended South Place Chapel, where Moncure D. Conway was then
preaching, and
discussion with him did something towards widening my
views on the
deeper religious problems; I re-read Dean Mansel's
"Bampton
Lectures," and they did much towards turning me in the
direction of
Atheism; I re-read Mill's "Examination of Sir William
Hamilton's
Philosophy," and studied carefully Comte's "Philosophie
Positive."
Gradually I recognised the limitations of human intelligence
and its
incapacity for understanding the nature of God, presented as
infinite and
absolute; I had given up the use of prayer as a
blasphemous
absurdity, since an all-wise God could not need my
suggestions,
nor an all-good God require my promptings. But God fades
out of the
daily life of those who never pray; a personal God who is
not a
Providence is a superfluity; when from the heaven does not smile
a listening
Father, it soon becomes an empty space, whence resounds no
echo of man's
cry. I could then reach no loftier conception of the
Divine than
that offered by the orthodox, and that broke hopelessly
away as I
analysed it.
At last I said
to Mr. Scott, "Mr. Scott, may I write a tract on the
nature and
existence of God?"
He glanced at
me keenly. "Ah, little lady, you are facing, then, that
problem at
last? I thought it must come. Write away."
While this
pamphlet was in MS. an event occurred which coloured all my
succeeding
life. I met Charles Bradlaugh. One day in the late spring,
talking with
Mrs. Conway--one of the sweetest and steadiest natures
whom it has
been my lot to meet, and to whom, as to her husband, I owe
much for
kindness generously shown when I was poor and had but few
friends--she
asked me if I had been to the Hall of Science, Old
Street. I
answered, with the stupid, ignorant reflection of other
people's
prejudices so sadly common, "No, I have never been there. Mr.
Bradlaugh is
rather a rough sort of speaker, is he not?"
"He is the
finest speaker of Saxon-English that I have ever heard,"
she answered,
"except, perhaps, John Bright, and his power over a
crowd is
something marvellous. Whether you agree with him or not, you
should hear
him."
In the
following July I went into the shop of Mr. Edward Truelove,
256, High
Holborn, in search of some Comtist publications, having come
across his name
as a publisher in the course of my study at the
British Museum.
On the counter was a copy of the _National Reformer_,
and, attracted
by the title, I bought it. I read it placidly in the
omnibus on my
way to Victoria Station, and found it excellent, and was
sent into
convulsions of inward merriment when, glancing up, I saw an
old gentleman
gazing at me, with horror speaking from every line of
his
countenance. To see a young woman, respectably dressed in crape,
reading an
Atheistic journal, had evidently upset his peace of mind,
and he looked
so hard at the paper that I was tempted to offer it to
him, but
repressed the mischievous inclination.
This first copy
of the paper with which I was to be so closely
connected bore
date July 19, 1874, and contained two long letters from
a Mr. Arnold of
Northampton, attacking Mr. Bradlaugh, and a brief and
singularly
self-restrained answer from the latter. There was also an
article on the
National Secular Society, which made me aware that
there was an
organisation devoted to the propagandism of Free Thought.
I felt that if
such a society existed, I ought to belong to it, and I
consequently
wrote a short note to the editor of the _National
Reformer_,
asking whether it was necessary for a person to profess
Atheism before
being admitted to the Society. The answer appeared in
the _National
Reformer_:--
"S.E.--To
be a member of the National Secular Society it is only
necessary to be
able honestly to accept the four principles, as given
in the
_National Reformer_ of June 14th. This any person may do
without being
required to avow himself an Atheist. Candidly, we can
see no logical
resting-place between the entire acceptance of
authority, as
in the Roman Catholic Church, and the most extreme
Rationalism.
If, on again looking to the Principles of the Society,
you can accept
them, we repeat to you our invitation."
I sent my name
in as an active member, and find it is recorded in the
_National
Reformer_ of August 9th. Having received an intimation that
Londoners could
receive their certificates at the Hall of Science from
Mr. Bradlaugh
on any Sunday evening, I betook myself thither, and it
was on August
2, 1874, that I first set foot in a Freethought hall.
The Hall was
crowded to suffocation, and, at the very moment announced
for the
lecture, a roar of cheering burst forth, a tall figure passed
swiftly up the
Hall to the platform, and, with a slight bow in answer
to the
voluminous greeting, Charles Bradlaugh took his seat. I looked
at him with
interest, impressed and surprised. The grave, quiet,
stern, strong
face, the massive head, the keen eyes, the magnificent
breadth and
height of forehead--was this the man I had heard described
as a blatant
agitator, an ignorant demagogue?
He began
quietly and simply, tracing out the resemblances between the
Krishna and the
Christ myths, and as he went from point to point his
voice grew in force
and resonance, till it rang round the hall like a
trumpet.
Familiar with the subject, I could test the value of his
treatment of
it, and saw that his knowledge was as sound as his
language was
splendid. Eloquence, fire, sarcasm, pathos, passion, all
in turn were
bent against Christian superstition, till the great
audience,
carried away by the torrent of the orator's force, hung
silent,
breathing soft, as he went on, till the silence that followed
a magnificent
peroration broke the spell, and a hurricane of cheers
relieved the
tension.
He came down
the Hall with some certificates in his hand, glanced
round, and
handed me mine with a questioning "Mrs. Besant?" Then he
said, referring
to my question as to a profession of Atheism, that he
would willingly
talk over the subject of Atheism with me if I would
make an
appointment, and offered me a book he had been using in his
lecture. Long
afterwards I asked him how he knew me, whom he had never
seen, that he
came straight to me in such fashion. He laughed and said
he did not
know, but, glancing over the faces, he felt sure that I was
Annie Besant.
From that first
meeting in the Hall of Science dated a friendship that
lasted unbroken
till Death severed the earthly bond, and that to me
stretches
through Death's gateway and links us together still. As
friends, not as
strangers, we met--swift recognition, as it were,
leaping from
eye to eye; and I know now that the instinctive
friendliness
was in very truth an outgrowth of strong friendship in
other lives,
and that on that August day we took up again an ancient
tie, we did not
begin a new one. And so in lives to come we shall meet
again, and help
each other as we helped each other in this. And let me
here place on
record, as I have done before, some word of what I owe
him for his
true friendship; though, indeed, how great is my debt to
him I can never
tell. Some of his wise phrases have ever remained in
my memory.
"You should never say you have an opinion on a subject
until you have
tried to study the strongest things said against the
view to which
you are inclined." "You must not think you know a
subject until
you are acquainted with all that the best minds have
said about
it." "No steady work can be done in public unless the
worker study at
home far more than he talks outside." "Be your own
harshest judge,
listen to your own speech and criticise it; read abuse
of yourself and
see what grains of truth are in it." "Do not waste
time by reading
opinions that are mere echoes of your own; read
opinions you
disagree with, and you will catch aspects of truth you do
not readily
see." Through our long comradeship he was my sternest as
well as
gentlest critic, pointing out to me that in a party like ours,
where our own
education and knowledge were above those whom we led, it
was very easy
to gain indiscriminate praise and unstinted admiration;
on the other
hand, we received from Christians equally indiscriminate
abuse and
hatred. It was, therefore, needful that we should be our own
harshest
judges, and that we should be sure that we knew thoroughly
every subject
that we taught. He saved me from the superficiality that
my "fatal
facility" of speech might so easily have induced; and when I
began to taste
the intoxication of easily won applause, his criticism
of weak points,
his challenge of weak arguments, his trained judgment,
were of
priceless service to me, and what of value there is in my work
is very largely
due to his influence, which at once stimulated and
restrained.
One very
charming characteristic of his was his extreme courtesy in
private life,
especially to women. This outward polish, which sat so
gracefully on
his massive frame and stately presence, was foreign
rather than
English--for the English, as a rule, save such as go to
Court, are a
singularly unpolished people--and it gave his manner a
peculiar charm.
I asked him once where he had learned his gracious
fashions that
were so un-English--he would stand with uplifted hat as
he asked a
question of a maidservant, or handed a woman into a
carriage--and
he answered, with a half-smile, half-scoff, that it was
only in England
he was an outcast from society. In France, in Spain,
in Italy, he
was always welcomed among men and women of the highest
social rank,
and he supposed that he had unconsciously caught the
foreign tricks
of manner. Moreover, he was absolutely indifferent to
all questions
of social position; peer or artisan, it was to him
exactly the
same; he never seemed conscious of the distinctions of
which men make
so much.
Our first
conversation, after the meeting at the Hall of Science, took
place a day or
two later in his little study in 29, Turner Street,
Commercial
Road, a wee room overflowing with books, in which he looked
singularly out
of place. Later I learned that he had failed in
business in
consequence of Christian persecution, and, resolute to
avoid
bankruptcy, he had sold everything he possessed, save his books,
had sent his
wife and daughters to live in the country with his
father-in-law,
had taken two tiny rooms in Turner Street, where he
could live for
a mere trifle, and had bent himself to the task of
paying off the
liabilities he had incurred--incurred in consequence of
his battling
for political and religious liberty. I took with me my
MS. essay
"On the Nature and Existence of God," and it served as the
basis for our
conversation; we found there was little difference in
our views.
"You have thought yourself into Atheism without knowing
it," he
said, and all that I changed in the essay was the correction
of the vulgar
error that the Atheist says "there is no God," by the
insertion of a
passage disclaiming this position from an essay pointed
out to me by
Mr. Bradlaugh. And at this stage of my life-story, it is
necessary to
put very clearly the position I took up and held so many
years as
Atheist, because otherwise the further evolution into
Theosophist
will be wholly incomprehensible. It will lead me into
metaphysics,
and to some readers these are dry, but if any one would
understand the
evolution of a Soul he must be willing to face the
questions which
the Soul faces in its growth. And the position of the
philosophic
Atheist is so misunderstood that it is the more necessary
to put it
plainly, and Theosophists, at least, in reading it, will see
how Theosophy
stepped in finally as a further evolution towards
knowledge,
rendering rational, and therefore acceptable, the loftiest
spirituality
that the human mind can as yet conceive.
In order that I
may not colour my past thinkings by my present
thought, I take
my statements from pamphlets written when I adopted
the Atheistic
philosophy and while I continued an adherent thereof. No
charge can then
be made that I have softened my old opinions for the
sake of
reconciling them with those now held.
CHAPTER VII.
ATHEISM AS I
KNEW AND TAUGHT IT.
The first step
which leaves behind the idea of a limited and personal
God, an
extra-cosmic Creator, and leads the student to the point
whence Atheism
and Pantheism diverge, is the recognition that a
profound unity
of substance underlies the infinite diversities of
natural
phenomena, the discernment of the One beneath the Many. This
was the step I
had taken ere my first meeting with Charles Bradlaugh,
and I had
written:--
"It is
manifest to all who will take the trouble to think steadily,
that there can
be only one eternal and underived substance, and that
matter and
spirit must, therefore, only be varying manifestations of
this one
substance. The distinction made between matter and spirit is,
then, simply
made for the sake of convenience and clearness, just as
we may
distinguish perception from judgment, both of which, however,
are alike
processes of thought. Matter is, in its constituent elements,
the same as
spirit; existence is _one_, however manifold in its
phenomena; life
is one, however multiform in its evolution. As the
heat of the
coal differs from the coal itself, so do memory,
perception,
judgment, emotion, and will differ from the brain which is
the instrument
of thought. But nevertheless they are all equally
products of the
one sole substance, varying only in their
conditions....
I find myself, then, compelled to believe that one only
substance
exists in all around me; that the universe is eternal, or at
least eternal
so far as our faculties are concerned, since we cannot,
as some one has
quaintly put it, 'get to the outside of everywhere';
that a Deity
cannot be conceived of as apart from the universe; that
the Worker and
the Work are inextricably interwoven, and in some sense
eternally and
indissolubly combined. Having got so far, we will
proceed to
examine into the possibility of proving the existence of
that one
essence popularly called by the name of _God_, under the
conditions
strictly defined by the orthodox. Having demonstrated, as I
hope to do,
that the orthodox idea of God is unreasonable and absurd,
we will
endeavour to ascertain whether _any_ idea of God, worthy to be
called an idea,
is attainable in the present state of our faculties."
"The Deity
must of necessity be that one and only substance out of
which all
things are evolved, under the uncreated conditions and
eternal laws of
the universe; He must be, as Theodore Parker somewhat
oddly puts it,
'the materiality of matter as well as the spirituality
of
spirit'--_i.e._, these must both be products of this one substance;
a truth which
is readily accepted as soon as spirit and matter are
seen to be but
different modes of one essence. Thus we identify
substance with
the all-comprehending and vivifying force of nature,
and in so doing
we simply reduce to a physical impossibility the
existence of
the Being described by the orthodox as a God possessing
the attributes
of personality. The Deity becomes identified with
nature,
co-extensive with the universe, but the _God_ of the orthodox
no longer
exists; we may change the signification of God, and use the
word to express
a different idea, but we can no longer mean by it a
Personal Being
in the orthodox sense, possessing an individuality
which divides
Him from the rest of the universe."[3]
Proceeding to
search whether _any_ idea of God was attainable, I came
to the
conclusion that evidence of the existence of a conscious Power
was lacking,
and that the ordinary proofs offered were inconclusive;
that we could
grasp phenomena and no more. "There appears, also, to
be a
possibility of a mind in nature, though we have seen that
intelligence
is, strictly speaking, impossible. There cannot be
perception,
memory, comparison, or judgment, but may there not be a
perfect mind,
unchanging, calm, and still? Our faculties fail us when
we try to
estimate the Deity, and we are betrayed into contradictions
and
absurdities; but does it therefore follow that He _is_ not? It
seems to me
that to deny His existence is to overstep the boundaries
of our
thought-power almost as much as to try and define it. We
pretend to know
the Unknown if we declare Him to be the Unknowable.
Unknowable to
us at present, yes! Unknowable for ever, in other
possible stages
of existence? We have reached a region into which we
cannot
penetrate; here all human faculties fail us; we bow our heads
on 'the
threshold of the unknown.'
"'And the ear of man cannot hear, and
the eye of man cannot see,
But if we could see and hear, this
vision--were it not He?'
Thus sings
Alfred Tennyson, the poet of metaphysics: '_if_ we could
see and hear.'
Alas! it is always an 'if!'[4]
This refusal to
believe without evidence, and the declaration that
anything
"behind phenomena" is unknowable to man as at present
constituted--these
are the two chief planks of the Atheistic platform,
as Atheism was
held by Charles Bradlaugh and myself. In 1876 this
position was
clearly reaffirmed. "It is necessary to put briefly the
Atheistic
position, for no position is more continuously and more
persistently
misrepresented. Atheism is _without_ God. It does not
assert _no_
God. 'The Atheist does not say "There is no God," but he
says, "I
know not what you mean by God; I am without idea of God; the
word God is to
me a sound conveying no clear or distinct affirmation.
I do not deny
God, because I cannot deny that of which I have no
conception, and
the conception of which, by its affirmer, is so
imperfect that
he is unable to define it to me."' (Charles Bradlaugh,
"Freethinker's
Text-book," p. 118.) The Atheist neither affirms nor
denies the
possibility of phenomena differing from those recognised by
human
experience.... As his knowledge of the universe is extremely
limited and
very imperfect, the Atheist declines either to deny or to
affirm anything
with regard to modes of existence of which he knows
nothing.
Further, he refuses to believe anything concerning that of
which he knows
nothing, and affirms that that which can never be the
subject of
knowledge ought never to be the object of belief. While the
Atheist, then,
neither affirms nor denies the unknown, he _does_ deny
all which
conflicts with the knowledge to which he has already
attained. For
example, he _knows_ that one is one, and that three
times one are
three; he _denies_ that three times one are, or can be,
one. The
position of the Atheist is a clear and a reasonable one: I
know nothing
about 'God,' and therefore I do not believe in Him or in
it; what you
tell me about your God is self-contradictory, and is
therefore
incredible. I do not deny 'God,' which is an unknown tongue
to me; I do
deny your God, who is an impossibility. I am without
God."[5]
Up to 1887 I find myself writing on the same lines: "No man
can rationally
affirm 'There is no God,' until the word 'God' has for
him a definite
meaning, and until everything that exists is known to
him, and known
with what Leibnitz calls 'perfect knowledge.' The
Atheist's denial
of the Gods begins only when these Gods are defined
or described.
Never yet has a God been defined in terms which were not
palpably
self-contradictory and absurd; never yet has a God been
described so
that a concept of Him was made possible to human
thought--Nor is
anything gained by the assertors of Deity when they
allege that He
is incomprehensible. If 'God' exists and is
incomprehensible,
His incomprehensibility is an admirable reason for
being silent
about Him, but can never justify the affirmation of
self-contradictory
propositions, and the threatening of people with
damnation if
they do not accept them."[6] "The belief of the Atheist
stops where his
evidence stops. He believes in the existence of the
universe,
judging the accessible proof thereof to be adequate, and he
finds in this
universe sufficient cause for the happening of all
phenomena. He
finds no intellectual satisfaction in placing a gigantic
conundrum
behind the universe, which only adds its own
unintelligibility
to the already sufficiently difficult problem of
existence. Our
lungs are not fitted to breathe beyond the atmosphere
which surrounds
our globe, and our faculties cannot breathe outside
the atmosphere
of the phenomenal."[7] And I summed up this essay with
the words:
"I do not believe in God. My mind finds no grounds on which
to build up a
reasonable faith. My heart revolts against the spectre
of an Almighty
Indifference to the pain of sentient beings. My
conscience
rebels against the injustice, the cruelty, the inequality,
which surround
me on every side. But I believe in Man. In man's
redeeming
power; in man's remoulding energy; in man's approaching
triumph,
through knowledge, love, and work."[8]
These views of
existence naturally colour all views of life and of the
existence of
the Soul. And here steps in the profound difference
between Atheism
and Pantheism; both posit an Existence at present
inscrutable by
human faculties, of which all phenomena are modes; but
to the Atheist
that Existence manifests as Force-Matter, unconscious,
unintelligent,
while to the Pantheist it manifests as Life-Matter,
conscious,
intelligent. To the one, life and consciousness are
attributes,
properties, dependent upon arrangements of matter; to the
other they are
fundamental, essential, and only limited in their
manifestation
by arrangements of matter. Despite the attraction held
for me in
Spinoza's luminous arguments, the over-mastering sway which
Science was
beginning to exercise over me drove me to seek for the
explanation of
all problems of life and mind at the hands of the
biologist and
the chemist. They had done so much, explained so much,
could they not
explain all? Surely, I thought, the one safe ground is
that of
experiment, and the remembered agony of doubt made me very
slow to believe
where I could not prove. So I was fain to regard life
as an
attribute, and this again strengthened the Atheistic position.
"Scientifically
regarded, life is not an entity but a property; it is
not a mode of
existence, but a characteristic of certain modes. Life
is the result
of an arrangement of matter, and when rearrangement
occurs the
former result can no longer be present; we call the result
of the changed
arrangement death. Life and death are two convenient
words for
expressing the general outcome of two arrangements of
matter, one of
which is always found to precede the other."[9] And
then, having
resorted to chemistry for one illustration, I took
another from
one of those striking and easily grasped analogies,
facility for
seeing and presenting which has ever been one of the
secrets of my
success as a propagandist. Like pictures, they impress
the mind of the
hearer with a vivid sense of reality. "Every one knows
the exquisite
iridiscence of mother-of-pearl, the tender, delicate
hues which melt
into each other, glowing with soft radiance. How
different is
the dull, dead surface of a piece of wax. Yet take that
dull, black wax
and mould it so closely to the surface of the
mother-of-pearl
that it shall take every delicate marking of the
shell, and when
you raise it the seven-hued glory shall smile at you
from the
erstwhile colourless surface. For, though it be to the naked
eye
imperceptible, all the surface of the mother-of-pearl is in
delicate ridges
and furrows, like the surface of a newly-ploughed
field; and when
the waves of light come dashing up against the ridged
surface, they
are broken like the waves on a shingly shore, and are
flung
backwards, so that they cross each other and the oncoming waves;
and, as every
ray of white light is made up of waves of seven colours,
and these waves
differ in length each from the others, the fairy
ridges fling
them backward separately, and each ray reaches the eye by
itself; so that
the colour of the mother-of-pearl is really the spray
of the light
waves, and comes from arrangement of matter once again.
Give the dull,
black wax the same ridges and furrows, and its glory
shall differ in
nothing from that of the shell. To apply our
illustration:
as the colour belongs to one arrangement of matter and
the dead
surface to another, so life belongs to some arrangements of
matter and is
their resultant, while the resultant of other
arrangements is
death."[10]
The same line
of reasoning naturally was applied to the existence of
"spirit"
in man, and it was argued that mental activity, the domain of
the
"spirit," was dependent on bodily organisation. "When the babe
is
born it shows
no sign of mind. For a brief space hunger and repletion,
cold and warmth
are its only sensations. Slowly the specialised senses
begin to
function; still more slowly muscular movements, at first
aimless and
reflex, become co-ordinated and consciously directed.
There is no
sign here of an intelligent spirit controlling a
mechanism;
there is every sign of a learning and developing
intelligence,
developing _pari passu_ with the organism of which it is
a function. As
the body grows, the mind grows with it, and the
childish mind
of the child develops into the hasty, quickly-judging,
half-informed,
unbalanced youthful mind of the youth; with maturity of
years comes
maturity of mind, and body and mind are vigorous and in
their prime. As
old age comes on and the bodily functions decay, the
mind decays
also, until age passes into senility, and body and mind
sink into
second childhood. Has the immortal spirit decayed with the
organisation,
or is it dwelling in sorrow, bound in its 'house of
clay'? If this
be so, the 'spirit' must be unconscious, or else
separate from
the very individual whose essence it is supposed to be,
for the old man
does not suffer when his mind is senile, but is
contented as a
little child. And not only is this constant,
simultaneous
growth and decay of body and mind to be observed, but we
know that mental
functions are disordered and suspended by various
physical
conditions. Alcohol, many drugs, fever, disorder the mind; a
blow on the
cranium suspends its functions, and the 'spirit' returns
with the
surgeon's trepanning. Does the 'spirit' take part in dreams?
Is it absent
from the idiot, from the lunatic? Is it guilty of
manslaughter
when the madman murders, or does it helplessly watch its
own instrument
performing actions at which it shudders? If it can only
work here
through an organism, is its nature changed in its
independent
life, severed from all with which it was identified? Can
it, in its
'disembodied state,' have anything in common with its
past?"[11]
It will be seen
that my unbelief in the existence of the Soul or
Spirit was a
matter of cold, calm reasoning. As I wrote in 1885: "For
many of us
evidence must precede belief. I would gladly believe in a
happy
immortality for all, as I would gladly believe that all misery
and crime and
poverty will disappear in 1885--_if I could_. But I am
unable to
believe an improbable proposition unless convincing evidence
is brought in
support of it. Immortality is most improbable; no
evidence is
brought forward in its favour. I cannot believe only
because I
wish."[12] Such was the philosophy by which I lived from
1874 to 1886,
when first some researches that will be dealt with in
their proper
place, and which led me ultimately to the evidence I had
before vainly
demanded, began to shake my confidence in its adequacy.
Amid outer
storm and turmoil and conflict, I found it satisfy my
intellect,
while lofty ideals of morality fed my emotions. I called
myself Atheist,
and rightly so, for I was without God, and my horizon
was bounded by
life on earth; I gloried in the name then, as it is
dear to my
heart now, for all the associations with which it is
connected.
"Atheist is one of the grandest titles a man can wear; it
is the Order of
Merit of the world's heroes. Most great discoverers,
most
deep-thinking philosophers, most earnest reformers, most toiling
pioneers of
progress, have in their turn had flung at them the name of
Atheist. It was
howled over the grave of Copernicus; it was clamoured
round the
death-pile of Bruno; it was yelled at Vanini, at Spinoza, at
Priestley, at
Voltaire, at Paine; it has become the laurel-bay of the
hero, the halo
of the martyr; in the world's history it has meant the
pioneer of
progress, and where the cry of 'Atheist' is raised there
may we be sure
that another step is being taken towards the redemption
of humanity.
The saviours of the world are too often howled at as
Atheists, and
then worshipped as Deities. The Atheists are the
vanguard of the
army of Freethought, on whom falls the brunt of the
battle, and are
shivered the hardest of the blows; their feet trample
down the thorns
that others may tread unwounded; their bodies fill up
the ditch that,
by the bridge thus made, others may pass to victory.
Honour to the
pioneers of progress, honour to the vanguard of
Liberty's army,
honour to those who to improve earth have forgotten
heaven, and who
in their zeal for man have forgotten God."[13]
This poor
sketch of the conception of the universe, to which I had
conquered my
way at the cost of so much pain, and which was the inner
centre round
which my life revolved for twelve years, may perhaps show
that the
Atheistic Philosophy is misjudged sorely when it is scouted
as vile or
condemned as intellectually degraded. It has outgrown
anthropomorphic
deities, and it leaves us face to face with Nature,
open to all her
purifying, strengthening inspirations. "There is only
one kind of
prayer," it says, "which is reasonable, and that is the
deep, silent
adoration of the greatness and beauty and order around
us, as revealed
in the realms of non-rational life and in Humanity; as
we bow our
heads before the laws of the universe, and mould our lives
into obedience
to their voice, we find a strong, calm peace steal over
our hearts, a
perfect trust in the ultimate triumph of the right, a
quiet
determination to 'make our lives sublime.' Before our own high
ideals, before
those lives which show us 'how high the tides of Divine
life have risen
in the human world,' we stand with hushed voice and
veiled face;
from them we draw strength to emulate, and even dare
struggle to
excel. The contemplation of the ideal is true prayer; it
inspires, it
strengthens, it ennobles. The other part of prayer is
work; from
contemplation to labour, from the forest to the street.
Study nature's
laws, conform to them, work in harmony with them, and
work becomes a
prayer and a thanksgiving, an adoration of the
universal
wisdom, and a true obedience to the universal law."[14]
To a woman of
my temperament, filled with passionate desire for the
bettering of
the world, the elevation of humanity, a lofty system of
ethics was of
even more importance than a logical, intellectual
conception of
the universe; and the total loss of all faith in a
righteous God
only made me more strenuously assertive of the binding
nature of duty and
the overwhelming importance of conduct. In 1874
this conviction
found voice in a pamphlet on the "True Basis of
Morality,"
and in all the years of my propaganda on the platform of
the National
Secular Society no subject was more frequently dealt with
in my lectures
than that of human ethical growth and the duty of man
to man. No
thought was more constantly in my mind than that of the
importance of
morals, and it was voiced at the very outset of my
public career.
Speaking of the danger lest "in these stirring times of
inquiry,"
old sanctions of right conduct should be cast aside ere new
ones were
firmly established, I wrote: "It therefore becomes the duty
of every one
who fights in the ranks of Freethought, and who ventures
to attack the
dogmas of the Churches, and to strike down the
superstitions
which enslave men's intellect, to beware how he uproots
sanctions of
morality which he is too weak to replace, or how, before
he is prepared
with better ones, he removes the barriers which do yet,
however poorly,
to some extent check vice and repress crime.... That
which touches
morality touches the heart of society; a high and pure
morality is the
life-blood of humanity; mistakes in belief are
inevitable, and
are of little moment; mistakes in life destroy
happiness, and
their destructive consequences spread far and wide. It
is, then, a
very important question whether we, who are endeavouring
to take away
from the world the authority on which has hitherto been
based all its
morality, can offer a new and firm ground whereupon may
safely be built
up the fair edifice of a noble life."
I then
proceeded to analyse revelation and intuition as a basis for
morals, and,
discarding both, I asserted: "The true basis of morality
is utility;
that is, the adaptation of our actions to the promotion of
the general
welfare and happiness; the endeavour so to rule our lives
that we may
serve and bless mankind." And I argued for this basis,
showing that
the effort after virtue was implied in the search for
happiness:
"Virtue is an indispensable part of all true and solid
happiness....
But it is, after all, only reasonable that happiness
should be the
ultimate test of right and wrong, if we live, as we do,
in a realm of
law. Obedience to law must necessarily result in
harmony, and
disobedience in discord. But if obedience to law result
in harmony it
must also result in happiness--all through nature
obedience to
law results in happiness, and through obedience each
living thing
fulfils the perfection of its being, and in that
perfection
finds its true happiness." It seemed to me most important
to remove
morality from the controversies about religion, and to give
it a basis of
its own: "As, then, the grave subject of the existence
of Deity is a
matter of dispute, it is evidently of deep importance to
society that
morality should not be dragged into this battlefield, to
stand or totter
with the various theories of the Divine nature which
human thought
creates and destroys. If we can found morality on a
basis apart
from theology, we shall do humanity a service which can
scarcely be
overestimated." A study of the facts of nature, of the
consequences of
man in society, seemed sufficient for such a basis.
"Our
faculties do not suffice to tell us about God; they do suffice to
study
phenomena, and to deduce laws from correlated facts. Surely,
then, we should
do wisely to concentrate our strength and our energies
on the
discovery of the attainable, instead of on the search after the
unknowable. If
we are told that morality consists in obedience to the
supposed will
of a supposed perfectly moral being, because in so doing
we please God,
then we are at once placed in a region where our
faculties are
useless to us, and where our judgment is at fault. But
if we are told
that we are to lead noble lives, because nobility of
life is
desirable for itself alone, because in so doing we are acting
in harmony with
the laws of Nature, because in so doing we spread
happiness
around our pathway and gladden our fellow-men--then, indeed,
motives are
appealed to which spring forward to meet the call, and
chords are
struck in our hearts which respond in music to the touch."
It was to the
establishment of this secure basis that I bent my
energies, this
that was to me of supreme moment. "Amid the fervid
movement of
society, with its wild theories and crude social reforms,
with its
righteous fury against oppression and its unconsidered
notions of
wider freedom and gladder life, it is of vital importance
that morality
should stand on a foundation unshakable; that so through
all political
and religious revolutions human life may grow purer and
nobler, may
rise upwards into settled freedom, and not sink downwards
into anarchy.
Only utility can afford us a sure basis, the
reasonableness
of which will be accepted alike by thoughtful student
and hard-headed
artisan. Utility appeals to all alike, and sets in
action motives
which are found equally in every human heart. Well
shall it be for
humanity that creeds and dogmas pass away, that
superstition
vanishes, and the clear light of freedom and science
dawns on a
regenerated earth--but well only if men draw tighter and
closer the
links of trustworthiness, of honour, and of truth. Equality
before the law
is necessary and just; liberty is the birthright of
every man and
woman; free individual development will elevate and
glorify the
race. But little worth these priceless jewels, little
worth liberty
and equality with all their promise for mankind, little
worth even
wider happiness, if that happiness be selfish, if true
fraternity,
true brotherhood, do not knit man to man, and heart to
heart, in loyal
service to the common need, and generous
self-sacrifice
to the common good."[15]
To the
forwarding of this moral growth of man, two things seemed to me
necessary--an
Ideal which should stir the emotions and impel to
action, and a
clear understanding of the sources of evil and of the
methods by
which they might be drained. Into the drawing of the first
I threw all the
passion of my nature, striving to paint the Ideal in
colours which
should enthral and fascinate, so that love and desire to
realise might
stir man to effort. If "morality touched by emotion" be
religion, then
truly was I the most religious of Atheists, finding in
this dwelling
on and glorifying of the Ideal full satisfaction for the
loftiest
emotions. To meet the fascination exercised over men's hearts
by the Man of
Sorrows, I raised the image of man triumphant, man
perfected.
"Rightly is the ideal Christian type of humanity a Man of
Sorrows. Jesus,
with worn and wasted body; with sad, thin lips, curved
into a mournful
droop of penitence for human sin; with weary eyes
gazing up to
heaven because despairing of earth; bowed down and aged
with grief and
pain, broken-hearted with long anguish, broken-spirited
with unresisted
ill-usage--such is the ideal man of the Christian
creed.
Beautiful with a certain pathetic beauty, telling of the long
travail of
earth, eloquent of the sufferings of humanity, but not the
model type to
which men should conform their lives, if they would make
humanity
glorious. And, therefore, in radiant contrast with this,
stands out in
the sunshine and under the blue summer sky, far from
graveyards and
torture of death agony, the fair ideal Humanity of the
Atheist. In
form strong and fair, perfect in physical development as
the Hercules of
Grecian art, radiant with love, glorious in
self-reliant
power; with lips bent firm to resist oppression, and
melting into soft
curves of passion and of pity; with deep, far-seeing
eyes, gazing
piercingly into the secrets of the unknown, and resting
lovingly on the
beauties around him; with hands strong to work in the
present; with
heart full of hope which the future shall realise;
making earth
glad with his labour and beautiful with his skill--this,
this is the
Ideal Man, enshrined in the Atheist's heart. The ideal
humanity of the
Christian is the humanity of the slave, poor, meek,
broken-spirited,
humble, submissive to authority, however oppressive
and unjust; the
ideal humanity of the Atheist is the humanity of the
free man who
knows no lord, who brooks no tyranny, who relies on his
own strength,
who makes his brother's quarrel his, proud,
true-hearted,
loyal, brave."[16]
A one-sided
view? Yes. But a very natural outcome of a sunny nature,
for years held
down by unhappiness and the harshness of an outgrown
creed. It was
the rebound of such a nature suddenly set free,
rejoicing in
its liberty and self-conscious strength, and it carried
with it a great
power of rousing the sympathetic enthusiasm of men and
women, deeply
conscious of their own restrictions and their own
longings. It
was the cry of the freed soul that had found articulate
expression, and
the many inarticulate and prisoned souls answered to
it tumultously,
with fluttering of caged wings. With hot insistence I
battled for the
inspiration to be drawn from the beauty and grandeur
of which human
life was capable. "Will any one exclaim, 'You are
taking all
beauty out of human life, all hope, all warmth, all
inspiration;
you give us cold duty for filial obedience, and
inexorable law
in the place of God'? All beauty from life? Is there,
then, no beauty
in the idea of forming part of the great life of the
universe, no
beauty in conscious harmony with Nature, no beauty in
faithful
service, no beauty in ideals of every virtue? 'All hope'?
Why, I give you
more than hope, I give you certainty; if I bid you
labour for this
world, it is with the knowledge that this world will
repay you a,
thousand-fold, because society will grow purer, freedom
more settled,
law more honoured, life more full and glad. What is your
heaven? A
heaven in the clouds! I point to a heaven attainable on
earth. 'All
warmth'? What! you serve warmly a God unknown and
invisible, in a
sense the projected shadow of your own imaginings, and
can only serve
coldly your brother whom you see at your side? There is
no warmth in
brightening the lot of the sad, in reforming abuses, in
establishing
equal justice for rich and poor? You find warmth in the
church, but
none in the home? Warmth in imagining the cloud glories of
heaven, but
none in creating substantial glories on earth?' All
inspiration'?
If you want inspiration to feeling, to sentiment,
perhaps you had
better keep to your Bible and your creeds; if you want
inspiration to
work, go and walk through the East of London, or the
back streets of
Manchester. You are inspired to tenderness as you gaze
at the wounds
of Jesus, dead in Judaea long ago, and find no
inspiration in
the wounds of men and women, dying in the England of
to-day? You
'have tears to shed for Him,' but none for the sufferer at
your doors? His
passion arouses your sympathies, but you see no pathos
in the passion
of the poor? Duty is colder than 'filial obedience'?
What do you
mean by filial obedience? Obedience to your ideal of
goodness and
love--is it not so? Then how is duty cold? I offer you
ideals for your
homage: here is Truth for your Mistress, to whose
exaltation you
shall devote your intellect; here is Freedom for your
General, for
whose triumph you shall fight; here is Love for your
Inspirer, who
shall influence your every thought; here is Man for your
Master--not in
heaven, but on earth--to whose service you shall
consecrate
every faculty of your being. 'Inexorable law in the place
of God'? Yes; a
stern certainty that you shall not waste your life,
yet gather a
rich reward at the close; that you shall not sow misery,
yet reap
gladness; that you shall not be selfish, yet be crowned with
love; nor shall
you sin, yet find safety in repentance. True, our
creed _is_ a
stern one, stern with the beautiful sternness of Nature.
But if we be in
the right, look to yourselves; laws do not check their
action for your
ignorance; fire will not cease to scorch, because you
'did not
know.'"[17]
With equal
vigour did I maintain that "virtue was its own reward," and
that payment on
the other side of the grave was unnecessary as an
incentive to
right living. "What shall we say to Miss Cobbe's
contention that
duty will 'grow grey and cold' without God and
immortality?
Yes, for those with whom duty is a matter of selfish
calculation,
and who are virtuous only because they look for a 'golden
crown' in
payment on the other side the grave. Those of us who find
joy in
right-doing, who work because work is useful to our fellows,
who live well
because in such living we pay our contribution to the
world's wealth,
leaving earth richer than we found it--we need no
paltry payment
after death for our life's labour, for in that labour
is its own
'exceeding great reward.'"[18] But did any one yearn for
immortality,
that "not all of me shall die"? "Is it true that Atheism
has no
immortality? What is true immortality? Is Beethoven's true
immortality in
his continued personal consciousness, or in his
glorious music
deathless while the world endures? Is Shelley's true
life in his
existence in some far-off heaven, or in the pulsing
liberty his
lyrics send through men's hearts, when they respond to the
strains of his
lyre? Music does not die, though one instrument be
broken; thought
does not die, though one brain be shivered; love does
not die, though
one heart's strings be rent; and no great thinker dies
so long as his
thought re-echoes through the ages, its melody the
fuller-toned
the more human brains send its music on. Not only to the
hero and the
sage is this immortality given; it belongs to each
according to
the measure of his deeds; world-wide life for world-wide
service;
straitened life for straitened work; each reaps as he sows,
and the harvest
is gathered by each in his rightful order."[19]
This longing to
leave behind a name that will live among men by right
of service done
them, this yearning for human love and approval that
springs
naturally from the practical and intense realisation of human
brotherhood--these
will be found as strong motives in the breasts of
the most
earnest men and women who have in our generation identified
themselves with
the Freethought cause. They shine through the written
and spoken
words of Charles Bradlaugh all through his life, and every
friend of his
knows how often he has expressed the longing that "when
the grass grows
green over my grave, men may love me a little for the
work I tried to
do."
Needless to say
that, in the many controversies in which I took part,
it was often
urged against me that such motives were insufficient,
that they
appealed only to natures already ethically developed, and
left the
average man, and, above all, the man below the average, with
no sufficiently
constraining motive for right conduct. I resolutely
held to my
faith in human nature, and the inherent response of the
human heart
when appealed to from the highest grounds; strange--I
often think
now--this instinctive certainty I had of man's innate
grandeur, that
governed all my thought, inconsistent as that certainty
was with my
belief in his purely animal ancestry. Pressed too hard, I
would take
refuge in a passionate disdain for all who did not hear the
thrilling voice
of Virtue and love her for her own sweet sake. "I have
myself heard
the question asked: 'Why should I seek for truth, and why
should I lead a
good life, if there be no immortality in which to reap
a reward?' To
this question the Freethinker has one clear and short
answer: 'There
is no reason why you should seek Truth, if to you the
search has no
attracting power. There is no reason why you should lead
a noble life,
if you find your happiness in leading a poor and a base
one.' Friends,
no one can enjoy a happiness which is too high for his
capabilities; a
book may be of intensest interest, but a dog will very
much prefer
being given a bone. To him whose highest interest is
centred in his
own miserable self, to him who cares only to gain his
own ends, to
him who seeks only his own individual comfort, to that
man Freethought
can have no attraction. Such a man may indeed be made
religious by a
bribe of heaven; he may be led to seek for truth,
because he
hopes to gain his reward hereafter by the search; but Truth
disdains the
service of the self-seeker; she cannot be grasped by a
hand that
itches for reward. If Truth is not loved for her own pure
sake, if to
lead a noble life, if to make men happier, if to spread
brightness
around us, if to leave the world better than we found
it--if these
aims have no attraction for us, if these thoughts do not
inspire us,
then we are not worthy to be Secularists, we have no right
to the proud
title of Freethinkers. If you want to be paid for your
good lives by
living for ever in a lazy and useless fashion in an idle
heaven; if you
want to be bribed into nobility of life; if, like silly
children, you
learn your lesson not to gain knowledge but to win
sugar-plums,
then you had better go back to your creeds and your
churches; they
are all you are fit for; you are not worthy to be free.
But we--who,
having caught a glimpse of the beauty of Truth, deem the
possession of
her worth more than all the world beside; who have made
up our minds to
do our work ungrudgingly, asking for no reward beyond
the results
which spring up from our labour--we will spread the Gospel
of Freethought
among men, until the sad minor melodies of Christianity
have sobbed out
their last mournful notes on the dying evening breeze,
and on the
fresh morning winds shall ring out the chorus of hope and
joyfulness,
from the glad lips of men whom the Truth has at last set
free."[20]
The
intellectual comprehension of the sources of evil and the method
of its
extinction was the second great plank in my ethical platform.
The study of
Darwin and Herbert Spencer, of Huxley, Büchner and
Haeckel, had
not only convinced me of the truth of evolution, but,
with help from
W.H. Clifford, Lubbock, Buckle, Lecky, and many
another, had
led me to see in the evolution of the social instinct the
explanation of
the growth of conscience and of the strengthening of
man's mental
and moral nature. If man by study of the conditions
surrounding him
and by the application of intelligence to the subdual
of external
nature, had already accomplished so much, why should not
further
persistence along the same road lead to his complete
emancipation?
All the evil, anti-social side of his nature was an
inheritance
from his brute ancestry, and could be gradually
eradicated; he
could not only "let the ape and tiger die," but he
could kill them
out." It may be frankly acknowledged that man inherits
from his brute
progenitors various bestial tendencies which are in
course of
elimination. The wild-beast desire to fight is one of these,
and this has
been encouraged, not checked, by religion.... Another
bestial
tendency is the lust of the male for the female apart from
love, duty, and
loyalty; this again has been encouraged by religion,
as witness the
polygamy and concubinage of the Hebrews--as in Abraham,
David, and
Solomon, not to mention the precepts of the Mosaic
laws--the bands
of male and female prostitutes in connection with
Pagan temples,
and the curious outbursts of sexual passion in
connection with
religious revivals and missions. Another bestial
tendency is
greed, the strongest grabbing all he can and trampling
down the weak,
in the mad struggle for wealth; how and when has
religion modified
this tendency, sanctified as it is in our present
civilisation?
All these bestial tendencies will be eradicated only by
the recognition
of human duty, of the social bond. Religion has not
eradicated
them, but science, by tracing them to their source in our
brute ancestry,
has explained them and has shown them in their true
light. As each
recognises that the anti-social tendencies are the
bestial
tendencies in man, and that man in evolving further must
evolve out of
these, each also feels it part of his personal duty to
curb these in
himself, and so to rise further from the brute. This
rational
'co-operation with Nature' distinguishes the scientific from
the religious
person, and this constraining sense of obligation is
becoming
stronger and stronger in all those who, in losing faith in
God, have
gained hope for man."[21]
For this
rational setting of oneself on the side of the forces working
for evolution
implied active co-operation by personal purity and
nobility."
To the Atheist it seems that the knowledge that the
perfecting of
the race is only possible by the improvement of the
individual,
supplies the most constraining motive which can be
imagined for
efforts after personal perfection. The Theist may desire
personal
perfection, but his desire is self-centred; each righteous
individual is
righteous, as it were, alone, and his righteousness does
not benefit his
fellows save as it may make him helpful and loving in
his dealings
with them. The Atheist desires personal perfection not
only for his
joy in it as beautiful in itself, but because science has
taught him the
unity of the race, and he knows that each fresh
conquest of his
over the baser parts of his nature, and each
strengthening
of the higher, is a gain for all, and not for himself
alone."[22]
Besides all
this, the struggle against evil, regarded as transitory
and as a
necessary concomitant of evolution, loses its bitterness. "In
dealing with
evil, Atheism is full of hope instead of despair. To the
Christian, evil
is as everlasting as good; it exists by the permission
of God, and,
therefore, by the will of God. Our nature is corrupt,
inclined to
evil; the devil is ever near us, working all sin and all
misery. What
hope has the Christian face to face with a world's
wickedness?
what answer to the question, Whence comes sin? To the
Atheist the
terrible problem has in it no figure of despair. Evil
comes from
ignorance, we say; ignorance of physical and of moral
facts.
Primarily, from ignorance of physical order; parents who dwell
in filthy,
unventilated, unweathertight houses, who live on
insufficient,
innutritious, unwholesome food, will necessarily be
unhealthy, will
lack vitality, will probably have disease lurking in
their veins;
such parents will bring into the world ill-nurtured
children, in
whom the brain will generally be the least developed part
of the body;
such children, by their very formation, will incline to
the animal
rather than to the human, and by leading an animal, or
natural, life
will be deficient in those qualities which are necessary
in social life.
Their surroundings as they grow up, the home, the
food, the
associates, all are bad. They are trained into vice,
educated into
criminality; so surely as from the sown corn rises the
wheat-ear, so
from the sowing of misery, filth, and starvation shall
arise crime.
And the root of all is poverty and ignorance. Educate the
children, and
give them fair wage for fair work in their maturity, and
crime will
gradually diminish and ultimately disappear. Man is
God-made, says
Theism; man is circumstance-made, says Atheism. Man is
the resultant
of what his parents were, of what his surroundings have
been and are,
and of what they have made him; himself the result of
the past he
modifies the actual, and so the action and reaction go on,
he himself the
effect of what is past, and one of the causes of what
is to come.
Make the circumstances good and the results will be good,
for healthy
bodies and healthy brains may be built up, and from a
State composed
of such the disease of crime will have disappeared.
Thus is our
work full of hope; no terrible will of God have we to
struggle
against; no despairful future to look forward to, of a world
growing more
and more evil, until it is, at last, to burned up; but a
glad, fair
future of an ever-rising race, where more equal laws, more
general
education, more just division, shall eradicate pauperism,
destroy
ignorance, nourish independence, a future to be made the
grander by our
struggles, a future to be made the nearer by our
toil."[23]
This joyous,
self-reliant facing of the world with the resolute
determination
to improve it is characteristic of the noblest Atheism
of our day. And
it is thus a distintly elevating factor in the midst
of the
selfishness, luxury, and greed of modern civilisation. It is a
virile virtue
in the midst of the calculating and slothful spirit
which too ofter
veils itself under the pretence or religion. It will
have no putting
off of justice to a far-off day of reckoning, and it
is ever spurred
on by the feeling, "The night cometh, when no man can
work."
Bereft of all hope of a personal future, it binds up its hopes
with that of
the race; unbelieving in any aid from Deity, it struggles
the more
strenuously to work out man's salvation by his own strength.
"To us
there is but small comfort in Miss Cobbe's assurance that
'earth's wrongs
and agonies' 'will be righted hereafter.' Granting for
a moment that
man survives death what certainty have we that 'the next
world' will be
any improvement on this? Miss Cobbe assures us that
this is 'God's
world'; whose world will the next be, if not also His?
Will He be
stronger there or better, that He should set right in that
world the
wrongs He has permitted here? Will He have changed His mind,
or have become
weary of the contemplation of suffering? To me the
thought that
the world was in the hands of a God who permitted all the
present wrongs
and pains to exist would be intolerable, maddening in
its
hopelessness. There is every hope of righting earth's wrongs and
of curing
earth's pains if the reason and skill of man which have
already done so
much are free to do the rest; but if they are to
strive against
omnipotence, hopeless indeed is the future of the
world. It is in
this sense that the Atheist looks on good as 'the
final goal of
ill,' and believing that that goal will be reached the
sooner the more
strenuous the efforts of each individual, he works in
the glad
certainty that he is aiding the world's progress thitherward.
Not dreaming of
a personal reward hereafter, not craving a personal
payment from
heavenly treasury, he works and loves, content that he is
building a
future fairer than his present, joyous that he is creating
a new earth for
a happier race."[24]
Such was the
creed and such the morality which governed my life and
thoughts from
1874 to 1886, and with some misgivings to 1889, and from
which I drew
strength and happiness amid all outer struggles and
distress. And I
shall ever remain grateful for the intellectual and
moral training
it gave me, for the self-reliance it nurtured, for the
altruism it
inculcated, for the deep feeling of the unity of man that
it fostered,
for the inspiration to work that it lent. And perhaps the
chief debt of
gratitude I owe to Freethought is that it left the mind
ever open to
new truth, encouraged the most unshrinking questioning of
Nature, and
shrank from no new conclusions, however adverse to the
old, that were
based on solid evidence. I admit sorrowfully that all
Freethinkers do
not learn this lesson, but I worked side by side with
Charles
Bradlaugh, and the Freethought we strove to spread was
strong-headed
and broad-hearted.
The antagonism
which, as we shall see in a few moments, blazed out
against me from
the commencement of my platform work, was based partly
on ignorance,
was partly aroused by my direct attacks on Christianity,
and by the
combative spirit I myself showed in those attacks, and very
largely by my
extreme Radicalism in politics. I had against me all the
conventional
beliefs and traditions of society in general, and I
attacked them,
not with bated breath and abundant apologies, but
joyously and
defiantly, with sheer delight in the intellectual strife.
I was fired,
too, with passionate sympathy for the sufferings of the
poor, for the
overburdened, overdriven masses of the people, not only
here but in
every land, and wherever a blow was struck at Liberty or
Justice my pen
or tongue brake silence. It was a perpetual carrying of
the fiery
cross, and the comfortable did not thank me for shaking them
out of their
soft repose.
The antagonism
that grew out of ignorance regarded Atheism as implying
degraded
morality and bestial life, and they assailed my conduct not
on evidence
that it was evil, but on the presumption that an Atheist
must be
immoral. Thus a Christian opponent at Leicester assailed me as
a teacher of
free love, fathering on me views which were maintained in
a book that I
had not read, but which, before I had ever seen the
_National
Reformer_, had been reviewed in its columns--as it was
reviewed in
other London papers--and had been commended for its clear
statement of
the Malthusian position, but not for its contention as to
free love, a
theory to which Mr. Bradlaugh was very strongly opposed.
Nor were the
attacks confined to the ascription to me of theories
which I did not
hold, but agents of the Christian Evidence Society, in
their street
preaching, made the foulest accusations against me of
personal immorality.
Remonstrances addressed to the Rev. Mr. Engström,
the secretary
of the society, brought voluble protestations of
disavowal and
disapproval; but as the peccant agents were continued in
their
employment, the apologies were of small value. No accusation was
too coarse, no
slander too baseless, for circulation by these men; and
for a long time
these indignities caused me bitter suffering,
outraging my
pride, and soiling my good name. The time was to come
when I should
throw that good name to the winds for the sake of the
miserable, but
in those early days I had done nothing to merit, even
ostensibly,
such attacks. Even by educated writers, who should have
known better,
the most wanton accusations of violence and would-be
destructiveness
were brought against Atheists; thus Miss Frances Power
Cobbe wrote in
the _Contemporary Review_ that loss of faith in God
would bring
about the secularisation _or destruction_ of all
cathedrals,
churches, and chapels. "Why," I wrote in answer, "should
cathedrals,
churches, and chapels be destroyed? Atheism will utilise,
not destroy,
the beautiful edifices which, once wasted on God, shall
hereafter be
consecrated for man. Destroy Westminster Abbey, with its
exquisite
arches, its glorious tones of soft, rich colour, its
stonework light
as if of cloud, its dreamy, subdued twilight, soothing
as the 'shadow
of a great rock in a weary land'? Nay, but reconsecrate
it to humanity.
The fat cherubs who tumble over guns and banners on
soldiers'
graves will fitly be removed to some spot where their clumsy
forms will no
longer mar the upward-springing grace of lines of pillar
and of arch;
but the glorious building wherein now barbaric psalms are
chanted and
droning canons preach of Eastern follies, shall hereafter
echo the
majestic music of Wagner and Beethoven, and the teachers of
the future
shall there unveil to thronging multitudes the beauties and
the wonders of
the world. The 'towers and spires' will not be effaced,
but they will
no longer be symbols of a religion which sacrifices
earth to heaven
and Man to God."[25] Between the cultured and the
uncultured
burlesques of Atheism we came off pretty badly, being for
the most part
regarded, as the late Cardinal Manning termed us, as
mere
"cattle."
The moral
purity and elevation of Atheistic teaching were overlooked
by many who
heard only of my bitter attacks on Christian theology.
Against the
teachings of eternal torture, of the vicarious atonement,
of the
infallibility of the Bible, I levelled all the strength of my
brain and
tongue, and I exposed the history of the Christian Church
with unsparing
hand, its persecutions, its religious wars, its
cruelties, its
oppressions. Smarting under the suffering inflicted on
myself, and
wroth with the cruel pressure continually put on
Freethinkers by
Christian employers, speaking under constant threats
of prosecution,
identifying Christianity with the political and social
tyrannies of
Christendom, I used every weapon that history, science,
criticism, scholarship
could give me against the Churches; eloquence,
sarcasm,
mockery, all were called on to make breaches in the wall of
traditional
belief and crass superstition.
To argument and
reason I was ever ready to listen, but I turned a
front of stubborn
defiance to all attempts to compel assent to
Christianity by
appeals to force. "The threat and the enforcement of
legal and
social penalties against unbelief can never compel belief.
Belief must be
gained by demonstration; it can never be forced by
punishment.
Persecution makes the stronger among us bitter; the weaker
among us
hypocrites; it never has made and never can make an honest
convert."[26]
That men and
women are now able to speak and think as openly as they
do, that a
broader spirit is visible in the Churches, that heresy is
no longer
regarded as morally disgraceful--these things are very
largely due to
the active and militant propaganda carried on under the
leadership of
Charles Bradlaugh, whose nearest and most trusted friend
I was. That my
tongue was in the early days bitterer than it should
have been, I
frankly acknowledge; that I ignored the services done by
Christianity
and threw light only on its crimes, thus committing
injustice, I am
ready to admit. But these faults were conquered long
ere I left the
Atheistic camp, and they were the faults of my
personality,
not of the Atheistic philosophy. And my main contentions
were true, and
needed to be made; from many a Christian pulpit to-day
may be heard
the echo of the Freethought teachings; men's minds have
been awakened,
their knowledge enlarged; and while I condemn the
unnecessary
harshness of some of my language, I rejoice that I played
my part in that
educating of England which has made impossible for
evermore the
crude superstitions of the past, and the repetition of
the cruelties
and injustices under which preceding heretics suffered.
But my extreme
political views had also much to do with the general
feeling of
hatred with which I was regarded. Politics, as such, I
cared not for
at all, for the necessary compromises of political life
were
intolerable to me; but wherever they touched on the life of the
people they
became to me of burning interest. The land question, the
incidence of
taxation, the cost of Royalty, the obstructive power of
the House of
Lords--these were the matters to which I put my hand; I
was a Home
Ruler, too, of course, and a passionate opponent of all
injustice to
nations weaker than ourselves, so that I found myself
always in
opposition to the Government of the day. Against our
aggressive and
oppressive policy in Ireland, in the Transvaal, in
India, in
Afghanistan, in Burmah, in Egypt, I lifted up my voice in
all our great
towns, trying to touch the consciences of the people,
and to make
them feel the immorality of a land-stealing, piratical
policy. Against
war, against capital punishment, against flogging,
demanding
national education instead of big guns, public libraries
instead of
warships--no wonder I was denounced as an agitator, a
firebrand, and
that all orthodox society turned up at me its most
respectable
nose.
CHAPTER VIII.
AT WORK.
From this
sketch of the inner sources of action let me turn to the
actions
themselves, and see how the outer life was led which fed
itself at these
springs.
I have said
that the friendship between Mr. Bradlaugh and myself dated
from our first
meeting, and a few days after our talk in Turner Street
he came down to
see me at Norwood. It was characteristic of the man
that he refused
my first invitation, and bade me to think well ere I
asked him to my
house. He told me that he was so hated by English
society that
any friend of his would be certain to suffer, and that I
should pay
heavily for any friendship extended to him. When, however,
I wrote to him,
repeating my invitation, and telling him that I had
counted the
cost, he came to see me. His words came true; my
friendship for
him alienated from me even many professed Freethinkers,
but the
strength and the happiness of it outweighed a thousand times
the loss it
brought, and never has a shadow of regret touched me that
I clasped hands
with him in 1874, and won the noblest friend that
woman ever had.
He never spoke to me a harsh word; where we differed,
he never tried
to override my judgment, nor force on me his views; we
discussed all
points of difference as equal friends; he guarded me
from all
suffering as far as friend might, and shared with me all the
pain he could
not turn aside; all the brightness of my stormy life
came to me
through him, from his tender thoughtfulness, his ever-ready
sympathy, his
generous love. He was the most unselfish man I ever
knew, and as
patient as he was strong. My quick, impulsive nature
found in him
the restful strength it needed, and learned from him the
self-control it
lacked.
He was the
merriest of companions in our rare hours of relaxation; for
many years he
was wont to come to my house in the morning, after the
hours always
set aside by him for receiving poor men who wanted advice
on legal and
other matters--for he was a veritable poor man's lawyer,
always ready to
help and counsel--and, bringing his books and papers,
he would sit
writing, hour after hour, I equally busy with my own
work, now and
then, perhaps, exchanging a word, breaking off just for
lunch and
dinner, and working on again in the evening till about ten
o'clock--he
always went early to bed when at home--he would take
himself off
again to his lodgings, about three-quarters of a mile
away. Sometimes
he would play cards for an hour, euchre being our
favourite game.
But while we were mostly busy and grave, we would make
holiday
sometimes, and then he was like a boy, brimming over with
mirth, full of
quaint turns of thought and speech; all the country
round London
has for me bright memories of our wanderings--Richmond,
where we
tramped across the park, and sat under its mighty trees;
Windsor, with
its groves of bracken; Kew, where we had tea in a funny
little room,
with watercress _ad libitum_; Hampton Court, with its
dishevelled
beauties; Maidenhead and Taplow, where the river was the
attraction;
and, above all, Broxbourne, where he delighted to spend
the day with
his fishing-rod, wandering along the river, of which he
knew every
eddy. For he was a great fisherman, and he taught me all
the mysteries
of the craft, mirthfully disdainful of my dislike of the
fish when I had
caught them. And in those days he would talk of all
his hopes of
the future, of his work, of his duty to the thousands who
looked to him
for guidance, of the time when he would sit in
Parliament as
member for Northampton, and help to pass into laws the
projects of
reform for which he was battling with pen and tongue. How
often he would
voice his love of England, his admiration of her
Parliament, his
pride in her history. Keenly alive to the blots upon
it in her
sinful wars of conquest, in the cruel wrongs inflicted upon
subject
peoples, he was yet an Englishman to the heart's core, but
feeling above
all the Englishman's duty, as one of a race that had
gripped power
and held it, to understand the needs of those he ruled,
and to do
justice willingly, since compulsion to justice there was
none. His
service to India in the latest years of his life was no
suddenly accepted
task. He had spoken for her, pleaded for her, for
many a long
year, through press and on platform, and his spurs as
member for
India were won long ere he was member of Parliament.
A place on the
staff of the _National Reformer_ was offered me by Mr.
Bradlaugh a few
days after our first meeting, and the small weekly
salary thus
earned--it was only a guinea, for national reformers are
always
poor--was a very welcome addition to my resources. My first
contribution
appeared in the number for August 30, 1874, over the
signature of
"Ajax," and I wrote in it regularly until Mr. Bradlaugh
died; from 1877
until his death I sub-edited it, so as to free him
from all the
technical trouble and the weary reading of copy, and for
part of this
period was also co-editor. I wrote at first under a _nom
de guerre_,
because the work I was doing for Mr. Scott would have been
prejudiced had
my name appeared in the columns of the terrible
_National
Reformer_, and until this work--commenced and paid for--was
concluded I did
not feel at liberty to use my own name. Afterwards, I
signed my
_National Reformer_ articles, and the tracts written for Mr.
Scott appeared
anonymously.
The name was suggested by the famous statue
of
"Ajax Crying for Light," a cast of
which may be seen
in the centre walk by any visitor to the
Crystal Palace,
Sydenham. The cry through the darkness for
light,
even though light should bring destruction,
was one
that awoke the keenest sympathy of response
from my
heart:
"If our fate be death
Give light, and let us die!"
To see, to
know, to understand, even though the seeing blind, though
the knowledge
sadden, though the understanding shatter the dearest
hopes--such has
ever been the craving of the upward-striving mind in
man. Some
regard it as a weakness, as a folly, but I am sure that it
exists most
strongly in some of the noblest of our race; that from the
lips of those
who have done most in lifting the burden of ignorance
from the
overstrained and bowed shoulders of a stumbling world has
gone out most
often into the empty darkness the pleading, impassioned
cry:
"Give
light!"
The light may
come with a blinding flash, but it is light none the
less, and we
can see.
And now the
time had come when I was to use that gift of speech which
I had
discovered in Sibsey Church that I possessed, and to use it to
move hearts and
brains all over the English land. In 1874, tentatively, and in 1875 definitely,
I took up this keen weapon, and have used it ever
since. My first
attempt was at a garden party, in a brief informal
debate, and I
found that words came readily and smoothly: the second
in a discussion
at the Liberal Social Union on the opening of museums
and art
galleries on Sunday. My first lecture was given at the
Co-operative
Institute, 55, Castle Street, Oxford Street, on August
25, 1874. Mr.
Greening--then, I think, the secretary--had invited me
to read a paper
before the society, and had left me the choice of the
subject. I
resolved that my first public lecture should be on behalf
of my own sex,
so I selected for my theme, "The Political Status of
Women,"
and wrote thereon a paper. But it was a very nervous person
who presented
herself at the Co-operative Institute on that August
evening. When a
visit to the dentist is made, and one stands on the
steps outside,
desiring to run away ere the neat little boy in buttons
opens the door
and beams on one with a smile of compassionate
superiority and
implike triumph, then the world seems dark and life is
as a huge
blunder. But all such feelings are poor and weak as compared
with the
sinking of the heart and the trembling of the knees which
seize upon the
unhappy lecturer as he advances towards his first
audience, and
as before his eyes rises a ghastly vision of a
tongue-tied
would-be lecturer, facing rows of listening faces,
listening
to--silence. But to my surprise all this miserable feeling
vanished the
moment I was on my feet and was looking at the faces
before me. I
felt no tremor of nervousness from the first word to the
last, and as I
heard my own voice ring out over the attentive
listeners I was
conscious of power and of pleasure, not of fear. And
from that day
to this my experience has been the same; before a
lecture I am
horribly nervous, wishing myself at the ends of the
earth, heart
beating violently, and sometimes overcome by deadly
sickness. Once
on my feet, I feel perfectly at my ease, ruler of the
crowd, master
of myself. I often jeer at myself mentally as I feel
myself
throbbing and fearful, knowing that when I stand up I shall be
all right, and
yet I cannot conquer the physical terror and trembling,
illusory as I
know them to be. People often say to me, "You look too
ill to go on
the platform." And I smile feebly and say I am all right,
and I often
fancy that the more miserably nervous I am in the
ante-room, the
better I speak when once on the platform. My second
lecture was
delivered on September 27th, at Mr. Moncure D. Conway's
Chapel, in St.
Paul's Road, Camden Town, and redelivered a few weeks
later at a
Unitarian Chapel, where the Rev. Peter Dean was minister.
This was on the
"True Basis of Morality," and was later printed as a
pamphlet, which
attained a wide circulation. This was all I did in the
way of speaking
in 1874, but I took silent part in an electioneering
struggle at
Northampton, where a seat for the House of Commons had
fallen vacant
by the death of Mr. Charles Gilpin. Mr. Bradlaugh had
contested the
borough as a Radical in 1868, obtaining 1,086 votes, and
again in
February, 1874, when he received 1,653; of these no less than
1,060 were
plumpers, while his four opponents had only 113, 64, 21 and
12 plumpers
respectively; this band formed the compact and personally
loyal following
which was to win the seat for its chief in 1880, after
twelve years of
steady struggle, and to return him over and over again
to Parliament
during the long contest which followed his election, and
which ended in
his final triumph. They never wavered in their
allegiance to
"our Charlie," but stood by him through evil report and
good report,
when he was outcast as when he was triumphant, loving him
with a deep,
passionate devotion, as honourable to them as it was
precious to
him. I have seen him cry like a child at evidences of
their love for
him, he whose courage no danger could daunt, and who
was never seen
to blench before hatred nor change his stern immobility
in the face of
his foes. Iron to enmity, he was soft as a woman to
kindness;
unbending as steel to pressure, he was ductile as wax to
love. John
Stuart Mill had the insight in 1868 to see his value, and
the courage to
recognise it. He strongly supported his candidature,
and sent a
donation to his election expenses. In his "Autobiography"
he wrote (pp.
311, 312):--
"He had
the support of the working classes; having heard him speak I
knew him to be
a man of ability, and he had proved that he was the
reverse of a
demagogue by placing himself in strong opposition to the
prevailing
opinion of the Democratic party on two such important
subjects as
Malthusianism and Proportional Representation. Men of this
sort, who,
while sharing the democratic feeling of the working
classes, judge
political questions for themselves, and have the
courage to assert
their individual convictions against popular
opposition,
were needed, as it seemed to me, in Parliament; and I did
not think that
Mr. Bradlaugh's anti-religious opinions (even though he
had been
intemperate in the expression of them) ought to exclude him."
It has been
said that Mr. Mill's support of Mr. Bradlaugh's
candidature at
Northampton cost him his own seat at Westminster, and
so bitter was
bigotry at that time that the statement is very likely
to be true. On
this, Mr. Mill himself said: "It was the right thing to
do, and if the
election were yet to take place, I would do it again."
At this
election of September, 1874--the second in the year, for the
general
election had taken place in the February, and Mr. Bradlaugh
had been put up
and defeated during his absence in America--I went
down to
Northampton to report electioneering incidents for the
_National
Reformer_, and spent some days there in the whirl of the
struggle. The
Whig party was more bitter against Mr. Bradlaugh than
was the Tory.
Strenuous efforts were made to procure a Liberal
candidate, who
would be able at least to prevent Mr. Bradlaugh's
return, and, by
dividing the Liberal and Radical party, should let in
a Tory rather
than the detested Radical. Messrs. Bell and James and
Dr. Pearce came
on the scene only to disappear. Mr. Jacob Bright and
Mr. Arnold
Morley were vainly suggested. Mr. Ayrton's name was
whispered.
Major Lumley was recommended by Mr. Bernal Osborne. Dr.
Kenealy
proclaimed himself ready to come to the rescue of the Whigs.
Mr. Tillett, of
Norwich, Mr. Cox, of Belper, were invited, but neither
would consent
to oppose a good Radical who had fought two elections at
Northampton and
had been the chosen of the Radical workers for six
years. At last Mr.
William Fowler, a banker, accepted the task of
handing over
the representation of a Liberal and Radical borough to a
Tory, and duly
succeeded in giving the seat to Mr. Mereweather, a very
reputable Tory
lawyer. Mr. Bradlaugh polled 1,766, thus adding another
133 voters to
those who had polled for him in the previous February.
That election
gave me my first experience of anything in the nature of
rioting. The
violent abuse levelled against Mr. Bradlaugh by the
Whigs, and the
foul and wicked slanders circulated against him,
assailing his
private life and family relations, had angered almost to
madness those
who knew and loved him; and when it was found that the
unscrupulous
Whig devices had triumphed, had turned the election
against him,
and given over the borough to a Tory, the fury broke out
into open
violence. One illustration may be given as a type of these
cruel slanders.
It was known that Mr. Bradlaugh was separated from his
wife, and it
was alleged that being an Atheist, and, (therefore!) an
opponent of
marriage, he had deserted his wife and children, and left
them to the
workhouse. The cause of the separation was known to very
few, for Mr.
Bradlaugh was chivalrously honourable to women, and he
would not
shield his own good name at the cost of that of the wife of
his youth and
the mother of his children. But since his death his only
remaining child
has, in devotion to her father's memory, stated the
melancholy
truth: that Mrs. Bradlaugh gave way to drink; that for long
years he bore
with her and did all that man could do to save her; that
finally,
hopeless of cure, he broke up his home, and placed his wife
in the care of
her parents in the country, leaving her daughters with
her, while he
worked for their support. No man could have acted more
generously and
wisely under these cruel circumstances than he did, but
it was,
perhaps, going to an extreme of Quixotism, that he concealed
the real state
of the case, and let the public blame him as it would.
His Northampton
followers did not know the facts, but they knew him as
an upright,
noble man, and these brutal attacks on his personal
character drove
them wild. Stray fights had taken place during the
election over
these slanders, and, defeated by such foul weapons, the
people lost
control of their passions. As Mr. Bradlaugh was sitting
well-nigh
exhausted in the hotel, after the declaration of the poll,
the landlord
rushed in, crying to him to go out and try to stop the
people, or
there would be murder done at the "Palmerston," Mr.
Fowler's
headquarters; the crowd was charging the door, and the
windows were
being broken with showers of stones. Weary as he was, Mr.
Bradlaugh
sprang to his feet, and swiftly made his way to the rescue
of those who
had maligned and defeated him. Flinging himself before
the doorway,
from which the door had just been battered down, he
knocked down
one or two of the most violent, drove the crowd back,
argued and
scolded them into quietness, and finally dispersed them.
But at nine
o'clock he had to leave Northampton to catch the mail
steamer for
America at Queenstown, and after he had left, word went
round that he
had gone, and the riot he had quelled broke out afresh.
The Riot Act
was at last read, the soldiers were called out, stones
flew freely,
heads and windows were broken, but no very serious harm
was done. The
"Palmerston" and the printing-office of the _Mercury_,
the Whig organ,
were the principal sufferers; doors and windows
disappearing
somewhat completely. The day after the election I
returned home,
and soon after fell ill with a severe attack of
congestion of
the lungs. Soon after my recovery I left Norwood and
settled in a
house in Westbourne Terrace, Bayswater, where I remained
till 1876.
In the
following January (1875), after much thought and self-analysis,
I resolved to
give myself wholly to propagandist work, as a
Freethinker and
a Social Reformer, and to use my tongue as well as my
pen in the
struggle. I counted the cost ere I determined on this step,
for I knew that
it would not only outrage the feelings of such new
friends as I
had already made, but would be likely to imperil my
custody of my
little girl. I knew that an Atheist was outside the law,
obnoxious to
its penalties, but deprived of its protection, and that
the step I
contemplated might carry me into conflicts in which
everything
might be lost and nothing could be gained. But the desire
to spread
liberty and truer thought among men, to war against bigotry
and
superstition, to make the world freer and better than I found
it--all this
impelled me with a force that would not be denied. I
seemed to hear
the voice of Truth ringing over the battlefield: "Who
will go? Who
will speak for me?" And I sprang forward with passionate
enthusiasm,
with resolute cry: "Here am I, send me!" Nor have I ever
regretted for
one hour that resolution, come to in solitude, carried
out amid the
surging life of men, to devote to that sacred cause every
power of brain
and tongue that I possessed. Very solemn to me is the
responsibility
of the public teacher, standing forth in Press and on
platform to
partly mould the thought of his time, swaying thousands of
readers and
hearers year after year. No weighter responsibility can
any take, no
more sacred charge. The written and the spoken word start
forces none may
measure, set working brain after brain, influence
numbers unknown
to the forthgiver of the word, work for good or for
evil all down
the stream of time. Feeling the greatness of the career,
the solemnity of
the duty, I pledged my word then to the cause I loved
that no effort
on my part should be wanted to render myself worthy of
the privilege
of service that I took; that I would read and study, and
would train
every faculty that I had; that I would polish my language,
discipline my
thought, widen my knowledge; and this, at least, I may
say, that if I
have written and spoken much, I have studied and
thought more,
and that I have not given to my mistress Truth that
"which
hath cost me nothing."
This same year
(1875) that saw me launched on the world as a public
advocate of
Freethought, saw also the founding of the Theosophical
Society to
which my Freethought was to lead me. I have often since
thought with
pleasure that at the very time I began lecturing in
England, H.P.
Blavatsky was at work in the United States, preparing
the foundation
on which in November, 1875, the Theosophical Society
was to be
raised. And with deeper pleasure yet have I found her
writing of what
she called the noble work against superstition done by
Charles
Bradlaugh and myself, rendering the propaganda of Theosophy
far more
practicable and safer than it would otherwise have been. The
fight soon
began, and with some queer little skirmishes. I was a
member of the
"Liberal Social Union," and one night a discussion arose
as to the
admissibility of Atheists to the Society. Dr. Zerffi
declared that
he would not remain a member if avowed Atheists were
admitted. I
promptly declared that I was an Atheist, and that the
basis of the
union was liberty of opinion. The result was that I found
myself
cold-shouldered, and those that had been warmly cordial to me
merely as a
non-Christian looked askance at me when I had avowed that
my scepticism
had advanced beyond their "limits of religious thought."
The Liberal
Social Union soon knew me no more, but in the wider field
of work open
before me, the narrow-mindedness of this petty clique
troubled me not
at all.
I started my
definite lecturing work at South Place Chapel in January,
1875, Mr.
Moncure D. Conway presiding for me, and I find in the
_National
Reformer_ for January 17th, the announcement that "Mrs.
Annie Besant
('Ajax') will lecture at South Place Chapel, Finsbury, on
'Civil and
Religious Liberty.'" Thus I threw off my pseudonym, and
rode into the
field of battle with uplifted visor. The identification
led to an odd
little exhibition of bigotry. I had been invited by the
Dialectical
Society to read a paper, and had selected for subject,
"The
Existence of God." (It may be noted, in passing, that young
students and
speakers always select the most tremendous subjects for
their
discourses. One advances in modesty as one advances in
knowledge, and
after eighteen years of platform work, I am far more
dubious than I
was at their beginning as to my power of dealing in any
sense
adequately with the problems of life.) The Dialectical Society
had for some
years held their meetings in a room in Adam Street,
rented from the
Social Science Association. When the members gathered
as usual on
February 17th, the door was found to be locked, and they
had to gather
on the stairs; they found that "Ajax's" as yet
undelivered
paper was too much for Social Science nerves, and that
entrance to
their ordinary meeting-room was then and thenceforth
denied them. So
they, with "Ajax," found refuge at the Charing Cross
Hotel, and
speculated merrily on the eccentricities of religious
bigotry.
On February
12th I started on my first provincial lecturing tour, and
after speaking
at Birkenhead that evening went on by the night mail to
Glasgow. Some
races--dog races--I think, had been going on, and very
unpleasant were
many of the passengers waiting on the platform. Some
Birkenhead
friends had secured me a compartment, and watched over me
till the train
began to move. Then, after we had fairly started, the
door was flung
open by a porter, and a man was thrust in who half
tumbled on to
the seat. As he slowly recovered he stood up, and as his
money rolled
out of his hand on to the floor, and he gazed vaguely at
it, I saw to my
horror that he was drunk. The position was not
pleasant, for
the train was an express, and was not timed to stop for
a considerable
time. My odious fellow-passenger spent some time on the
floor, hunting
after his scattered coins; then he slowly gathered
himself up and
presently became conscious of my presence. He studied
me for some
time, and then proposed to shut the window. I assented
quietly, not
wanting to discuss a trifle and feeling in deadly
terror--alone
at night in an express with a man not drunk enough to be
helpless, but
too drunk to be controlled. Never before nor since have
I felt so
thoroughly frightened. I can see him still, swaying as he
stood, with
eyes bleared and pendulous lips--but I sat there quiet and
outwardly
unmoved, as is always my impulse in danger till I see some
way of escape,
only grasping a penknife in my pocket, with a desperate
resolve to use
my feeble weapon as soon as the need arose. The man
came towards me
with a fatuous leer, when a jarring noise was heard
and the train
began to slacken.
"What is
that?" stammered my drunken companion.
"They are
putting on the brakes to stop the train," I answered very
slowly and
distinctly, though a very passion of relief made it hard to
say quietly the
measured words.
The man sat
down stupidly, staring at me, and in a minute or two the
train pulled up
at a station--it had been stopped by signal. My
immobility was
gone. In a moment I was at the window, called the
guard, and
explained rapidly that I was a woman travelling alone, and
that a
half-drunken man was in the carriage. With the usual kindness
of a railway
official, he at once moved me and my baggage into another
compartment,
into which he locked me, and he kept a friendly watch
over me at
every station at which we stopped until he landed me safely
at Glasgow.
At Glasgow a
room had been taken for me at a temperance hotel, and it
seemed to me so
new and lonely a thing to be "all on my own account"
in a strange
hotel in a strange city, that I wanted to sit down and
cry. This
feeling, to which I was too proud to yield, was probably
partly due to
the extreme greyness and grubbiness of my surroundings.
Things are
better now, but in those days temperance hotels were for
the most part
lacking in cleanliness. Abstinence from alcohol and a
superfluity of
"matter in the wrong place" do not seem necessary
correlatives,
yet I rarely went to a temperance hotel in which water
was liberally
used for other purposes than that of drinking. From
Glasgow I went
north to Aberdeen, where I found a very stern and
critical
audience. Not a sound broke the stillness as I walked up the
hall; not a
sound as I ascended the platform and faced the people; the
canny Scot was not
going to applaud a stranger at sight; he was going
to see what she
was like first. In grim silence they listened; I could
not move them;
they were granite like their own granite city, and I
felt I would
like to take off my head and throw it at them, if only to
break that hard
wall. After about twenty minutes, a fortunate phrase
drew a hiss
from some child of the Covenanters. I made a quick retort,
there was a
burst of cheering, and the granite vanished. Never after
that did I have
to complain of the coldness of an Aberdeen audience.
Back to London
from Aberdeen, and a long, weary journey it was, in a
third-class
carriage in the cold month of February; but the labour had
in it a joy
that outpaid all physical discomfort, and the feeling that
I had found my
work in the world gave a new happiness to life.
On February
28th I stood for the first time on the platform of the
Hall of
Science, Old Street, St. Luke's, London, and was received with
that warmth of
greeting which Secularists are always so ready to
extend to any
who sacrifice aught to join their ranks. That hall is
identified in
my mind with many a bitter struggle, with both victory
and defeat, but
whether in victory or in defeat I found there always
welcome; and
the love and the courage wherewith Secularists stood by
me have
overpaid a thousandfold any poor services I was fortunate
enough to
render, while in their ranks, to the cause of Liberty, and
wholly prevent
any bitterness arising in my mind for any
unfriendliness
shown me by some, who have perhaps overstepped kindness
and justice in
their sorrowful wrath at my renunciation of Materialism
and Atheism. So
far as health was concerned, the lecturing acted as a
tonic. My chest
had always been a little delicate, and when I
consulted a
doctor on the possibility of my standing platform work, he
answered,
"It will either kill you or cure you." It entirely cured the
lung weakness,
and I grew strong and vigorous instead of being frail
and delicate,
as of old.
It would be
wearisome to go step by step over eighteen years of
platform work,
so I will only select here and there incidents
illustrative of
the whole. And here let me say that the frequent
attacks made on
myself and others, that we were attracted to
Free-thought
propaganda by the gains it offered, formed a somewhat
grotesque
contrast to the facts. On one occasion I spent eight days in
Northumberland
and Durham, gave twelve lectures, and made a deficit of
eleven
shillings on the whole. Of course such a thing could not happen
in later years,
when I had made my name by sheer hard work, but I
fancy that
every Secularist lecturer could tell of similar experiences
in the early
days of "winning his way." The fact is that from Mr.
Bradlaugh
downwards every one of us could have earned a competence
with
comparative ease in any other line of work, and could have earned
it with public
approval instead of amid popular reproach. Much of my
early lecturing
was done in Northumberland and Durham; the miners
there are, as a
rule, shrewd and hard-headed men, and very cordial is
the greeting
given by them to those they have reason to trust. At
Seghill and at
Bedlington I have slept in their cottages and have been
welcomed to
their tables, and I have a vivid memory of one evening at
Seghill, after
a lecture, when my host, himself a miner, invited about
a dozen of his
comrades to supper to meet me; the talk ran on
politics, and I
soon found that my companions knew more of English
politics, had a
far shrewder notion of political methods, and were,
therefore, much
better worth talking to, than most of the ordinary men
met at dinner
parties "in society." They were of the "uneducated"
class despised
by "gentlemen," and had not then the franchise, but
politically
they were far better educated than their social superiors,
and were far
better fitted to discharge the duties of citizenship. How
well, too, do I
remember a ten-mile drive in a butcher's cart, to give
a lecture in an
out-of-the-way spot, unapproached by railway. Such was
the jolting as
we rattled over rough roads and stony places, that I
felt as though
all my bones were broken, and as though I should
collapse on the
platform like a bag half-filled with stones. How kind
they were to
me, those genial, cordial miners, how careful for my
comfort, and
how motherly were the women! Ah! if opponents of my views
who did not
know me were often cruel and malignant, there was
compensation in
the love and honour in which good men and women all
the country
over held me, and their devotion outweighed the hatred,
and many a time
and often soothed a weary and aching heart.
Lecturing in
June, 1875, at Leicester, I came for the first time
across a
falsehood that brought sore trouble and cost me more pain
than I care to
tell. An irate Christian opponent, in the discussion
that followed
the lecture, declared that I was responsible for a book
entitled,
"The Elements of Social Science," which was, he averred,
"The Bible
of Secularists." I had never heard of the book, but as he
stated that it
was in favour of the abolition of marriage, and that
Mr. Bradlaugh
agreed with it, I promptly contradicted him; for while I
knew nothing
about the book, I knew a great deal about Mr. Bradlaugh,
and I knew that
on the marriage question he was conservative rather
than
revolutionary. He detested "Free Love" doctrines, and had thrown
himself
strongly on the side of the agitation led so heroically for
many years by
Mrs. Josephine Butler. On my return to London after the
lecture I
naturally made inquiry as to the volume and its contents,
and I found
that it had been written by a Doctor of Medicine some
years before,
and sent to the _National Reformer_ for review, as to
other journals,
in ordinary course of business. It consisted of three
parts--the
first advocated, from the standpoint of medical science,
what is roughly
known as "Free Love"; the second was entirely medical;
the third
consisted of a clear and able exposition of the law of
population as
laid down by the Rev. Mr. Malthus, and--following the
lines of John
Stuart Mill--insisted that it was the duty of married
persons to
voluntarily limit their families within their means of
subsistence.
Mr. Bradlaugh, in reviewing the book, said that it was
written
"with honest and pure intent and purpose," and recommended to
working men the
exposition of the law of population. His enemies took
hold of this
recommendation, declared that he shared the author's
views on the
impermanence of the marriage tie, and, despite his
reiterated contradictions,
they used extracts against marriage from
the book as
containing his views. Anything more meanly vile it would
be difficult to
conceive, but such were the weapons used against him
all his life,
and used often by men whose own lives contrasted most
unfavourably
with his own. Unable to find anything in his own writings
to serve their
purpose, they used this book to damage him with those
who knew
nothing at first-hand of his views. What his enemies feared
were not his
views on marriage--which, as I have said, was
conservative--but
his Radicalism and his Atheism. To discredit him as
politician they
maligned him socially, and the idea that a man desires
"to
abolish marriage and the home," is a most convenient poniard, and
the one most certain
to wound. This was the origin of his worst
difficulties,
to be intensified, ere long, by his defence of
Malthusianism.
On me also fell the same lash, and I found myself held
up to hatred as
upholder of views that I abhorred.
I may add that
far warmer praise than that bestowed on this book by
Mr. Bradlaugh
was given by other writers, who were never attacked in
the same way.
In the
_Reasoner_, edited by Mr. George Jacob Holyoake, I find warmer
praise of it
than in the _National Reformer_; in the review the
following
passage appears:--
"In some
respects all books of this class are evils: but it would be
weakness and
criminal prudery--a prudery as criminal as vice
itself--not to
say that such a book as the one in question is not only
a far lesser
evil than the one that it combats, but in one sense a
book which it
is a mercy to issue and courage to publish."
The _Examiner_,
reviewing the same book, declared it to be--
"A very
valuable, though rather heterogeneous book.... This is, we
believe, the
only book that has fully, honestly, and in a scientific
spirit
recognised all the elements in the problem--How are mankind to
triumph over
poverty, with its train of attendant evils?--and
fearlessly
endeavoured to find a practical solution."
The _British
Journal of Homoeopathy_ wrote:--
"Though
quite out of the province of our journal, we cannot refrain
from stating
that this work is unquestionably the most remarkable one,
in many
respects, we have ever met with. Though we differ _toto coelo_
from the author
in his views of religion and morality, and hold some
of his remedies
to tend rather to a dissolution than a reconstruction
of society, yet
we are bound to admit the benevolence and philanthropy
of his motives.
The scope of the work is nothing less than the whole
field of
political economy."
Ernest Jones
and others wrote yet more strongly, but out of all these
Charles
Bradlaugh alone has been selected for reproach, and has had
the peculiar
views of the anonymous author fathered on himself.
Some of the
lecture work in those days was pretty rough. In Darwen,
Lancashire, in
June, 1875, stone-throwing was regarded as a fair
argument
addressed to the Atheist lecturer. At Swansea, in March,
1876, the fear
of violence was so great that a guarantee against
damage to the
hall was exacted by the proprietor, and no local friend
had the courage
to take the chair for me. In September, 1876, at
Hoyland, thanks
to the exertions of Mr. Hebblethwaite, a Primitive
Methodist, and two
Protestant missionaries, I found the hall packed
with a crowd
that yelled at me with great vigour, stood on forms,
shook fists at
me, and otherwise showed feelings more warm than
friendly.
Taking advantage of a lull in the noise, I began to speak,
and the tumult
sank into quietness; but as I was leaving the hall it
broke out
afresh, and I walked slowly through a crowd that yelled and
swore and
struck at me, but somehow those nearest always shrank back
and let me
pass. In the dark, outside the hall, they took to kicking,
but only one
kick reached me, and the attempts to overturn the cab
were foiled by
the driver, who put his horse at a gallop. Later in the
same month Mr.
Bradlaugh and I visited Congleton together, having been
invited there
by Mr. and Mrs. Wolstenholme Elmy. Mr. Bradlaugh
lectured on the
first evening to an accompaniment of broken windows,
and I, sitting
with Mrs. Elmy facing the platform, received a rather
heavy blow on
the back of the head from a stone thrown by some one in
the room. We
had a mile and a half to walk from the hall to the house,
and were
accompanied all the way by a stone-throwing crowd, who sang
hymns at the
tops of their voices, with interludes of curses and foul
words. On the
following evening I lectured, and our stone-throwing
admirers
escorted us to the hall; in the middle of the lecture a man
shouted,
"Put her out!" and a well-known wrestler of the
neighbourhood,
named Burbery, who had come to the hall with some
friends to
break up the meeting, stood up as at a signal in front of
the platform
and loudly interrupted. Mr. Bradlaugh, who was in the
chair, told him
to sit down, and, as he persisted in interrupting,
informed him
that he must either be quiet or go out. "Put me out!"
shouted Mr.
Burbery, striking an attitude. Mr. Bradlaugh left the
platform and
walked up to the noisy swashbuckler, who at once grappled
with him and
tried to throw him. But Mr. Burbery had not reckoned on
the massive
strength of his opponent, and when the "throw" was
complete Mr.
Burbery was underneath. Amid much excitement Mr. Burbery
was propelled
towards the door, being gently used on the way as a
battering-ram
against his friends who rushed to the rescue, and at the
door was handed
over to the police. The chairman then resumed his
normal duties,
with a brief "Go on" to me, and I promptly went on,
finishing the
lecture in peace. But outside the hall there was plenty
of
stone-throwing, and Mrs. Elmy received a cut on the temple from a
flint. This
stormy work gradually lessened, and my experience of it
was a mere
trifle compared to that which my predecessors had faced.
Mr. Bradlaugh's
early experiences involved much serious rioting, and
Mrs. Harriet
Law, a woman of much courage and of strong natural
ability, had
many a rough meeting in her lecturing days.
In September,
1875, Mr. Bradlaugh again sailed for America, still to
earn money
there to pay his debts. Unhappily he was struck down by
typhoid fever,
and all his hopes of freeing himself thus were
destroyed. His
life was well-nigh despaired of, but the admirable
skill of
physician and nurse pulled him through. Said the _Baltimore
Advertiser_:--
"This long
and severe illness has disappointed the hopes and retarded
the object for
which he came to this country; but he is gentleness and
patience itself
in his sickness in this strange land, and has endeared
himself greatly
to his physicians and attendants by his gratitude and
appreciation of
the slightest attention."
His fortitude
in face of death was also much commented on, lying there
as he did far
from home and from all he loved best. Never a quiver of
fear touched
him as he walked down into the valley of the shadow of
death; the Rev.
Mr. Frothingham bore public and admiring testimony in
his own church
to Mr. Bradlaugh's noble serenity, at once fearless and
unpretending,
and, himself a Theist, gave willing witness to the
Atheist's calm
strength. He came back to us at the end of September,
worn to a
shadow, weak as a child, and for many a long month he bore
the traces of
his wrestle with death.
One part of my
autumn's work during his absence was the delivery and
subsequent
publication of six lectures on the French Revolution. That
stormy time had
for me an intense fascination. I brooded over it,
dreamed over
it, and longed to tell the story from the people's point
of view. I
consequently read a large amount of the current literature
of the time, as
well as Louis Blanc's monumental work and the
histories of
Michelet, Lamartine, and others. Fortunately for me, Mr.
Bradlaugh had a
splendid collection of books on the subject, and ere
we left England
he brought me two cabs-full of volumes, aristocratic,
ecclesiastical,
democratic, and I studied all these diligently, and
lived in them, till
the French Revolution became to me as a drama in
which I had
myself taken part, and the actors were to me as personal
friends and
foes. In this, again, as in so much of my public work, I
have to thank
Mr. Bradlaugh for the influence which led me to read
fully all sides
of a question, and to read most carefully those from
which I
differed most, ere I considered myself competent to write or
to speak
thereon. From 1875 onwards I held office as one of the
vice-presidents
of the National Secular Society--a society founded on
a broad basis
of liberty, with the inspiring motto, "We Search for
Truth."
Mr. Bradlaugh was president, and I held office under him till
he resigned his
post in February, 1890, nine months after I had joined
the
Theosophical Society. The N.S.S., under his judicious and
far-sighted
leadership, became a real force in the country,
theologically
and politically, embracing large numbers of men and
women who were
Freethinkers as well as Radicals, and forming a nucleus
of earnest workers,
able to gather round them still larger numbers of
others, and
thus to powerfully affect public opinion. Once a year the
society met in
conference, and many a strong and lasting friendship
between men
living far apart dated from these yearly gatherings, so
that all over
the country spread a net-work of comradeship between the
staunch
followers of "our Charlie." These were the men and women who
paid his
election expenses over and over again, supported him in his
Parliamentary
struggle, came up to London to swell the demonstrations
in his favour.
And round them grew up a huge party--"the largest
personal
following of any public man since Mr. Gladstone," it was once
said by an
eminent man--who differed from him in theology, but
passionately supported
him in politics; miners, cutlers, weavers,
spinners,
shoemakers, operatives of every trade, strong, sturdy,
self-reliant
men who loved him to the last.
CHAPTER IX.
THE KNOWLTON
PAMPHLET.
The year 1877
dawned, and in its early days began a struggle which,
ending in
victory all along the line, brought with it pain and anguish
that I scarcely
care to recall. An American physician, Dr. Charles
Knowlton,
convinced of the truth of the teaching of the Rev. Mr.
Malthus, and
seeing that that teaching had either no practical value
or tended to
the great increase of prostitution, unless married
people were
taught to limit their families within their means of
livelihood--wrote
a pamphlet on the voluntary limitation of the
family. It was
published somewhere in the Thirties--about 1835, I
think--and was
sold unchallenged in England as well as in America for
some forty
years. Philosophers of the Bentham school, like John Stuart
Mill, endorsed
its teachings, and the bearing of population on poverty
was an axiom in
economic literature. Dr. Knowlton's work was a
physiological
treatise, advocating conjugal prudence and parental
responsibility;
it argued in favour of early marriage, with a view to
the purity of
social life; but as early marriage between persons of
small means
generally implies a large family, leading either to
pauperism or to
lack of necessary food, clothing, education, and fair
start in life
for the children, Dr. Knowlton advocated the restriction
of the number
of the family within the means of subsistence, and
stated the
methods by which this restriction could be carried out. The
book was never
challenged till a disreputable Bristol bookseller put
some copies on
sale to which he added some improper pictures, and he
was prosecuted
and convicted. The publisher of the _National Reformer_
and of Mr.
Bradlaugh's and my books and pamphlets had taken over a
stock of
Knowlton's pamphlets among other literature he bought, and he
was prosecuted
and, to our great dismay, pleaded guilty. We at once
removed our
publishing from his hands, and after careful deliberation
we decided to
publish the incriminated pamphlet in order to test the
right of
discussion on the population question, when, with the advice
to limit the
family, information was given as to how that advice could
be followed. We
took a little shop, printed the pamphlet, and sent
notice to the
police that we would commence the sale at a certain day
and hour, and
ourselves sell the pamphlet, so that no one else might
be endangered
by our action. We resigned our offices in the National
Secular Society
that we might not injure the society, but the
executive
first, and then the Annual Conference, refused to accept the
resignations.
Our position as regarded the pamphlet was simple and
definite; had
it been brought to us for publication, we stated, we
should not have
published it, for it was not a treatise of high merit;
but, prosecuted
as immoral because it advised the limitation of the
family, it at
once embodied the right of publication. In a preface to
the republished
edition, we wrote:--
"We
republish this pamphlet, honestly believing that on all questions
affecting the
happiness of the people, whether they be theological,
political, or
social, fullest right of free discussion ought to be
maintained at
all hazards. We do not personally endorse all that Dr.
Knowlton says:
his 'Philosophical Proem' seems to us full of
philosophical
mistakes, and--as we are neither of us doctors--we are
not prepared to
endorse his medical views; but since progress can only
be made through
discussion, and no discussion is possible where
differing
opinions are suppressed, we claim the right to publish all
opinions, so
that the public, enabled to see all sides of a question,
may have the
materials for forming a sound judgment."
We were not
blind to the danger to which this defiance of the
authorities
exposed us, but it was not the danger of failure, with the
prison as
penalty, that gave us pause. It was the horrible
misconceptions
that we saw might arise; the odious imputations on
honour and
purity that would follow. Could we, the teachers of a lofty
morality,
venture to face a prosecution for publishing what would be
technically
described as an obscene book, and risk the ruin of our
future,
dependent as that was on our fair fame? To Mr. Bradlaugh it
meant, as he
felt, the almost certain destruction of his Parliamentary
position, the
forging by his own hands of a weapon that in the hands
of his foes
would be well-nigh fatal. To me it meant the loss of the
pure reputation
I prized, the good name I had guarded--scandal the
most terrible a
woman could face. But I had seen the misery of the
poor, of my
sister-women with children crying for bread; the wages of
the workmen
were often sufficient for four, but eight or ten they
could not
maintain. Should I set my own safety, my own good name,
against the
helping of these? Did it matter that my reputation should
be ruined, if
its ruin helped to bring remedy to this otherwise
hopeless
wretchedness of thousands? What was worth all my talk about
self-sacrifice
and self-surrender, if, brought to the test, I failed?
So, with heart
aching but steady, I came to my resolution; and though
I know now that
I was wrong intellectually, and blundered in the
remedy, I was
right morally in the will to sacrifice all to help the
poor, and I can
rejoice that I faced a storm of obloquy fiercer and
harder to bear
than any other which can ever touch me again. I learned
a lesson of
stern indifference to all judgments from without that were
not endorsed by
condemnation from within. The long suffering that
followed was a
splendid school for the teaching of endurance.
The day before
the pamphlet was put on sale we ourselves delivered
copies to the
Chief Clerk of the Magistrates at Guildhall, to the
officer in
charge at the City Police Office in Old Jewry, and to the
Solicitor for
the City of London. With each pamphlet was a notice that
we would attend
and sell the book from 4 to 5 p.m. on the following
day, Saturday,
March 24th. This we accordingly did, and in order to
save trouble we
offered to attend daily at the shop from 10 to 11 a.m.
to facilitate
our arrest, should the authorities determine to
prosecute. The
offer was readily accepted, and after some little
delay--during
which a deputation from the Christian Evidence Society
waited upon Mr.
Cross to urge the Tory Government to prosecute
us--warrants
were issued against us and we were arrested on April 6th.
Letters of
approval and encouragement came from the most diverse
quarters,
including among their writers General Garibaldi, the
well-known
economist, Yves Guyot, the great French constitutional
lawyer, Emile
Acollas, together with letters literally by the hundred
from poor men
and women thanking and blessing us for the stand taken.
Noticeable were
the numbers of letters from clergymen's wives, and
wives of
ministers of all denominations.
After our
arrest we were taken to the police-station in Bridewell
Place, and
thence to the Guildhall, where Alderman Figgins was
sitting, before
whom we duly appeared, while in the back of the court
waited what an
official described as "a regular waggon-load of bail."
We were quickly
released, the preliminary investigation being fixed
for ten days
later--April 17th. At the close of the day the magistrate
released us on
our own recognisances, without bail; and it was so
fully seen on
all sides that we were fighting for a principle that no
bail was asked
for during the various stages of the trial. Two days
later we were
committed for trial at the Central Criminal Court, but
Mr. Bradlaugh
moved for a writ of _certiorari_ to remove the trial to
the Court of
Queen's Bench; Lord Chief Justice Cockburn said he would
grant the writ
if "upon looking at it (the book), we think its object
is the
legitimate one of promoting knowledge on a matter of human
interest,"
but not if the science were only a cover for impurity, and
he directed
that copies of the book should be handed in for perusal by
himself and Mr.
Justice Mellor. Having read the book they granted the
writ.
The trial
commenced on June 18th before the Lord Chief Justice of
England and a
special jury, Sir Hardinge Giffard, the
Solicitor-General
of the Tory Government, leading against us, and we
defending
ourselves. The Lord Chief Justice "summed up strongly for an
acquittal,"
as a morning paper said; he declared that "a more
ill-advised and
more injudicious proceeding in the way of a
prosecution was
probably never brought into a court of justice," and
described us as
"two enthusiasts who have been actuated by a desire to
do good in a
particular department of society." He then went on to a
splendid
statement of the law of population, and ended by praising our
straightforwardness
and asserting Knowlton's honesty of intention.
Every one in
court thought that we had won our case, but they had not
taken into
account the religious and political hatred against us and
the presence on
the jury of such men as Mr. Walter, of the _Times_.
After an hour
and thirty-five minutes of delay the verdict was a
compromise:
"We are unanimously of opinion that the book in question
is calculated
to deprave public morals, but at the same time we
entirely
exonerate the defendants from any corrupt motive in
publishing
it." The Lord Chief Justice looked troubled, and said that
he should have
to translate the verdict into one of guilty, and on
that some of
the jury turned to leave the box, it having been
agreed--we
heard later from one of them--that if the verdict were not
accepted in
that form they should retire again, as six of the jury
were against
convicting us; but the foreman, who was bitterly hostile,
jumped at the
chance of snatching a conviction, and none of those in
our favour had
the courage to contradict him on the spur of the
moment, so the
foreman's "Guilty" passed, and the judge set us free,
on Mr.
Bradlaugh's recognisances to come up for judgment that day
week.
On that day we
moved to quash the indictment and for a new trial,
partly on a
technical ground and partly on the ground that the
verdict, having
acquitted us of wrong motive, was in our favour, not
against us. On
this the Court did not agree with us, holding that the
part of the
indictment alleging corrupt motive was superfluous. Then
came the
question of sentence, and on this the Lord Chief Justice did
his best to
save us; we were acquitted of any intent to violate the
law; would we
submit to the verdict of the jury and promise not to
sell the book?
No, we would not; we claimed the right to sell, and
meant to
vindicate it. The judge pleaded, argued, finally got angry
with us, and,
at last, compelled to pass sentence, he stated that if
we would have
yielded he would have let us go free without penalty,
but that as we
would set ourselves against the law, break it and defy
it--a sore
offence from the judge's point of view--he could only pass
a heavy
sentence on each of six months' imprisonment, a fine of Ł200,
and
recognisances of Ł500 for two years, and this, as he again
repeated, upon
the assumption "that they do intend to set the law at
defiance."
Even despite this he made us first-class misdemeanants.
Then, as Mr.
Bradlaugh stated that we should move for a writ of error,
he liberated us
on Mr. Bradlaugh's recognisance for Ł100, the queerest
comment on his
view of the case and of our characters, since we were
liable jointly
to Ł1,400 under the sentence, to say nothing of the
imprisonment.
But prison and money penalties vanished into thin air,
for the writ of
error was granted, proved successful, and the verdict
was quashed.
Then ensued a
somewhat anxious time. We were resolute to continue
selling; were
our opponents equally resolved to prosecute us? We could
not tell. I
wrote a pamphlet entitled "The Law of Population," giving
the arguments
which had convinced me of its truth, the terrible
distress and
degradation entailed on families by overcrowding and the
lack of the
necessaries of life, pleading for early marriages that
prostitution
might be destroyed, and limitation of the family that
pauperism might
be avoided; finally, giving the information which
rendered early
marriage without these evils possible. This pamphlet
was put in
circulation as representing our view of the subject, and we
again took up
the sale of Knowlton's. Mr. Bradlaugh carried the war
into the
enemy's country, and commenced an action against the police
for the
recovery of some pamphlets they had seized; he carried the
action to a
successful issue, recovered the pamphlets, bore them off
in triumph, and
we sold them all with an inscription across them,
"Recovered
from the police." We continued the sale of Knowlton's tract
for some time,
until we received an intimation that no further
prosecution
would be attempted, and on this we at once dropped its
publication,
substituting for it my "Law of Population."
[Illustration:
CHARLES BRADLAUGH M.P.]
But the worst
part of the fight, for me, was to come. Prosecution of
the "Law
of Population" was threatened, but never commenced; a worse
weapon against
me was in store. An attempt had been made in August,
1875, to
deprive me of the custody of my little girl by hiding her
away when she
went on her annual visit of one month to her father, but
I had promptly
recovered her by threatening to issue a writ of _habeas
corpus._ Now it
was felt that the Knowlton trial might be added to the
charges of
blasphemy that could be urged against me, and that this
double-barrelled
gun might be discharged with effect. I received
notice in
January, 1878, that an application was to be made to the
High Court of
Chancery to deprive me of the child, but the petition
was not filed
till the following April. Mabel was dangerously ill with
scarlet fever
at the time, and though this fact was communicated to
her father I
received a copy of the petition while sitting at her
bedside. The
petition alleged that, "The said Annie Besant is, by
addresses,
lectures, and writings, endeavouring to propagate the
principles of
Atheism, and has published a book entitled 'The Gospel
of Atheism.'
She has also associated herself with an infidel lecturer
and author
named Charles Bradlaugh in giving lectures and in
publishing
books and pamphlets, whereby the truth of the Christian
religion is
impeached, and disbelief in all religion inculcated."
It further
alleged against me the publication of the Knowlton
pamphlet, and
the writing of the "Law of Population." Unhappily, the
petition came
for hearing before the then Master of the Rolls, Sir
George Jessel,
a man animated by the old spirit of Hebrew bigotry, to
which he had
added the time-serving morality of a "man of the world,"
sceptical as to
all sincerity, and contemptuous of all devotion to an
unpopular
cause. The treatment I received at his hands on my first
appearance in
court told me what I had to expect. I had already had
some experience
of English judges, the stately kindness and gentleness
of the Lord
Chief Justice, the perfect impartiality and dignified
courtesy of the
Lords Justices of Appeal. My astonishment, then, can
be imagined
when, in answer to a statement by Mr. Ince, Q.C., that I
appeared in
person, I heard a harsh, loud voice exclaim:
"Appear in
person? A lady appear in person? Never heard of such a
thing! Does the
lady really appear in person?"
As the London
papers had been full of my appearing in person in the
other courts
and had contained the high compliments of the Lord Chief
Justice on my
conduct of my own case, Sir George Jessel's pretended
astonishment
seemed a little overdone. After a variety of similar
remarks
delivered in the most grating tones and in the roughest
manner, Sir
George Jessel tried to obtain his object by browbeating me
directly.
"Is this the lady?"
"I am the
respondent, my lord, Mrs. Besant."
"Then I
advise you, Mrs. Besant, to employ counsel to represent you,
if you can
afford it; and I suppose you can."
"With all
submission to your lordship, I am afraid I must claim my
right of
arguing my case in person."
"You will
do so if you please, of course, but I think you had much
better appear
by counsel. I give you notice that, if you do not, you
must not expect
to be shown any consideration. You will not be heard
by me at any
greater length than the case requires, nor allowed to go
into irrelevant
matter, as persons who argue their own cases usually
do."
"I trust I
shall not do so, my lord; but in any case I shall be
arguing under
your lordship's complete control."
This
encouraging beginning may be taken as a sample of the case--it
was one long
fight against clever counsel, aided by a counsel instead
of a judge on
the bench. Only once did judge and counsel fall out. Mr.
Ince and Mr.
Bardswell had been arguing that my Atheism and
Malthusianism
made me an unfit guardian for my child; Mr. Ince
declared that
Mabel, educated by me, would "be helpless for good in
this
world," and "hopeless for good hereafter, outcast in this life
and damned in
the next." Mr. Bardswell implored the judge to consider
that my custody
of her "would be detrimental to the future prospects
of the child in
society, to say nothing of her eternal prospects." Had
not the matter
been to me of such heart-breaking importance, I could
have laughed at
the mixture of Mrs. Grundy, marriage establishment,
and hell,
presented as an argument for robbing a mother of her child.
But Mr.
Bardswell carelessly forgot that Sir George Jessel was a Jew,
and lifting
eyes to heaven in horrified appeal, he gasped out:
"Your
lordship, I think, will scarcely credit it, but Mrs. Besant
says, in a
later affidavit, that she took away the Testament from the
child because
it contained coarse passages unfit for a child to read."
The opportunity
was too tempting for a Jew to refrain from striking at
a book written
by apostate Jews, and Sir George Jessel answered
sharply:
"It is not
true to say there are no passages unfit for a child's
reading,
because I think there are a great many."
"I do not
know of any passages that could fairly be called coarse."
"I cannot
quite assent to that."
Barring this
little episode judge and counsel showed a charming
unanimity. I
distinctly said I was an Atheist, that I had withdrawn
the child from
religious instruction at the day-school she attended,
that I had
written various anti-Christian books, and so on; but I
claimed the
child's custody on the ground that the deed of separation
distinctly gave
it to me, and had been executed by her father after I
had left the
Christian Church, and that my opinions were not
sufficient to
invalidate it. It was admitted on the other side that
the child was
admirably cared for, and there was no attempt at
attacking my
personal character. The judge stated that I had taken the
greatest
possible care of the child, but decided that the mere fact of
my refusing to
give the child religious instruction was sufficient
ground for
depriving me of her custody. Secular education he regarded
as "not
only reprehensible, but detestable, and likely to work utter
ruin to the
child, and I certainly should upon this ground alone
decide that
this child ought not to remain another day under the care
of her
mother."
Sir George
Jessel denounced also my Malthusian views in a fashion at
once so brutal
and so untruthful as to facts, that some years later
another judge,
the senior puisne judge of the Supreme Court of New
South Wales,
declared in a judgment delivered in his own court that
there was
"no language used by Lord Cockburn which justified the
Master of the
Rolls in assuming that Lord Cockburn regarded the book
as
obscene," and that "little weight is to be attached to his opinion
on a point not
submitted for his decision"; he went on to administer a
sharp rebuke
for the way in which Sir George Jessel travelled outside
the case, and
remarked that "abuse, however, of an unpopular opinion,
whether
indulged in by judges or other people, is not argument, nor
can the
vituperation of opponents in opinion prove them to be
immoral."
However, Sir George Jessel was all-powerful in his own
court, and he
deprived me of my child, refusing to stay the order even
until the
hearing of my appeal against his decision. A messenger from
the father came
to my house, and the little child was carried away by
main force,
shrieking and struggling, still weak from the fever, and
nearly frantic
with fear and passionate resistance. No access to her
was given me,
and I gave notice that if access were denied me, I would
sue for a
restitution of conjugal rights, merely that I might see my
children. But
the strain had been too great, and I nearly went mad,
spending hours
pacing up and down the empty rooms, striving to weary
myself to
exhaustion that I might forget. The loneliness and silence
of the house,
of which my darling had always been the sunshine and the
music, weighed
on me like an evil dream; I listened for the patter of
the dancing
feet, and merry, thrilling laughter that rang through the
garden, the
sweet music of the childish voice; during my sleepless
nights I missed
in the darkness the soft breathing of the little
child; each
morning I longed in vain for the clinging arms and soft,
sweet kisses.
At last health broke down, and fever struck me, and
mercifully gave
me the rest of pain and delirium instead of the agony
of conscious
loss. Through that terrible illness, day after day, Mr.
Bradlaugh came
to me, and sat writing beside me, feeding me with ice
and milk,
refused from all others, and behaving more like a tender
mother than a
man friend; he saved my life, though it seemed to me for
awhile of
little value, till the first months of lonely pain were
over. When
recovered, I took steps to set aside an order obtained by
Mr. Besant
during my illness, forbidding me to bring any suit against
him, and even
the Master of the Rolls, on hearing that all access had
been denied to
me, and the money due to me stopped, uttered words of
strong
condemnation of the way in which I had been treated. Finally
the deed of
separation executed in 1873 was held to be good as
protecting Mr.
Besant from any suit brought by me, whether for divorce
or for
restitution of conjugal rights, while the clauses giving me the
custody of the
child were set aside. The Court of Appeal in April,
1879, upheld
the decision, the absolute right of the father as against
a married
mother being upheld. This ignoring of all right to her
children on the
part of the married mother is a scandal and a wrong
that has since
been redressed by Parliament, and the husband has no
longer in his
grasp this instrument of torture, whose power to agonise
depends on the
tenderness and strength of the motherliness of the
wife. In the
days when the law took my child from me, it virtually
said to all
women: "Choose which of these two positions, as wife and
mother, you
will occupy. If you are legally your husband's wife, you
can have no
legal claim to your children; if legally you are your
husband's
mistress, your rights as mother are secure." That stigma on
marriage is now
removed.
One thing I
gained in the Court of Appeal. The Court expressed a
strong view as
to my right of access, and directed me to apply to Sir
George Jessel
for it, adding that it could not doubt he would grant
it. Under cover
of this I applied to the Master of the Rolls, and
obtained
liberal access to the children; but I found that my visits
kept Mabel in a
continual state of longing and fretting for me, while
the ingenious
forms of petty insult that were devised against me and
used in the
children's presence would soon become palpable to them and
cause continual
pain. So, after a painful struggle with myself, I
resolved to
give up the right of seeing them, feeling that thus only
could I save
them from constantly recurring conflict, destructive of
all happiness
and of all respect for one or the other parent.
Resolutely I
turned my back on them that I might spare them trouble,
and determined
that, robbed of my own, I would be a mother to all
helpless
children I could aid, and cure the pain at my own heart by
soothing the
pain of others.
As far as
regards this whole struggle over the Knowlton pamphlet,
victory was
finally won all along the line. Not only did we, as
related,
recover all our seized pamphlets, and continue the sale till
all prosecution
and threat of prosecution were definitely surrendered;
but my own
tract had an enormous sale, so that when I withdrew it from
sale in June,
1891, I was offered a large sum for the copyright, an
offer which I,
of course, refused. Since that time not a copy has been
sold with my
knowledge or permission, but long ere that the pamphlet
had received a
very complete legal vindication. For while it
circulated
untouched in England, a prosecution was attempted against
it in New South
Wales, but was put an end to by an eloquent and
luminous
judgment by the senior puisne judge of the Supreme Court, Mr.
Justice
Windmeyer, in December, 1888. This judge, the most respected
in the great
Australian colony, spoke out plainly and strongly on the
morality of
such teaching. "Take the case," he said, "of a woman
married to a
drunken husband, steadily ruining his constitution and
hastening to
the drunkard's doom, loss of employment for himself,
semi-starvation
for his family, and finally death, without a shilling
to leave those
whom he has brought into the world, but armed with the
authority of
the law to treat his wife as his slave, ever brutally
insisting on
the indulgence of his marital rights. Where is the
immorality, if,
already broken in health from unresting maternity,
having already
a larger family than she can support when the miserable
breadwinner has
drunk himself to death, the woman avails herself of
the information
given in this book, and so averts the consequences of
yielding to her
husband's brutal insistence on his marital rights?
Already
weighted with a family that she is unable to decently bring
up, the
immorality, it seems to me, would be in the reckless and
criminal
disregard of precautions which would prevent her bringing
into the world
daughters whose future outlook as a career would be
prostitution,
or sons whose inherited taint of alcoholism would soon
drag them down
with their sisters to herd with the seething mass of
degenerate and
criminal humanity that constitutes the dangerous
classes of
great cities. In all these cases the appeal is from
thoughtless,
unreasoning prejudice to conscience, and, if listened to,
its voice will
be heard unmistakably indicating where the path of duty
lies."
The judge
forcibly refused to be any party to the prohibition of such
a pamphlet,
regarding it as of high service to the community. He said:
"So strong
is the dread of the world's censure upon this topic that
few have the
courage openly to express their views upon it; and its
nature is such
that it is only amongst thinkers who discuss all
subjects, or
amongst intimate acquaintances, that community of thought
upon the
question is discovered. But let any one inquire amongst those
who have
sufficient education and ability to think for themselves, and
who do not idly
float, slaves to the current of conventional opinion,
and he will
discover that numbers of men and women of purest lives, of
noblest
aspirations, pious, cultivated, and refined, see no wrong in
teaching the
ignorant that it is wrong to bring into the world
children to
whom they cannot do justice, and who think it folly to
stop short in
telling them simply and plainly how to prevent it. A
more robust
view of morals teaches that it is puerile to ignore human
passions and
human physiology. A clearer perception of truth and the
safety of
trusting to it teaches that in law, as in religion, it is
useless trying
to limit the knowledge of mankind by any inquisitorial
attempts to
place upon a judicial Index Expurgatorius works written
with an earnest
purpose, and commending themselves to thinkers of
well-balanced
minds. I will be no party to any such attempt. I do not
believe that it
was ever meant that the Obscene Publication Act should
apply to cases
of this kind, but only to the publication of such
matter as all
good men would regard as lewd and filthy, to lewd and
bawdy novels,
pictures and exhibitions, evidently published and given
for lucre's
sake. It could never have been intended to stifle the
expression of
thought by the earnest-minded on a subject of
transcendent
national importance like the present, and I will not
strain it for
that purpose. As pointed out by Lord Cockburn in the
case of the
Queen v. Bradlaugh and Besant, all prosecutions of this
kind should be
regarded as mischievous, even by those who disapprove
the opinions
sought to be stifled, inasmuch as they only tend more
widely to
diffuse the teaching objected to. To those, on the other
hand, who
desire its promulgation, it must be a matter of
congratulation
that this, like all attempted persecutions of thinkers,
will defeat its
own object, and that truth, like a torch, 'the more
it's shook it
shines.'"
The argument of
Mr. Justice Windmeyer for the Neo-Malthusian position
was (as any one
may see who reads the full text of the judgment) one
of the most
luminous and cogent I have ever read. The judgment was
spoken of at
the time in the English press as a "brilliant triumph for
Mrs.
Besant," and so I suppose it was; but no legal judgment could
undo the harm
wrought on the public mind in England by malignant and
persistent
misrepresentation. What that trial and its results cost me
in pain no one
but myself will ever know; on the other hand, there was
the passionate
gratitude evidenced by letters from thousands of poor
married
women--many from the wives of country clergymen and
curates--thanking
and blessing me for showing them how to escape from
the veritable
hell in which they lived. The "upper classes" of society
know nothing
about the way in which the poor live; how their
overcrowding
destroys all sense of personal dignity, of modesty, of
outward
decency, till human life, as Bishop Fraser justly said, is
"degraded
below the level of the swine." To such, and among such I
went, and I
could not grudge the price that then seemed to me as the
ransom for
their redemption. To me, indeed, it meant the losing of all
that made life
dear, but for them it seemed to be the gaining of all
that gave hope
of a better future. So how could I hesitate--I whose
heart had been
fired by devotion to an ideal Humanity, inspired by
that
Materialism that is of love and not of hate?
And now, in
August, 1893, we find the _Christian World,_ the
representative
organ of orthodox Christian Protestantism, proclaiming
the right and
the duty of voluntary limitation of the family. In a
leading
article, after a number of letters had been inserted, it
said:--
"The
conditions are assuredly wrong which bring one member of the
married
partnership into a bondage so cruel. It is no less evident
that the cause
of the bondage in such cases lies in the too rapid
multiplication
of the family. There was a time when any idea of
voluntary
limitation was regarded by pious people as interfering with
Providence. We
are beyond that now, and have become capable of
recognising
that Providence works through the common sense of
individual
brains. We limit population just as much by deferring
marriage from
prudential motives as by any action that may be taken
after it....
Apart from certain methods of limitation, the morality of
which is
gravely questioned by many, there are certain
easily-understood
physiological laws of the subject, the failure to
know and to
observe which is inexcusable on the part either of men or
women in these
circumstances. It is worth noting in this connection
that Dr.
Billings, in his article in this month's _Forum_, on the
diminishing
birth-rate of the United States, gives as one of the
reasons the
greater diffusion of intelligence, by means of popular and
school
treatises on physiology, than formerly prevailed."
Thus has
opinion changed in sixteen years, and all the obloquy poured
on us is seen
to have been the outcome of ignorance and bigotry.
As for the
children, what was gained by their separation from me? The
moment they
were old enough to free themselves, they came back to me,
my little
girl's too brief stay with me being ended by her happy
marriage, and I
fancy the fears expressed for her eternal future will
prove as
groundless as the fears for her temporal ruin have proved to
be! Not only
so, but both are treading in my steps as regards their
views of the
nature and destiny of man, and have joined in their
bright youth
the Theosophical Society to which, after so many
struggles, I
won my way.
The struggle on
the right to discuss the prudential restraint of
population did
not, however, conclude without a martyr. Mr. Edward
Truelove,
alluded to above, was prosecuted for selling a treatise by
Robert Dale
Owen on "Moral Physiology," and a pamphlet entitled,
"Individual,
Family, and National Poverty." He was tried on February
1, 1878, before
the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of Queen's Bench,
and was most
ably defended by Professor W.A. Hunter. The jury spent
two hours in
considering their verdict, and returned into court and
stated that
they were unable to agree. The majority of the jury were
ready to
convict, if they felt sure that Mr. Truelove would not be
punished, but
one of them boldly declared in court: "As to the book,
it is written
in plain language for plain people, and I think that
many more
persons ought to know what the contents of the book are."
The jury was
discharged, in consequence of this one man's courage, but
Mr. Truelove's
persecutors--the Vice Society--were determined not to
let their
victim free. They proceeded to trial a second time, and
wisely
endeavoured to secure a special jury, feeling that as
prudential
restraint would raise wages by limiting the supply of
labour, they
would be more likely to obtain a verdict from a jury of
"gentlemen"
than from one composed of workers. This attempt was
circumvented by
Mr. Truelove's legal advisers, who let a _procedendo_
go which sent
back the trial to the Old Bailey. The second trial was
held on May
16th at the Central Criminal Court before Baron Pollock
and a common
jury, Professor Hunter and Mr. J.M. Davidson appearing
for the
defence. The jury convicted, and the brave old man,
sixty-eight
years of age, was condemned to four months' imprisonment
and Ł50 fine
for selling a pamphlet which had been sold unchallenged,
during a period
of forty-five years, by James Watson, George Jacob
Holyoake,
Austin Holyoake, and Charles Watts. Mr. Grain, the counsel
employed by the
Vice Society, most unfairly used against Mr. Truelove
my "Law of
Population," a pamphlet which contained, Baron Pollock
said, "the
head and front of the offence in the other [the Knowlton]
case." I
find an indignant protest against this odious unfairness in
the _National
Reformer_ for May 19th: "My 'Law of Population' was used
against Mr.
Truelove as an aggravation of his offence, passing over
the utter
meanness--worthy only of Collette--of using against a
prisoner a book
whose author has never been attacked for writing
it--does Mr.
Collette, or do the authorities, imagine that the
severity shown
to Mr. Truelove will in any fashion deter me from
continuing the
Malthusian propaganda? Let me here assure them, one and
all, that it
will do nothing of the kind; I shall continue to sell the
'Law of
Population' and to advocate scientific checks to population,
just as though
Mr. Collette and his Vice Society were all dead and
buried. In
commonest justice they are bound to prosecute me, and if
they get, and
keep, a verdict against me, and succeed in sending me to
prison, they
will only make people more anxious to read my book, and
make me more
personally powerful as a teacher of the views which they
attack."
A persistent
attempt was made to obtain a writ of error in Mr.
Truelove's
case, but the Tory Attorney-General, Sir John Holker,
refused it,
although the ground on which it was asked was one of the
grounds on
which a similar writ had been granted to Mr. Bradlaugh and
myself. Mr.
Truelove was therefore compelled to suffer his sentence,
but memorials,
signed by 11,000 persons, asking for his release, were
sent to the
Home Secretary from every part of the country, and a
crowded meeting
in St. James's Hall, London, demanded his liberation
with only six
dissentients. The whole agitation did not shorten Mr.
Truelove's
sentence by a single day, and he was not released from
Coldbath Fields
Prison until September 5th. On the 12th of the same
month the Hall
of Science was crowded with enthusiastic friends, who
assembled to do
him honour, and he was presented with a
beautifully-illuminated
address and a purse containing Ł177
(subsequent
subscriptions raised the amount to Ł197 16s. 6d.).
It is scarcely
necessary to say that one of the results of the
prosecution was
a great agitation throughout the country, and a wide
popularisation
of Malthusian views. Some huge demonstrations were held
in favour of
free discussion; on one occasion the Free Trade Hall,
Manchester, was
crowded to the doors; on another the Star Music Hall,
Bradford, was
crammed in every corner; on another the Town Hall,
Birmingham, had
not a seat or a bit of standing-room unoccupied.
Wherever we
went, separately or together, it was the same story, and
not only were
Malthusian lectures eagerly attended, and Malthusian
literature
eagerly bought, but curiosity brought many to listen to our
Radical and
Freethought lectures, and thousands heard for the first
time what
Secularism really meant. The Press, both London and
provincial,
agreed in branding the prosecution as foolish, and it was
generally
remarked that it resulted only in the wider circulation of
the indicted
book, and the increased popularity of those who had stood
for the right
of publication. The furious attacks since made upon us
have been made
chiefly by those who differ from us in theological
creed, and who
have found a misrepresentation of our prosecution
served them as
a convenient weapon of attack. During the last few
years public
opinion has been gradually coming round to our side, in
consequence of
the pressure of poverty resulting from widespread
depression of
trade, and during the sensation caused in 1884 by "The
Bitter Cry of
Outcast London," many writers in the _Daily
News_--notably
Mr. G.R. Sims--boldly alleged that the distress was to
a great extent
due to the large families of the poor, and mentioned
that we had
been prosecuted for giving the very knowledge which would
bring salvation
to the sufferers in our great cities.
Among the
useful results of the prosecution was the establishment of
the Malthusian
League, "to agitate for the abolition of all penalties
on the public
discussion of the population question," and "to spread
among the
people, by all practicable means, a knowledge of the law of
population, of
its consequences, and of its bearing upon human conduct
and
morals." The first general meeting of the League was held at the
Hall of Science
on July 26, 1877, and a council of twenty persons was
elected, and
this council on August 2nd elected Dr. C.R. Drysdale,
M.D.,
President; Mr. Swaagman, Treasurer; Mrs. Besant, Secretary; Mr.
Shearer,
Assistant-Secretary; and Mr. Hember, Financial Secretary.
Since 1877 the
League, under the same indefatigable president, has
worked hard to
carry out its objects; it has issued a large number of
leaflets and
tracts; it supports a monthly journal, the _Malthusian;_
numerous
lectures have been delivered under its auspices in all parts
of the country;
and it has now a medical branch, into which none but
duly qualified
medical men and women are admitted, with members in all
European
countries.
Another result
of the prosecution was the accession of "D." to the
staff of the
_National Reformer_. This able and thoughtful writer came
forward and
joined our ranks as soon as he heard of the attack on us,
and he further
volunteered to conduct the journal during our expected
imprisonment.
From that time to this--a period of fifteen
years--articles
from his pen appeared in its columns week by week, and
during all that
time not one solitary difficulty arose between editors
and
contributor. In public a trustworthy colleague, in private a warm
and sincere
friend, "D." proved an unmixed benefit bestowed upon us by
the
prosecution.
Nor was
"D." the only friend brought to us by our foes. I cannot ever
think of that
time without remembering that the prosecution brought me
first into
close intimacy with Mrs. Annie Parris--the wife of Mr.
Touzeau Parris,
the Secretary of the Defence Committee throughout all
the fight--a
lady who, during that long struggle, and during the, for
me, far worse
struggle that succeeded it, over the custody of my
daughter,
proved to me the most loving and sisterly of friends. One or
two other
friendships which will, I hope, last my life, date from that
same time of
strife and anxiety.
The amount of
money subscribed by the public during the Knowlton and
succeeding
prosecutions gives some idea of the interest felt in the
struggle. The
Defence Fund Committee in March, 1878, presented a
balance-sheet,
showing subscriptions amounting to Ł1,292 5s. 4d., and
total
expenditure in the Queen v. Bradlaugh and Besant, the Queen v.
Truelove, and
the appeal against Mr. Vaughan's order (the last two up
to date) of
Ł1,274 10s. This account was then closed and the balance
of Ł17 15s. 4d.
passed on to a new fund for the defence of Mr.
Truelove, the
carrying on of the appeal against the destruction of the
Knowlton
pamphlet, and the bearing of the costs incident on the
petition lodged
against myself. In July this new fund had reached Ł196
16s. 7d., and
after paying the remainder of the costs in Mr.
Truelove's
case, a balance of Ł26 15s. 2d. was carried on. This again
rose to Ł247
15s. 2-1/2d., and the fund bore the expenses of Mr.
Bradlaugh's
successful appeal on the Knowlton pamphlet, the petition
and subsequent
proceedings in which I was concerned in the Court of
Chancery, and
an appeal on Mr. Truelove's behalf, unfortunately
unsuccessful,
against an order for the destruction of the Dale Owen
pamphlet. This
last decision was given on February 21, 1880, and on
this the
Defence Fund was closed. On Mr. Truelove's release, as
mentioned
above, a testimonial to the amount of Ł197 16s. 6d. was
presented to
him, and after the close of the struggle some anonymous
friend sent to
me personally Ł200 as "thanks for the courage and
ability
shown." In addition to all this, the Malthusian League
received no
less than Ł455 11s. 9d. during the first year of its life,
and started on
its second year with a balance in hand of Ł77 5s. 8d.
A somewhat
similar prosecution in America, in which the bookseller,
Mr. D.M.
Bennett, sold a book with which he did not agree, and was
imprisoned, led
to our giving him a warm welcome when, after his
release, he
visited England. We entertained him at the Hall of Science
at a crowded
gathering, and I was deputed as spokesman to present him
with a
testimonial. This I did in the following speech, quoted here in
order to show
the spirit then animating me:--
"Friends,
Mr. Bradlaugh has spoken of the duty that calls us here
to-night. It is
pleasant to think that in our work that duty is one to
which we are
not unaccustomed. In our army there are more true
soldiers than
traitors, more that are faithful to the trust of keeping
the truth than
those who shrink when the hour of danger comes. And I
would ask Mr.
Bennett to-night not to measure English feeling towards
him by the mere
number of those present. They that are here are
representatives
of many thousands of our fellow-countrymen. Glance
down this
middle table, and you will see that it is not without some
right that we
claim to welcome you in the name of multitudes of the
citizens of
England. There are those who taunt us with want of
loyalty, and
with the name of infidels. In what church will they find
men and women
more loyal to truth and conscience? The name infidel is
not for us so
long as we are faithful to the truth we know. If I
speak, as I
have done, of national representation in this hall this
evening, tell
me, you who know those who sit here, who have watched
some of them
for years, others of them but for a brief time, do I not
speak truth?
Take them one by one. Your President but a little while
ago in
circumstances similar to those wherein our guest himself was
placed, with
the true lover's keenness that recognises the mistress
under all
disguise, beholding his mistress Liberty in danger, under
circumstances
that would have blinded less sure eyes, leapt to her
rescue. He
risked the ambition of his life rather than be disloyal to
liberty. And
next is seated a woman, who, student of a noble
profession,
thought that liberty had greater claim upon her than even
her work. When
we stood in worse peril than even loss of liberty, she
risked her own
good name for the truth's sake. One also is here who,
eminent in his
own profession, came with the weight of his position
and his right
to speak, and gave a kindred testimony. One step
further, and
you see one who, soldier to liberty, throughout a long
and spotless life,
when the task was far harder than it is to-day,
when there were
no greetings, no welcomes, when to serve was to peril
name as well as
liberty, never flinched from the first until now. He
is crowned with
the glory of the jail, that was his for no crime but
for claiming
the right to publish that wherein the noblest thought is
uttered in the
bravest words. And next to him is another who speaks
for liberty,
who has brought culture, university degree, position in
men's sight,
and many friends, and cast them all at her beloved feet.
Sir, not alone
the past and the present greet you to-night. The future
also greets you
with us. We have here also those who are training
themselves to
walk in the footsteps of the one most dear to them, who
shall carry on,
when we have passed away, the work which we shall have
dropped from
our hands. But he whom we delight to honour at this hour
in truth
honours us, in that he allows us to offer him the welcome
that it is our
glory and our pleasure to give. He has fought bravely.
The Christian
creed had in its beginning more traitors and less true
hearts than the
creed of to-day. We are happy to-day not only in the
thought of what
manner of men we have for leaders, but in the thought
of what manner
of men we have as soldiers in our army. Jesus had
twelve
apostles. One betrayed Him for thirty pieces of silver; a
second denied
Him. They all forsook Him and fled. We can scarcely
point to one
who has thus deserted our sacred cause. The traditions of
our party tell us
of many who went to jail because they claimed for
all that right
of free speech which is the heritage of all. One of the
most famous
members of our body in England, Richard Carlile, turned
bookseller to
sell books that were prosecuted. This man became
Free-thinker,
driven thereto by the bigotry and wickedness of the
Churches. He
sold the books of Hone not because he agreed with them,
but because
Hone was prosecuted. He saw that the book in whose
prosecution
freedom was attacked was the book for the freeman to sell;
and the story
of our guest shows that in all this England and America
are one. Those
who gave Milton to the world can yet bring forth men of
the same stamp
in continents leagues asunder. Because our friend was
loyal and true,
prison had to him no dread. It was far, far less of
dishonour to
wear the garb of the convict than to wear that of the
hypocrite. The
society we represent, like his society in America,
pleads for free
thought, speaks for free speech, claims for every one,
however
antagonistic, the right to speak the thought he feels. It is
better that
this should be, even though the thought be wrong, for thus
the sooner will
its error be discovered--better if the thought be
right, for then
the sooner does the gladness of a new truth find place
in the heart of
man. As the mouthpiece, Sir, of our National Secular
Society, and of
its thousands of members, I speak to you now:--
"'ADDRESS.
"'_We seek
for Truth_.'
"'To D.M.
Bennett.
"'In
asking you to accept at the hands of the National Secular Society
of England this
symbol of cordial sympathy and brotherly welcome, we
are but putting
into act the motto of our Society. "We seek for Truth"
is our badge,
and it is as Truthseeker that we do you homage to-night.
Without free
speech no search for Truth is possible; without free
speech no
discovery of Truth is useful; without free speech progress
is checked, and
the nations no longer march forward towards the nobler
life which the
future holds for man. Better a thousandfold abuse of
free speech
than denial of free speech. The abuse dies in a day; the
denial slays
the life of the people and entombs the hope of the race.
"'In your
own country you have pleaded for free speech, and when,
under a wicked
and an odious law, one of your fellow-citizens was
imprisoned for
the publication of his opinions, you, not sharing the
opinions but
faithful to liberty, sprang forward to defend in him the
principle of
free speech which you claimed for yourself, and sold his
book while he
lay in prison. For this act you were in turn arrested
and sent to
jail, and the country which won its freedom by the aid of
Paine in the
eighteenth century disgraced itself in the nineteenth by
the
imprisonment of a heretic. The Republic of the United States
dishonoured
herself, and not you, in Albany penitentiary. Two hundred
thousand of
your countrymen pleaded for your release, but bigotry was
too strong. We
sent you greeting in your captivity; we rejoiced when
the time came
for your release. We offer you to-night our thanks and
our
hope--thanks for the heroism which never flinched in the hour of
battle, hope
for a more peaceful future, in which the memory of a past
pain may be a
sacred heritage and not a regret.
"'Charles
Bradlaugh, _President_.'
"Soldier
of liberty, we give you this. Do in the future the same good
service that
you have done in the past, and your reward shall be in
the love that
true men shall bear to you."
That, however,
which no force could compel me to do, which I refused
to threats of
fine and prison, to separation from my children, to
social
ostracism, and to insults and ignominy worse to bear than
death, I
surrendered freely when all the struggle was over, and a
great part of
society and of public opinion had adopted the view that
cost Mr.
Bradlaugh and myself so dear. I may as well complete the
story here, so
as not to have to refer to it again. I gave up
Neo-Malthusianism
in April, 1891, its renunciation being part of the
outcome of two
years' instruction from Mdme. H.P. Blavatsky, who
showed me that
however justifiable Neo-Malthusianism might be while
man was
regarded only as the most perfect outcome of physical
evolution, it
was wholly incompatible with the view of man as a
spiritual
being, whose material form and environment were the results
of his own
mental activity. Why and how I embraced Theosophy, and
accepted H.P.
Blavatsky as teacher, will soon be told in its proper
place. Here I
am concerned only with the why and how of my
renunciation of
the Neo-Malthusian teaching, for which I had fought so
hard and
suffered so much.
When I built my
life on the basis of Materialism I judged all actions
by their effect
on human happiness in this world now and in future
generations,
regarding man as an organism that lived on earth and
there perished,
with activities confined to earth and limited by
physical laws.
The object of life was the ultimate building-up of a
physically,
mentally, morally perfect man by the cumulative effects of
heredity--mental
and moral tendencies being regarded as the outcome of
material
conditions, to be slowly but surely evolved by rational
selection and
the transmission to offspring of qualities carefully
acquired by,
and developed in, parents. The most characteristic note
of this serious
and lofty Materialism had been struck by Professor W.
K. Clifford in
his noble article on the "Ethics of Belief."
Taking this
view of human duty in regard to the rational co-operation
with nature in
the evolution of the human race, it became of the first
importance to
rescue the control of the generation of offspring from
mere blind
brute passion, and to transfer it to the reason and to the
intelligence;
to impress on parents the sacredness of the parental
office, the
tremendous responsibility of the exercise of the creative
function. And
since, further, one of the most pressing problems for
solution in the
older countries is that of poverty, the horrible slums
and dens into
which are crowded and in which are festering families of
eight and ten
children, whose parents are earning an uncertain 10s.,
12s., 15s., and
20s. a week; since an immediate palliative is wanted,
if popular
risings impelled by starvation are to be avoided; since the
lives of men
and women of the poorer classes, and of the worst paid
professional
classes, are one long, heart-breaking struggle "to make
both ends meet
and keep respectable"; since in the middle class
marriage is
often avoided, or delayed till late in life, from the
dread of the
large family, and late marriage is followed by its
shadow, the
prevalence of vice and the moral and social ruin of
thousands of
women; for these, and many other reasons, the teaching of
the duty of
limiting the family within the means of subsistence is the
logical outcome
of Materialism linked with the scientific view of
evolution, and
with a knowledge of the physical law, by which
evolution is
accelerated or retarded. Seeking to improve the physical
type,
scientific Materialism, it seemed to me, must forbid parentage
to any but
healthy married couples; it must restrict childbearing
within the
limits consistent with the thorough health and physical
well-being of
the mother; it must impose it as a duty never to bring
children into
the world unless the conditions for their fair nurture
and development
are present. Regarding it as hopeless, as well as
mischievous, to
preach asceticism, and looking on the conjunction of
nominal
celibacy with widespread prostitution as inevitable, from the
constitution of
human nature, scientific Materialism--quite rationally
and
logically--advises deliberate restriction of the production of
offspring,
while sanctioning the exercise of the sexual instinct
within the
limits imposed by temperance, the highest physical and
mental
efficiency, the good order and dignity of society, and the
self-respect of
the individual.
In all this
there is nothing which for one moment implies approval of
licentiousness,
profligacy, unbridled self-indulgence. On the
contrary, it is
a well-considered and intellectually-defensible scheme
of human
evolution, regarding all natural instincts as matters for
regulation, not
for destruction, and seeking to develop the perfectly
healthy and
well-balanced physical body as the necessary basis for the
healthy and
well-balanced mind. If the premises of Materialism be
true, there is
no answer to the Neo-Malthusian conclusions; for even
those
Socialists who have bitterly opposed the promulgation of
Neo-Malthusianism--regarding
it as a "red herring intended to draw the
attention of
the proletariat away from the real cause of poverty, the
monopoly of
land and capital by a class"--admit that when society is
built on the
foundation of common property in all that is necessary
for the production
of wealth, the time will come for the consideration
of the
population question. Nor do I now see, any more than I saw
then, how any
Materialist can rationally avoid the Neo-Malthusian
position. For
if man be the outcome of purely physical causes, it is
with these that
we must deal in guiding his future evolution. If he be
related but to
terrestrial existence, he is but the loftiest organism
of earth; and,
failing to see his past and his future, how should my
eyes not have
been then blinded to the deep-lying causes of his
present woe? I
brought a material cure to a disease which appeared to
me to be of
material origin; but how when the evil came from a subtler
source, and its
causes lay not on the material plane? How if the
remedy only set
up new causes for a future evil, and, while
immediately a
palliative, strengthened the disease itself, and ensured
its
reappearance in the future? This was the view of the problem set
before me by
H.P. Blavatsky when she unrolled the story of man, told
of his origin
and his destiny, showed me the forces that went to the
making of man,
and the true relation between his past, his present,
and his future.
For what is man
in the light of Theosophy? He is a spiritual
intelligence,
eternal and uncreate, treading a vast cycle of human
experience,
born and reborn on earth millennium after millennium,
evolving slowly
into the ideal man. He is not the product of matter,
but is encased
in matter, and the forms of matter with which he
clothes himself
are of his own making. For the intelligence and will
of man are
creative forces--not creative _ex nihilo_, but creative as
is the brain of
the painter--and these forces are exercised by man in
every act of
thought. Thus he is ever creating round him
thought-forms,
moulding subtlest matter into shape by these energies,
forms which
persist as tangible realities when the body of the thinker
has long gone
back to earth and air and water. When the time for
rebirth into
this earth-life comes for the soul these thought-forms,
its own
progeny, help to form the tenuous model into which the
molecules of
physical matter are builded for the making of the body,
and matter is
thus moulded for the new body in which the soul is to
dwell, on the
lines laid down by the intelligent and volitional life
of the
previous, or of many previous, incarnations. So does each man
create for
himself in verity the form wherein he functions, and what
he is in his
present is the inevitable outcome of his own creative
energies in his
past. Applying this to the Neo-Malthusian theory, we
see in sexual
love not only a passion which man has in common with the
brute, and
which forms, at the present stage of evolution, a necessary
part of human
nature, but an animal passion that may be trained and
purified into a
human emotion, which may be used as one of the levers
in human
progress, one of the factors in human growth. But, instead of
this, man in
the past has made his intellect the servant of his
passions; the
abnormal development of the sexual instinct in man--in
whom it is far
greater and more continuous than in any brute--is due
to the mingling
with it of the intellectual element, all sexual
thoughts,
desires, and imaginations having created thought-forms,
which have been
wrought into the human race, giving rise to a
continual
demand, far beyond nature, and in marked contrast with the
temperance of
normal animal life. Hence it has become one of the most
fruitful
sources of human misery and human degradation, and the
satisfaction of
its imperious cravings in civilised countries lies at
the root of our
worst social evils. This excessive development has to
be fought
against, and the instinct reduced within natural limits, and
this will
certainly never be done by easy-going self-indulgence within
the marital
relation any more than by self-indulgence outside it. By
none other road
than that of self-control and self-denial can men and
women now set
going the causes which will build for them brains and
bodies of a
higher type for their future return to earth-life. They
have to hold
this instinct in complete control, to transmute it from
passion into
tender and self-denying affection, to develop the
intellectual at
the expense of the animal, and thus to raise the whole
man to the
human stage, in which every intellectual and physical
capacity shall
subserve the purposes of the soul. From all this it
follows that
Theosophists should sound the note of self-restraint
within
marriage, and the gradual--for with the mass it cannot be
sudden--restriction
of the sexual relation to the perpetuation of the
race.
Such was the
bearing of Theosophical teaching on Neo-Malthusianism, as
laid before me
by H.P. Blavatsky, and when I urged, out of my bitter
knowledge of
the miseries endured by the poor, that it surely might,
for a time at
least, be recommended as a palliative, as a defence in
the hands of a
woman against intolerable oppression and enforced
suffering, she
bade me look beyond the moment, and see how the
suffering must
come back and back with every generation, unless we
sought to
remove the roots of wrong. "I do not judge a woman," she
said, "who
has resort to such means of defence in the midst of
circumstances
so evil, and whose ignorance of the real causes of all
this misery is
her excuse for snatching at any relief. But it is not
for you, an
Occultist, to continue to teach a method which you now
know must tend
to the perpetuation of the sorrow." I felt that she was
right, and
though I shrank from the decision--for my heart somewhat
failed me at
withdrawing from the knowledge of the poor, so far as I
could, a
temporary palliative of evils which too often wreck their
lives and bring
many to an early grave, worn old before even middle
age has touched
them--yet the decision was made. I refused to reprint
the "Law
of Population," or to sell the copyright, giving pain, as I
sadly knew, to
all the brave and loyal friends who had so generously
stood by me in
that long and bitter struggle, and who saw the results
of victory
thrown away on grounds to them inadequate and mistaken!
Will it always
be, I wonder, in man's climbing upward, that every step
must be set on
his own heart and on the hearts of those he loves?
CHAPTER X.
AT WAR ALL
ROUND.
Coming back to
my work after my long and dangerous illness, I took up
again its
thread, heartsick, but with courage unshaken, and I find
myself in the
_National Reformer_ for September 15, 1878, saying in a
brief note of
thanks that "neither the illness nor the trouble which
produced it has
in any fashion lessened my determination to work for
the
cause." In truth, I plunged into work with added vigour, for only
in that did I
find any solace, but the pamphlets written at this time
against
Christianity were marked with considerable bitterness, for it
was
Christianity that had robbed me of my child, and I struck
mercilessly at
it in return. In the political struggles of that time,
when the
Beaconsfield Government was in full swing, with its policy of
annexation and
aggression, I played my part with tongue and pen, and
my articles in
defence of an honest and liberty-loving policy in
India, against
the invasion of Afghanistan and other outrages, laid in
many an Indian
heart a foundation of affection for me, and seem to me
now as a
preparation for the work among Indians to which much of my
time and
thought to-day are given. In November of this same year
(1878) I wrote
a little book on "England, India, and Afghanistan" that
has brought me
many a warm letter of thanks, and with this, the
carrying on of
the suit against Mr. Besant before alluded to, two and
often three
lectures every Sunday, to say nothing of the editorial
work on the
_National Reformer_, the secretarial work on the
Malthusian
League, and stray lectures during the week, my time was
fairly well
filled. But I found that in my reading I developed a
tendency to let
my thoughts wander from the subject in hand, and that
they would
drift after my lost little one, so I resolved to fill up
the gaps in my
scientific education, and to amuse myself by reading up
for some
examinations; I thought it would serve as an absorbing form
of recreation
from my other work, and would at the same time, by
making my
knowledge exact, render me more useful as a speaker on
behalf of the
causes to which my life was given.
At the opening
of the new year (1879) I met for the first time a man
to whom I
subsequently owed much in this department of work--Edward B.
Aveling, a
D.Sc. of London University, and a marvellously able teacher
of scientific
subjects, the very ablest, in fact, that I have ever
met. Clear and
accurate in his knowledge, with a singular gift for
lucid
exposition, enthusiastic in his love of science, and taking
vivid pleasure
in imparting his knowledge to others, he was an ideal
teacher. This
young man, in January, 1879, began writing under
initials for
the _National Reformer_, and in February I became his
pupil, with the
view of matriculating in June at the London
University, an
object which was duly accomplished. And here let me say
to any one in
mental trouble, that they might find an immense relief
in taking up
some intellectual recreation of this kind; during that
spring, in
addition to my ordinary work of writing, lecturing, and
editing--and
the lecturing meant travelling from one end of England to
the other--I
translated a fair-sized French volume, and had the
wear-and-tear
of pleading my case for the custody of my daughter in
the Court of
Appeal, as well as the case before the Master of the
Rolls; and I
found it the very greatest relief to turn to algebra,
geometry, and
physics, and forget the harassing legal struggles in
wrestling with
formulae and problems. The full access I gained to my
children marked
a step in the long battle of Freethinkers against
disabilities,
for, as noted in the _National Reformer_ by Mr.
Bradlaugh, it
was "won with a pleading unequalled in any case on
record for the
boldness of its affirmation of Freethought," a pleading
of which he generously
said that it deserved well of the party as "the
most powerful
pleading for freedom of opinion to which it has ever
been our good
fortune to listen."
In the London
_Daily News_ some powerful letters of protest appeared,
one from Lord
Harberton, in which he declared that "the Inquisition
acted on no
other principle" than that applied to me; and a second
from Mr. Band,
in which he sarcastically observed that "this Christian
community has
for some time had the pleasure of seeing her Majesty's
courts
repeatedly springing engines of torture upon a young mother--a
clergyman's
wife who dared to disagree with his creed--and her evident
anguish, her
long and expensive struggles to save her child, have
proved that so
far as heretical mothers are concerned modern defenders
of the faith
need not envy the past those persuasive instruments which
so long secured
the unity of the Church. In making Mrs. Besant an
example, the
Master of the Rolls and Lord Justice James have been
careful not to
allow any of the effect to be lost by confusion of the
main point--the
intellectual heresy--with side questions. There was a
Malthusian
matter in the case, but the judges were very clear in
stating that
without any reference whatever to that, they would
simply, on the
ground of Mrs. Besant's 'religious, or anti-religious,
opinions,' take
her child from her." The great provincial papers took
a similar tone,
the _Manchester Examiner_ going so far as to say of
the ruling of
the judges: "We do not say they have done so wrongly. We
only say that
the effect of their judgment is cruel, and it shows that
the holding of
unpopular opinions is, in the eye of the law, an
offence which,
despite all we had thought to the contrary, may be
visited with
the severest punishment a woman and a mother can be
possibly called
on to bear." The outcome of all this long struggle and
of another case
of sore injustice--in which Mrs. Agar-Ellis, a Roman
Catholic, was
separated from her children by a judicial decision
obtained against
her by her husband, a Protestant--was a change in the
law which had
vested all power over the children in the hands of the
father, and
from thenceforth the rights of the married mother were
recognised to a
limited extent. A small side-fight was with the
National Sunday
League, the president of which, Lord Thurlow, strongly
objected to me
as one of the vice-presidents. Mr. P.A. Taylor and
others at once
resigned their offices, and, on the calling of a
general
meeting, Lord Thurlow was rejected as president. Mr. P.A.
Taylor was
requested to assume the presidency, and the vice-presidents
who had
resigned were, with myself, re-elected. Little battles of this
sort were a
running accompaniment of graver struggles during all these
battling years.
And through all
the struggles the organised strength of the
Freethought
party grew, 650 new members being enrolled in the National
Secular Society
in the year 1878-79, and in July, 1879, the public
adhesion of Dr.
Edward B. Aveling brought into the ranks a pen of rare
force and
power, and gave a strong impulse to the educational side of
our movement. I
presided for him at his first lecture at the Hall of
Science on
August 10, 1879, and he soon paid the penalty of his
boldness,
finding himself, a few months later, dismissed from the
Chair of
Comparative Anatomy at the London Hospital, though the Board
admitted that
all his duties were discharged with punctuality and
ability. One of
the first results of his adhesion was the
establishment
of two classes under the Science and Art Department at
South
Kensington, and these grew year after year, attended by numbers
of young men
and women, till in 1883 we had thirteen classes in full
swing, as well
as Latin, and London University Matriculation classes;
all these were
taught by Dr. Aveling and pupils that he had trained. I
took advanced
certificates, one in honours, and so became qualified as
a science
teacher in eight different sciences, and Alice and Hypatia
Bradlaugh
followed a similar course, so that winter after winter we
kept these
classes going from September to the following May, from
1879 until the
year 1888. In addition to these Miss Bradlaugh carried
on a choral
union.
Personally I
found that this study and teaching together with
attendance at
classes held for teachers at South Kensington, the study
for passing the
First B.Sc. and Prel. Sc. Examinations at London
University, and
the study for the B.Sc. degree at London, at which I
failed in
practical chemistry three times--a thing that puzzled me not
a little at the
time, as I had passed a far more difficult practical
chemical
examination for teachers at South Kensington--all this gave
me a knowledge
of science that has stood me in good stead in my public
work. But even
here theological and social hatred pursued me.
When Miss
Bradlaugh and myself applied for permission to attend the
botany class at
University College, we were refused, I for my sins,
and she only
for being her father's daughter; when I had qualified as
teacher, I
stood back from claiming recognition from the Department
for a year in
order not to prejudice the claims of Mr. Bradlaugh's
daughters, and
later, when I had been recognised, Sir Henry Tyler in
the House of
Commons attacked the Education Department for accepting
me, and
actually tried to prevent the Government grant being paid to
the Hall of
Science Schools because Dr. Aveling, the Misses Bradlaugh,
and myself were
unbelievers in Christianity. When I asked permission
to go to the
Botanical Gardens in Regent's Park the curator refused
it, on the
ground that his daughters studied there. On every side
repulse and
insult, hard to struggle against, bitter to bear. It was
against
difficulties of this kind on every side that we had to make
our way, handicapped
in every effort by our heresy. Let our work be as
good as it
might--and our Science School was exceptionally
successful--the
subtle fragrance of heresy was everywhere
distinguishable,
and when Mr. Bradlaugh and myself are blamed for
bitterness in
our anti-Christian advocacy, this constant gnawing
annoyance and
petty persecution should be taken into account. For him
it was
especially trying, for he saw his daughters--girls of ability
and of high
character, whose only crime was that they were
his--insulted,
sneered at, slandered, continually put at a
disadvantage,
because they were his children and loved and honoured
him beyond all
others.
It was in
October, 1879, that I first met Herbert Burrows, though I
did not become
intimately acquainted with him till the Socialist
troubles of the
autumn of 1887 drew us into a common stream of work.
He came as a
delegate from the Tower Hamlets Radical Association to a
preliminary
conference, called by Mr. Bradlaugh, at the Hall of
Science, on October
11th, to consider the advisability of holding a
great London
Convention on Land Law Reform, to be attended by
delegates from
all parts of the kingdom. He was appointed on the
Executive
Committee with Mr. Bradlaugh, Mr. Mottershead, Mr. Nieass,
and others. The
Convention was successfully held, and an advanced
platform of
Land Law Reform adopted, used later by Mr. Bradlaugh as a
basis for some
of the proposals he laid before Parliament.
CHAPTER XI.
MR. BRADLAUGH'S
STRUGGLE.
And now dawned
the year 1880, the memorable year in which commenced
Mr. Bradlaugh's
long Parliamentary battle. After a long and bitter
struggle he was
elected, with Mr. Labouchere, as member for
Northampton, at
the general election, and so the prize so long fought
for was won.
Shall I ever forget that election day, April 2, 1880? How
at four o'clock
Mr. Bradlaugh came into the room at the "George",
where his
daughters and I were sitting, flung himself into a chair
with,
"There's nothing more to do; our last man is polled." Then the
waiting for the
declaration through the long, weary hours of suspense,
till as the
time drew near we knelt by the window listening--listening
to the hoarse
murmur of the crowd, knowing that presently there would
be a roar of triumph
or a howl of anger when the numbers were read out
from the steps
of the Town Hall. And now silence sank, and we knew the
moment had
come, and we held our breath, and then--a roar, a wild roar
of joy and
exultation, cheer after cheer, ringing, throbbing, pealing,
and then the
mighty surge of the crowd bringing him back, their member
at last, waving
hats, handkerchiefs, a very madness of tumultuous
delight, and
the shrill strains of "Bradlaugh for Northampton!" with a
ring of triumph
in them they had never had before. And he, very grave,
somewhat shaken
by the outpour of love and exultation, very silent,
feeling the
weight of new responsibility more than the gladness of
victory. And
then the next morning, as he left the town, the mass of
men and women,
one sea of heads from hotel to station, every window
crowded, his
colours waving everywhere, men fighting to get near him,
to touch him,
women sobbing, the cries, "Our Charlie, our Charlie;
we've got you
and we'll keep you." How they loved him, how they joyed
in the triumph
won after twelve years of strife. Ah me! we thought the
struggle over,
and it was only beginning; we thought our hero
victorious, and
a fiercer, crueller fight lay in front. True, he was
to win that
fight, but his life was to be the price of the winning;
victory for him
was to be final, complete, but the laurel-wreath was
to fall upon a
grave.
[Illustration:
_From a photograph by T. Westley, 57, Vernon Street,
Northampton._
CHARLES BRADLAUGH AND HENRY LABOUCHERE.]
The outburst of
anger from the more bigoted of the Christian community
was as savage
as the outburst of delight had been exultant, but we
recked little
of it. Was he not member, duly elected, without
possibility of
assailment in his legal right? Parliament was to meet
on April 29th,
the swearing-in beginning on the following day, and Mr.
Bradlaugh had
taken counsel with some other Freethinking members as to
the right of
Freethinkers to affirm. He held that under the Act 29 and
30 Vict. c. 19,
and the Evidence Amendment Acts 1869 and 1870, the
right to
substitute affirmation for oath was clear; he was willing to
take the oath
as a necessary form if obligatory, but, believing it to
be optional, he
preferred affirmation. On May 3rd he presented himself
and, according
to the evidence of Sir Erskine May, the Clerk of the
House, given
before the second Select Committee on his case, he "came
to the table
and delivered the following statement in writing to the
Clerk: 'To the
Right Honourable the Speaker of the House of Commons.
I, the
undersigned, Charles Bradlaugh, beg respectfully to claim to be
allowed to
affirm, as a person for the time being by law permitted to
make a solemn
affirmation or declaration, instead of taking an oath.
(Signed) Charles
Bradlaugh.' And being asked by the Clerk upon what
grounds he
claimed to make an affirmation, he answered: 'By virtue of
the Evidence
Amendment Acts, 1869 and 1870.' Whereupon the Clerk
reported to Mr.
Speaker" the claim, and Mr. Speaker told Mr. Bradlaugh
that he might
address the House on the matter. "Mr. Bradlaugh's
observations
were very short. He repeated that he relied upon the
Evidence
Further Amendment Act, 1869, and the Evidence Amendment Act,
1870, adding:
'I have repeatedly, for nine years past, made an
affirmation in
the highest courts of jurisdiction in this realm. I am
ready to make
such a declaration or affirmation.' Substantially those
were the words
which he addressed to the Speaker." This was the
simple, quiet,
and dignified scene which took place in the House. Mr.
Bradlaugh was
directed to withdraw, and he withdrew, and, after
debate, a
Select Committee was appointed to consider whether he could
make
affirmation; that Committee decided against the claim, and gave
in its report
on May 20th. On the following day Mr. Bradlaugh
presented
himself at the table of the House to take the oath in the
form prescribed
by the law, and on the objection of Sir Henry Drummond
Wolff, who
submitted a motion that he should not be allowed to take
the oath,
another Committee was appointed.
Before this
Committee Mr. Bradlaugh stated his case, and pointed out
that the legal
obligation lay on him to take the oath, adding: "Any
form that I
went through, any oath that I took, I should regard as
binding upon my
conscience in the fullest degree. I would go through
no form, I
would take no oath, unless I meant it to be so binding." He
wrote in the
same sense to the _Times_, saying that he should regard
himself
"as bound, not by the letter of its words, but by the spirit
which the
affirmation would have conveyed, had I been permitted to use
it." The
Committee reported against him, and on June 23rd he was heard
at the Bar of
the House, and made a speech so self-restrained, so
noble, so dignified,
that the House, in defiance of all its own rules,
broke out over
and over again into applause. In the debate that
preceded his
speech, members had lost sight of the ordinary rules of
decency, and
had used expressions against myself wholly gratuitous in
such a quarrel;
the grave rebuke to him who "was wanting in chivalry,
because, while
I can answer for myself and am able to answer for
myself, nothing
justified the introduction of any other name beside my
own to make
prejudice against me," brought irrepressible cheers. His
appeal was
wholly to the law. "I have not yet used--I trust no passion
may tempt me
into using--any words that would seem to savour of even a
desire to enter
into conflict with this House. I have always taught,
preached, and
believed the supremacy of Parliament, and it is not
because for a
moment the judgment of one Chamber of Parliament should
be hostile to
me that I am going to deny the ideas I have always held;
but I submit
that one Chamber of Parliament--even its grandest
Chamber, as I
have always held this to be--had no right to override
the law. The
law gives me the right to sign that roll, to take and
subscribe the
oath, and to take my seat there [with a gesture towards
the benches]. I
admit that the moment I am in the House, without any
reason but your
own good will, you can send me away. That is your
right. You have
full control over your members. But you cannot send me
away until I
have been heard in my place, not a suppliant as I am now,
but with the rightful
audience that each member has always had.... I
am ready to
admit, if you please, for the sake of argument, that every
opinion I hold
is wrong and deserves punishment. Let the law punish
it. If you say
the law cannot, then you admit that you have no right,
and I appeal to
public opinion against the iniquity of a decision
which overrides
the law and denies me justice. I beg your pardon, sir,
and that of the
House too, if in this warmth there seems to lack
respect for its
dignity. And as I shall have, if your decision be
against me, to
come to that table when your decision is given, I beg
you, before the
step is taken in which we may both lose our
dignity--mine
is not much, but yours is that of the Commons of
England--I beg
you, before the gauntlet is fatally thrown, I beg you,
not in any sort
of menace, not in any sort of boast, but as one man
against six
hundred, to give me that justice which on the other side
of this hall
the judges would give me, were I pleading there before
them."
But no
eloquence, no plea for justice, could stay the tide of Tory and
religious
bigotry, and the House voted that he should not be allowed
to take the
oath. Summoned to the table to hear the decision
communicated by
the Speaker, he answered that decision with the words
firmly spoken:
"I respectfully refuse to obey the order of the House,
because that
order was against the law." The Speaker appealed to the
House for
direction, and on a division--during which the Speaker and
Charles
Bradlaugh were left together in the chamber--the House ordered
the enforcement
of Mr. Bradlaugh's withdrawal. Once more the order is
given, once
more the refusal made, and then the Serjeant-at-Arms was
bidden to
remove him. Strange was the scene as little Captain Cosset
walked up to
the member of Herculean proportions, and men wondered how
the order would
be enforced; but Charles Bradlaugh was not the man to
make a vulgar
brawl, and the light touch on his shoulder was to him
the touch of an
authority he admitted and to which he bowed. So he
gravely
accompanied his small captor, and was lodged in the Clock
Tower of the
House as prisoner until the House should further consider
what to do with
him--the most awkward prisoner it had ever had, in
that in his
person it was imprisoning the law.
In a special
issue of the _National Reformer_, giving an account of
the Committee's
work and of Mr. Bradlaugh's committal to the Clock
Tower, I find
the following from my own pen: "The Tory party, beaten
at the polls by
the nation, has thus, for the moment, triumphed in the
House of
Commons. The man chosen by the Radicals of Northampton has
been committed
to prison on the motion of the Tory ex-Chancellor of
the Exchequer,
simply because he desires to discharge the duty laid
upon him by his
constituency and by the law of the land. As this paper
goes to press,
I go to Westminster to receive from him his directions
as to the
conduct of the struggle with the nation into which the House
of Commons has
so recklessly plunged." I found him busily writing,
prepared for
all events, ready for a long imprisonment. On the
following day a
leaflet from my pen, "Law Makers and Law Breakers,"
appealed to the
people; after reciting what had happened, it
concluded:
"Let the people speak. Gladstone and Bright are for
Liberty, and
the help denied them within the House must come to them
from without.
No time must be lost. While we remain idle, a
representative
of the people is illegally held in prison. Northampton
is insulted,
and in this great constituency every constituency is
threatened. On
freedom of election depends our liberty; on freedom of
conscience
depends our progress. Tory squires and lordlings have
defied the
people and measured their strength against the masses. Let
the masses
speak." But there was no need to make appeals, for the
outrage itself
caused so swiftly a growl of anger that on the very
next day the
prisoner was set free, and there came protest upon
protest against
the high-handed action of the House. In Westminster
Hall 4,000
people gathered to cheer Mr. Bradlaugh when he came to the
House on the
day after his liberation. In less than a week 200
meetings had
thundered out their protest. Liberal associations, clubs,
societies, sent
up messages of anger and of demand for justice. In
Trafalgar
Square there gathered--so said the papers--the largest crowd
ever seen
there, and on the Thursday following--the meeting was held
on Monday--the
House of Commons rescinded its resolution, refusing to
allow Mr.
Bradlaugh to affirm, and admitted him on Friday, July 2nd,
to take his
seat after affirmation. "At last the bitter struggle is
over," I
wrote, "and law and right have triumphed. The House of
Commons has, by
rescinding the resolution passed by Tories and
Ultramontanes,
re-established its good name in the eyes of the world.
The triumph is
not one of Freethought over Christianity, nor is it
over the House
of Commons; it is the triumph of law, brought about by
good men--of
all shades of opinion, but of one faith in justice--over
Tory contempt
of law and Ultramontane bigotry. It is the reassertion
of civil and
religious liberty under the most difficult circumstances,
the declaration
that the House of Commons is the creation of the
people, and not
a club of the aristocracy with the right of
blackballing in
its own hands."
The battle
between Charles Bradlaugh and his persecutors was now
transferred to
the law courts. As soon as he had taken his seat he was
served with a
writ for having voted without having taken the oath, and
this began the
wearisome proceedings by which his defeated enemies
boasted that
they would make him bankrupt, and so vacate the seat he
had so hardly
gained. Rich men like Mr. Newdegate sued him, putting
forward a man
of straw as nominal plaintiff; for many a weary month
Mr. Bradlaugh
kept all his enemies at bay, fighting each case himself;
defeated time
after time, he fought on, finally carrying the cases to
the House of
Lords, and there winning them triumphantly. But they were
won at such
heavy cost of physical strength and of money, that they
undermined his
strength and burdened him heavily with debt. For all
this time he
had not only to fight in the law courts and to attend
scrupulously to
his Parliamentary duties, but he had to earn his
living by
lecturing and writing, so that his nights away from the
House were
spent in travelling and his days in incessant labour. Many
of his defeated
foes turned their weapons against me, hoping thus to
give him pain;
thus Admiral Sir John Hay, at Wigton, used language of
me so coarse
that the _Scotsman_ and _Glasgow Herald_ refused to print
it, and the
editor of the _Scotsman_ described it as "language so
coarse that it
could have hardly dropped from a yahoo." August 25th
found me at
Brussels, whither I went, with Miss Hypatia Bradlaugh, to
represent the
English Freethinkers at the International Freethought
Conference. It
was an interesting gathering, attended by men of
world-wide
reputation, including Dr. Ludwig Büchner, a man of noble
and kindly
nature. An International Federation of Freethinkers was
there founded,
which did something towards bringing together the
Freethinkers of
different countries, and held interesting congresses
in the
following years in London and Amsterdam; but beyond these
meetings it did
little, and lacked energy and vitality. In truth, the
Freethought
party in each country had so much to do in holding its own
that little
time and thought could be given to international
organisation.
For myself, my introduction to Dr. Büchner, led to much
interesting
correspondence, and I translated, with his approval, his
"Mind in
Animals," and the enlarged fourteenth edition of "Force and
Matter,"
as well as one or two pamphlets. This autumn of 1880 found
the so-called
Liberal Government in full tilt against the Irish
leaders, and I
worked hard to raise English feeling in defence of
Irish freedom
even against attack by one so much honoured as was Mr.
Gladstone. It
was uphill work, for harsh language had been used
against England
and all things English, but I showed by definite
figures--all up
and down England--that life and property were far
safer in
Ireland than in England, that Ireland was singularly free
from crime save
in agrarian disputes, and I argued that these would
disappear if
the law should step in between landlord and tenant, and
by stopping the
crimes of rack-renting and most brutal eviction, put
an end to the
horrible retaliations that were born of despair and
revenge. A
striking point on these evictions I quoted from Mr. T.P.
O'Connor, who,
using Mr. Gladstone's words that a sentence of eviction
was a sentence
of starvation, told of 15,000 processes of eviction
issued in that
one year. The autumn's work was varied by the teaching
of science
classes, a debate with a clergyman of the Church of
England, and an
operation which kept me in bed for three weeks, but
which, on the
other hand, was useful, for I learned to write while
lying on my
back, and accomplished in this fashion a good part of the
translation of
"Mind in Animals."
And here let me
point a moral about hard work. Hard work kills no one.
I find a note
in the _National Reformer_ in 1880 from the pen of Mr.
Bradlaugh:
"It is, we fear, useless to add that, in the judgment of
her best
friends, Mrs. Besant has worked far too hard during the last
two
years." This is 1893, and the thirteen years' interval has been
full of
incessant work, and I am working harder than ever now, and in
splendid
health. Looking over the _National Reformer_ for all these
years, it seems
to me that it did really fine educational work; Mr.
Bradlaugh's
strenuous utterances on political and theological matters;
Dr. Aveling's
luminous and beautiful scientific teachings; and to my
share fell much
of the educative work on questions of political and
national
morality in our dealings with weaker nations. We put all our
hearts into our
work, and the influence exercised was distinctly in
favour of pure
living and high thinking.
In the spring
of 1881 the Court of Appeal decided against Mr.
Bradlaugh's
right to affirm as Member of Parliament, and his seat was
declared
vacant, but he was at once returned again by the borough of
Northampton,
despite the virulence of slander directed against him, so
that he rightly
described the election as "the most bitter I have ever
fought."
His work in the House had won him golden opinions in the
country, and he
was already recognised as a power there; so Tory fear
was added to
bigoted hatred, and the efforts to keep him out of the
House were
increased.
He was
introduced to the House as a new member to take his seat by Mr.
Labouchere and
Mr. Burt, but Sir Stafford Northcote intervened, and
after a lengthy
debate, which included a speech from Mr. Bradlaugh at
the Bar, a
majority of thirty-three refused to allow him to take the
oath. After a
prolonged scene, during which Mr. Bradlaugh declined to
withdraw and
the House hesitated to use force, the House adjourned,
and finally the
Government promised to bring in an Affirmation Bill,
and Mr.
Bradlaugh promised, with the consent of his constituents, to
await the
decision of the House on this Bill. Meantime, a League for
the Defence of
Constitutional Rights was formed, and the agitation in
the country grew:
wherever Mr. Bradlaugh went to speak vast crowds
awaited him,
and he travelled from one end of the country to the
other, the
people answering his appeal for justice with no uncertain
voice. On July
2nd, in consequence of Tory obstruction, Mr. Gladstone
wrote to Mr.
Bradlaugh that the Government were going to drop the
Affirmation
Bill, and Mr. Bradlaugh thereupon determined to present
himself once
more in the House, and fixed on August 3rd as the date of
such action, so
that the Irish Land Bill might get through the House
ere any delay
in business was caused by him. The House was then
closely guarded
with police; the great gates were closed, reserves of
police were
packed in the law courts, and all through July this state
of siege
continued. On August 2nd there was a large meeting in
Trafalgar
Square, at which delegates were present from all parts of
England, and
from as far north as Edinburgh, and on Wednesday, August
3rd, Mr.
Bradlaugh went down to the House. His last words to me were:
"The
people know you better than they know any one, save myself;
whatever
happens, mind, whatever happens, let them do no violence; I
trust to you to
keep them quiet." He went to the House entrance with
Dr. Aveling,
and into the House alone. His daughters and I went
together, and
with some hundreds of others carrying petitions--ten
only with each
petition, and the ten rigidly counted and allowed to
pass through
the gate, sufficiently opened to let one through at a
time--reached
Westminster Hall, where we waited on the steps leading
to the passage
of the lobby.
An inspector
ordered us off. I gently intimated that we were within
our rights.
Dramatic order: "Four officers this way." Up they marched
and looked at
us, and we looked at them. "I think you had better
consult
Inspector Denning before you use violence," I remarked
placidly. They
thought they had, and in a few moments up came the
inspector, and
seeing that we were standing in a place where we had a
right to be,
and were doing no harm, he rebuked his over-zealous
subordinates,
and they retired and left us in peace. A man of much
tact and
discretion was Inspector Denning. Indeed, all through this,
the House of
Commons police behaved admirably well. Even in the attack
they were
ordered to make on Mr. Bradlaugh, the police used as little
violence as
they could. It was Mr. Erskine, the Deputy
Serjeant-at-Arms,
and his ushers, who showed the brutality; as Dr.
Aveling wrote
at the time: "The police disliked their work, and, as
brave men, had
a sympathy for a brave man. Their orders they obeyed
rigidly. This
done, they were kindness itself." Gradually the crowd of
petitioners
grew and grew; angry murmurs were heard, for no news came
from the House,
and they loved "Charlie," and were mostly north
country men,
sturdy and independent. They thought they had a right to
go into the
lobby, and suddenly, with the impulse that will sway a
crowd to a
single action there was a roar, "Petition, petition,
justice,
justice," and they surged up the steps, charging at the
policemen who
held the door. Flashed into my mind my chief's charge,
his words,
"I trust to you to keep them quiet," and as the police
sprang forward
to meet the crowd I threw myself between them, with all
the advantage
of the position of the top of the steps that I had
chosen, so that
every man in the charging crowd saw me, and as they
checked
themselves in surprise I bade them stop for his sake, and keep
for him the
peace which he had bade us should not be broken. I heard
afterwards that
as I sprang forward the police laughed--they must have
thought me a
fool to face the rush of the charging men; but I knew his
friends would
never trample me down, and as the crowd stopped the
laugh died out,
and they drew back and left me my own way.
Sullenly the
men drew back, mastering themselves with effort, reining
in their wrath,
still for his sake. Ah! had I known what was going on
inside, would I
have kept his trust unbroken! and, as many a man said
to me
afterwards in northern towns, "Oh! if you had let us go we would
have carried
him into the House up to the Speaker's chair." We heard a
crash inside,
and listened, and there was sound of breaking glass and
splintering
wood, and in a few minutes a messenger came to me: "He is
in Palace
Yard." And we went thither and saw him standing, still and
white, face set
like marble, coat torn, motionless, as though carved
in stone,
facing the members' door. Now we know the whole shameful
story: how as
that one man stood alone, on his way to claim his right,
alone so that
he could do no violence, fourteen men, said the Central
News, police
and ushers, flung themselves upon him, pushed and pulled
him down the
stairs, smashing in their violence the glass and wood of
the passage
door; how he struck no blow, but used only his great
strength in
passive resistance--" Of all I have ever seen, I never saw
one man
struggle with ten like that," said one of the chiefs, angrily
disdainful of
the wrong he was forced to do--till they flung him out
into Palace
Yard. An eye-witness thus reported the scene in the Press:
"The
strong, broad, heavy, powerful frame of Mr. Bradlaugh was hard to
move, with its
every nerve and muscle strained to resist the coercion.
Bending and
straining against the overpowering numbers, he held every
inch with
surprising tenacity, and only surrendered it after almost
superhuman
exertions to retain it. The sight--little of it as was seen
from the
outside--soon became sickening. The overborne man appeared
almost at his
last gasp. The face, in spite of the warmth of the
struggle, had
an ominous pallor. The limbs barely sustained him....
The Trafalgar
Square phrase that this man might be broken but not bent
occurred to
minds apprehensive at the present appearance of him."
They flung him
out, and swift, short words were there interchanged. "I
nearly did
wrong at the door," he said afterwards, "I was very angry.
I said to
Inspector Denning, 'I shall come again with force enough to
overcome it,'
He said, 'When?' I said, 'Within a minute if I raise my
hand.'" He
stood in Palace Yard, and there outside the gate was a vast
sea of heads,
the men who had journeyed from all parts of England for
love of him,
and in defence of the great right he represented of a
constituency to
send to Parliament the man of its choice. Ah! he was
never greater
than in that moment of outrage and of triumphant wrong;
with all the
passion of a proud man surging within him, insulted by
physical
violence, injured by the cruel wrenching of all his
muscles--so
that for weeks his arms had to be swathed in bandages--he
was never
greater than when he conquered his own wrath, crushed down
his own longing
for battle, stirred to flame by the bodily struggle,
and the bodily
injury, and with thousands waiting within sound of his
voice, longing
to leap to his side, he gave the word to tell them to
meet him that
evening away from the scene of conflict, and meanwhile
to disperse
quietly, "no riot, no disorder." But how he suffered
mentally no
words of mine may tell, and none can understand how it
wrung his heart
who does not know how he reverenced the great
Parliament of
England, how he honoured law, how he believed in justice
being done; it
was the breaking down of his national ideals, of his
pride in his
country, of his belief that faith would be kept with a
foe by English
gentlemen, who with all their faults, he thought,
held honour and
chivalry dear. "No man will sleep in gaol for me
to-night,"
he said to me that day; "no woman can blame me for her
husband killed
or wounded, but--" A wave of agony swept over his face,
and from that
fatal day Charles Bradlaugh was never the same man.
Some hold their
ideals lightly, but his heart-strings were twined
round his; some
care little for their country--he was an Englishman,
law-abiding,
liberty-loving, to his heart's core, of the type of the
seventeenth-century
patriot, holding England's honour dear. It was the
treachery that
broke his heart; he had gone alone, believing in the
honour of his
foes, ready to submit to expulsion, to imprisonment, and
it was the
latter that he expected; but he never dreamed that, going
alone amongst
his foes, they would use brutal and cowardly violence,
and shame every
Parliamentary tradition by personal outrage on a
duly-elected
member, outrage more worthy of a slum pot-house than of
the great
Commons House, the House of Hampden and of Vane, the House
that had
guarded its own from Royal violence, and had maintained its
privileges in
the teeth of kings.
These stormy
scenes brought about a promise of Government aid; Mr.
Bradlaugh
failed to get any legal redress, as, indeed, he expected to
fail, on the
ground that the officials of the House were covered by
the House's
order, but the Government promised to support his claim to
his seat during
the next session, and thus prevented the campaign
against them on
which we had resolved. I had solely on my own
responsibility
organised a great band of people pledged to refrain
from the use of
all excisable articles after a certain date, and to
withdraw all
their moneys in the Savings Bank, thus seriously
crippling the
financial resources of the Government. The response from
the workers to
my appeal to "Stop the supplies" was great and
touching. One
man wrote that as he never drank nor smoked he would
leave off tea;
others that though tobacco was their one luxury, they
would forego
it; and so on. Somewhat reluctantly, I asked the people
to lay aside
this formidable weapon, as "we have no right to embarrass
the Government
financially save when they refuse to do the first duty
of a Government
to maintain law. They have now promised to do justice,
and we must
wait." Meanwhile the injuries inflicted on Mr. Bradlaugh,
rupturing the
sheaths of some of the muscles of the arm, laid him
prostrate, and
various small fights went on during the temporary truce
in the great
struggle. I turned up in the House two or three times,
haled thither,
though not in person, by the people who kept Mr.
Bradlaugh out,
and a speech of mine became the subject of a question
by Mr. Ritchie,
while Sir Henry Tyler waged war on the science
classes.
Another joy was added to life by the use of my name--which
by all these
struggles had gained a marketable value--as author of
pamphlets I had
never seen, and this forgery of my name by
unscrupulous
people in the colonies caused me a good deal of
annoyance. In
the strengthening of the constitutional agitation in the
country, the
holding of an International Congress of Freethinkers in
London, the
studying and teaching of science, the delivering of
courses of
scientific lectures in the Hall of Science, a sharp
correspondence
with the Bishop of Manchester, who had libelled
Secularists,
and which led to a fiery pamphlet, "God's Views on
Marriage,"
as retort--in all these matters the autumn months sped
rapidly away.
One incident of that autumn I record with regret. I was
misled by very
partial knowledge of the nature of the experiments
performed, and
by my fear that if scientific men were forbidden to
experiment on
animals with drugs they would perforce experiment with
them on the
poor in hospitals, to write two articles, republished as a
pamphlet,
against Sir Eardley Wilmot's Bill for the "Total Suppression
of
Vivisection." I limited my approval to highly skilled men engaged
in original
investigations, and took the representations made of the
character of
the experiments without sufficient care to verify them.
Hence the
publication of the one thing I ever wrote for which I feel
deep regret and
shame, as against the whole trend and efforts of my
life. I am
thankful to say that Dr. Anna Kingsford answered my
articles, and I
readily inserted her replies in the paper in which
mine had
appeared--our _National Reformer_--and she touched that
question of the
moral sense to which my nature at once responded.
Ultimately, I
looked carefully into the subject, found that
vivisection
abroad was very different from vivisection in England, saw
that it was in
very truth the fiendishly cruel thing that its
opponents
alleged, and destroyed my partial defence of even its less
brutal form.
1882 saw no
cessation of the struggles in which Mr. Bradlaugh and
those who stood
by him were involved. On February 7th he was heard for
the third time
at the Bar of the House of Commons, and closed his
speech with an
offer that, accepted, would have closed the contest. "I
am ready to
stand aside, say for four or five weeks, without coming to
that table, if
the House within that time, or within such time as its
great needs
might demand, would discuss whether an Affirmation Bill
should pass or
not. I want to obey the law, and I tell you how I might
meet the House
still further, if the House will pardon me for seeming
to advise it.
Hon. members have said that would be a Bradlaugh Relief
Bill. Bradlaugh
is more proud than you are. Let the Bill pass without
applying to
elections that have taken place previously, and I will
undertake not
to claim my seat, and when the Bill has passed I will
apply for the
Chiltern Hundreds. I have no fear. If I am not fit for
my
constituents, they shall dismiss me, but you never shall. The grave
alone shall
make me yield." But the House would do nothing. He had
asked for
100,000 signatures in favour of his constitutional right,
and on February
8th, 9th, and 10th 1,008 petitions, bearing 241,970
signatures,
were presented; the House treated them with contemptuous
indifference.
The House refused to declare his seat vacant, and also
refused to
allow him to fill it, thus half-disfranchising Northampton,
while closing
every avenue to legal redress. Mr. Labouchere--who did
all a loyal
colleague could do to assist his brother member--brought
in an
Affirmation Bill; it was blocked. Mr. Gladstone, appealed to
support the law
declared by his own Attorney-General, refused to do
anything. An
_impasse_ was created, and all the enemies of freedom
rejoiced. Out
of this position of what the _Globe_ called "quiet
omnipotence"
the House was shaken by an audacious defiance, for on
February 21st
the member it was trying to hold at arm's length took
the oath in its
startled face, went to his seat, and--waited events.
The House then
expelled him--and, indeed, it could scarcely do
anything else
after such defiance--and Mr. Labouchere moved for a new
writ, declaring
that Northampton was ready, its "candidate was Charles
Bradlaugh,
expelled this House." Northampton, ever steadfast, returned
him for the
third time--the vote in his favour showing an increase of
359 over the
second bye-election--and the triumph was received in all
the great towns
of England with wild enthusiasm. By the small majority
of fifteen in a
House of 599 members--and this due to the vacillation
of the
Government--he was again refused the right to take his seat.
But now the
whole Liberal Press took up his quarrel; the oath question
became a test
question for every candidate for Parliament, and the
Government was
warned that it was alienating its best friends. The
_Pall Mall
Gazette_ voiced the general feeling. "What is the evidence
that an Oaths
Bill would injure the Government in the country? Of one
thing we may be
sure, that if they shirk the Bill they will do no good
to themselves
at the elections. Nobody doubts that it will be made a
test question,
and any Liberal who declines to vote for such a Bill
will certainly
lose the support of the Northampton sort of Radicalism
in every
constituency. The Liberal Press throughout the country is
absolutely
unanimous. The political Non-conformists are for it. The
local clubs are
for it. All that is wanted is that the Government
should pick up
a little more moral courage, and recognise that even in
practice
honesty is the best policy." The Government did not think so,
and they paid
the penalty, for one of the causes that led to their
defeat at the
polls was the disgust felt at their vacillation and
cowardice in
regard to the rights of constituencies. Not untruly did I
write, in May,
1882, that Charles Bradlaugh was a man "who by the
infliction of a
great wrong had become the incarnation of a great
principle";
for the agitation in the country grew and grew, until,
returned again
to Parliament at the General Election, he took the oath
and his seat,
brought in and carried an Oaths Bill, not only giving
Members of
Parliament the right to affirm, but making Freethinkers
competent as
jurymen, and relieving witnesses from the insult hitherto
put upon those
who objected to swearing; he thus ended an
unprecedented
struggle by a complete victory, weaving his name for
ever into the
constitutional history of his country.
In the House of
Lords, Lord Redesdale brought in a Bill disqualifying
Atheists from
sitting in Parliament, but in face of the feeling
aroused in the
country, the Lords, with many pathetic expressions of
regret,
declined to pass it. But, meanwhile, Sir Henry Tyler in the
Commons was
calling out for prosecutions for blasphemy to be brought
against Mr.
Bradlaugh and his friends, while he carried on his crusade
against Mr.
Bradlaugh's daughters, Dr. Aveling, and myself, as science
teachers. I
summed up the position in the spring of 1882 in the
following
somewhat strong language: "This short-lived 'Parliamentary
Declaration
Bill' is but one of the many clouds which presage a storm
of prosecution.
The reiterated attempts in the House of Commons to
force the
Government into prosecuting heretics for blasphemy; the
petty and
vicious attacks on the science classes at the Hall; the
odious and
wicked efforts of Mr. Newdegate to drive Mr. Bradlaugh into
the Bankruptcy
Court; all these are but signs that the heterogeneous
army of pious
and bigoted Christians are gathering together their
forces for a
furious attack on those who have silenced them in
argument, but
whom they hope to conquer by main force, by sheer
brutality. Let
them come. Free-thinkers were never so strong, never so
united, never
so well organised as they are to-day. Strong in the
goodness of our
cause, in our faith in the ultimate triumph of Truth,
in our
willingness to give up all save fidelity to the sacred cause of
liberty of
human thought and human speech, we await gravely and
fearlessly the
successors of the men who burned Bruno, who imprisoned
Galileo, who
tortured Vanini--the men who have in their hands the
blood-red cross
of Jesus of Nazareth, and in their hearts the love of
God and the
hate of man."
CHAPTER XII.
STILL FIGHTING.
All this hot
fighting on the religious field did not render me blind
to the misery
of the Irish land so dear to my heart, writhing in the
cruel grip of
Mr. Forster's Coercion Act. An article "Coercion in
Ireland and its
Results," exposing the wrongs done under the Act, was
reprinted as a
pamphlet and had a wide circulation.
I pleaded
against eviction--7,020 persons had been evicted during the
quarter ending
in March--for the trial of those imprisoned on
suspicion, for
indemnity for those who before the Land Act had striven
against wrongs
the Land Act had been carried to prevent, and I urged
that "no
chance is given for the healing measures to cure the sore of
Irish
disaffection until not only are the prisoners in Ireland set at
liberty, but
until the brave, unfortunate Michael Davitt stands once
more a free man
on Irish soil." At last the Government reconsidered
its policy and
resolved on juster dealings; it sent Lord Frederick
Cavendish over
to Ireland, carrying with him the release of the
"suspects,"
and scarcely had he landed ere the knife of assassination
struck him--a
foul and cowardly murder of an innocent messenger of
peace. I was at
Blackburn, to lecture on "The Irish Question," and as
I was walking
towards the platform, my heart full of joy for the
dawning hope of
peace, a telegram announcing the assassination was
placed in my
hands. Never shall I forget the shock, the incredulous
horror, the
wave of despair. "It is not only two men they have
killed," I
wrote, a day or two later; "they have stabbed the new-born
hope of
friendship between two countries, and have reopened the gulf
of hatred that
was just beginning to close." Alas! the crime succeeded
in its object,
and hurried the Government into new wrong. Hastily a
new Coercion
Bill was brought in, and rushed through its stages in
Parliament,
and, facing the storm of public excitement, I pleaded
still,
"Force no remedy," despite the hardship of the task. "There is
excessive
difficulty in dealing with the Irish difficulty at the
present moment.
Tories are howling for revenge on a whole nation as
answer to the
crime committed by a few; Whigs are swelling the outcry;
many Radicals
are swept away by the current, and feeling that
'something must
be done,' they endorse the Government action,
forgetting to
ask whether the 'something' proposed is the wisest
thing. A few
stand firm, but they are very few--too few to prevent the
new Coercion
Bill from passing into law. But few though we be who lift
up the voice of
protest against the wrong which we are powerless to
prevent, we may
yet do much to make the new Act of brief duration, by
so rousing
public opinion as to bring about its early repeal. When the
measure is
understood by the public half the battle will be won; it is
accepted at the
moment from faith in the Government; it will be
rejected when
its true character is grasped. The murders which have
given birth to
this repressive measure came with a shock upon the
country, which
was the more terrible from the sudden change from
gladness and
hope to darkness and despair. The new policy was welcomed
so joyfully;
the messenger of the new policy was slain ere yet the pen
was dry which
had signed the orders of mercy and of liberty. Small
wonder that cry
of horror should be followed by measures of vengeance;
but the murders
were the work of a few criminals, while the measure of
vengeance
strikes the whole of the Irish people. I plead against the
panic which
confounds political agitation and political redressal of
wrong with
crime and its punishment; the Government measure gags every
mouth in
Ireland, and puts, as we shall see, all political effort at
the mercy of
the Lord-Lieutenant, the magistracy, and the police." I
then sketched
the misery of the peasants in the grip of absentee
landlords, the
turning out on the roadside to die of the mother with
new-born babe
at her breast, the loss of "all thought of the sanctity
of human life
when the lives of the dearest are reckoned as less worth
than the
shillings of overdue rack-rental." I analysed the new Act:
"When this
Act passes, trial by jury, right of public meeting, liberty
of press,
sanctity of house, will one and all be held at the will of
the
Lord-Lieutenant, the irresponsible autocrat of Ireland, while
liberty of
person will lie at the mercy of every constable. Such is
England's way
of governing Ireland in the year 1882. And this is
supposed to be
a Bill for the 'repression of crime.'" Bluntly, I put
the bald truth:
"The plain fact is that the murderers have succeeded.
They saw in the
new policy the reconciliation of England and Ireland;
they knew that
friendship would follow justice, and that the two
countries, for
the first time in history, would clasp hands. To
prevent this
they dug a new gulf, which they hoped the English nation
would not span;
they sent a river of blood across the road of
friendship, and
they flung two corpses to bar the newly-opened gate of
reconciliation
and peace. They have succeeded."
Into this whirl
of political and social strife came the first whisper
to me of the
Theosophical Society, in the shape of a statement of its
principles,
which conveyed, I remarked, "no very definite idea of the
requirements
for membership, beyond a dreamy, emotional, scholarly
interest in the
religio-philosophic fancies of the past." Also a
report of an
address by Colonel Olcott, which led me to suppose that
the society
held to "some strange theory of 'apparitions' of the dead,
and to some
existence outside the physical and apart from it." These
came to me from
some Hindű Freethinkers, who asked my opinion as to
Secularists
joining the Theosophical Society, and Theosophists being
admitted to the
National Secular Society. I replied, judging from
these reports,
that "while Secularists would have no right to refuse
to enrol
Theosophists, if they desired it, among their members, there
is a radical difference
between the mysticism of Theosophy and the
scientific
materialism of Secularism. The exclusive devotion to this
world implied
in the profession of Secularism leaves no room for
other-worldism;
and consistent members of our body cannot join a
society which
professes belief therein."[27]
H.P. Blavatsky
penned a brief article in the _Theosophist_ for
August, 1882,
in which she commented on my paragraph, remarking, in
her generous
way, that it must have been written "while labouring
under entirely
misconceived notions about the real nature of our
society. For
one so highly intellectual and keen as that renowned
writer to
dogmatise and issue autocratic ukases, after she has herself
suffered so
cruelly and undeservedly at the hands of blind bigotry and
social
prejudice in her lifelong struggle for _freedom of thought_
seems, to say
the least, absurdly inconsistent." After quoting my
paragraph she
went on: "Until proofs to the contrary, we prefer to
believe that
the above lines were dictated to Mrs. Besant by some
crafty
misrepresentations from Madras, inspired by a mean personal
revenge rather
than a desire to remain consistent with the principles
of 'the
scientific materialism of Secularism.' We beg to assure the
Radical editors
of the _National Reformer_ that they were both very
strangely
misled by false reports about the Radical editors of the
_Theosophist_.
The term 'supernaturalists' can no more apply to the
latter than to
Mrs. A. Besant and Mr. C. Bradlaugh."
H.P. Blavatsky,
when she commented, as she occasionally did, on the
struggles going
on in England, took of them a singularly large-hearted
and generous
view. She referred with much admiration to Mr.
Bradlaugh's
work and to his Parliamentary struggle, and spoke warmly
of the services
he had rendered to liberty. Again, in pointing out
that
spiritualistic trance orations by no means transcended speeches
that made no
such claim, I find her first mention of myself: "Another
lady orator, of
deservedly great fame, both for eloquence and
learning--the
good Mrs. Annie Besant--without believing in controlling
spirits, or for
that matter in her own spirit, yet speaks and writes
such sensible
and wise things, that we might almost say that one of
her speeches or
chapters contains more matter to benefit humanity than
would equip a
modern trance-speaker for an entire oratorical
career."[28]
I have sometimes wondered of late years whether, had I
met her then or
seen any of her writings, I should have become her
pupil. I fear
not; I was still too much dazzled by the triumphs of
Western
Science, too self-assertive, too fond of combat, too much at
the mercy of my
own emotions, too sensitive to praise and blame. I
needed to sound
yet more deeply the depths of human misery, to hear
yet more loudly
the moaning of "the great Orphan," Humanity, to feel
yet more keenly
the lack of wider knowledge and of clearer light if I
were to give
effective help to man, ere I could bow my pride to crave
admittance as
pupil to the School of Occultism, ere I could put aside
my prejudices
and study the Science of the Soul.
The
long-continued attempts of Sir Henry Tyler and his friends to
stimulate
persecutions for blasphemy at length took practical shape,
and in July,
1882, Mr. Foote, the editor, Mr. Ramsey, the publisher,
and Mr.
Whittle, the printer of the _Freethinker_, were summoned for
blasphemy by
Sir Henry Tyler himself. An attempt was made to involve
Mr. Bradlaugh
in the proceedings, and the solicitors promised to drop
the case
against the editor and printer if Mr. Bradlaugh would himself
sell them some
copies of the paper. But however ready Mr. Bradlaugh
had always
shown himself to shield his subordinates by taking his sins
on his own
shoulders, he saw no reason why he should assume
responsibility
for a paper over which he had no control, and which
was, he
thought, by its caricatures, lowering the tone of Freethought
advocacy and
giving an unnecessary handle to its foes. He therefore
answered that
he would sell the solicitors any works published by
himself or with
his authority, and sent them a catalogue of the whole
of such works.
The object of this effort of Sir Henry Tyler's was
obvious enough,
and Mr. Bradlaugh commented: "The above letters make
it pretty clear
that Sir Henry W. Tyler having failed in his endeavour
to get the
science classes stopped at the Hall of Science, having also
failed in his
attempt to induce Sir W. Vernon Harcourt to prosecute
myself and Mrs.
Besant as editors and publishers of this journal,
desires to make
me personally and criminally responsible for the
contents of a
journal I neither edit nor publish, over which I have
not a shadow of
control, and in which I have not the smallest
interest. Why
does Sir H.W. Tyler so ardently desire to prosecute, me
for blasphemy?
Is it because two convictions will under the 9th and
10th Will. III.
cap. 32, render me 'for ever' incapable of sitting in
Parliament?"
The _Whitehall Review_ frankly put this forward as an
object to be
gained, and Mr. Bradlaugh was summoned to the Mansion
House on a
charge of publishing blasphemous libels in the
_Freethinker_;
meanwhile Sir Henry Tyler put a notice on the Order
Book to deprive
"the daughters of Mr. Charles Bradlaugh" of the grant
they had earned
as science teachers, and got an order which proved to
be invalid, but
which was acted on, to inspect Mr. Bradlaugh's and my
own private
banking accounts, I being no party to the case. Looking
back, I marvel
at the incredible meannesses to which Sir Henry Tyler
and others
stooped in defence of "religion"--Heaven save the mark! Let
me add that his
motion in the House of Commons was a complete failure,
and it was
emphasised by the publication at the same time of the
successful
work, both as teachers and as students, of the "daughters
of Mr. Charles
Bradlaugh," and of my being the only student in all
England who had
succeeded in taking honours in botany.
I must pause a
moment to chronicle, in September, 1882, the death of
Dr. Pusey, whom
I had sought in the whirl of my early religious
struggles. I
wrote an article on him in the _National Reformer_, and
ended by laying
a tribute on his grave: "A strong man and a good man.
Utterly out of
harmony with the spirit of his own time, looking with
sternly-rebuking
eyes on all the eager research, the joyous love of
nature, the
earnest inquiry into a world doomed to be burnt up at the
coming of its
Judge. An ascetic, pure in life, stern in faith, harsh
to unbelievers
because sincere in his own cruel creed, generous and
tender to all
who accepted his doctrines and submitted to his Church.
He never
stooped to slander those with whom he disagreed. His hatred
of heresy led
him not to blacken the character of heretics, nor to
descend to the
vulgar abuse used by pettier priests. And therefore I,
who honour
courage and sincerity wherever I find them; I, who do
homage to
steadfastness wherever I find it; I, Atheist, lay my small
tribute of
respect on the bier of this noblest of the Anglo-Catholics,
Edward Bouverie
Pusey."
As a practical
answer to the numberless attacks made on us, and as a
result of the
enormous increase of circulation given to our
theological and
political writings by these harassing persecutions, we
moved our
publishing business to 63, Fleet Street, at the end of
September,
1882, a shop facing that at which Richard Carlile had
carried on his
publishing business for a great time, and so seemed
still redolent
with memories of his gallant struggles. Two of the
first things
sold here were a pamphlet of mine, a strong protest
against our
shameful Egyptian policy, and a critical volume on
"Genesis"
which Mr. Bradlaugh found time to write in the intervals of
his busy life.
Here I worked daily, save when out of London, until Mr.
Bradlaugh's
death in 1891, assisted in the conduct of the business by
Mr. Bradlaugh's
elder daughter--a woman of strong character with many
noble
qualities, who died rather suddenly in December, 1888, and in
the work on the
_National Reformer_, first by Dr. Aveling, and then by
Mr. John
Robertson, its present editor. Here, too, from 1884 onwards,
worked with me
Thornton Smith, one of Mr. Bradlaugh's most devoted
disciples, who
became one of the leading speakers of the National
Secular
Society; like her well-loved chief, she was ever a good friend
and a good
fighter, and to me the most loyal and loving of colleagues,
one of the
few--the very few--Freethinkers who were large-hearted and
generous enough
not to turn against me when I became a Theosophist. A
second of
these--alas! I could count them on my fingers--was the John
Robertson above
mentioned, a man of rare ability and wide culture,
somewhat too
scholarly for popular propagandism of the most generally
effective
order, but a man who is a strength to any movement, always
on the side of
noble living and high thinking, loyal-natured as the
true Scot
should be, incapable of meanness or treachery, and the most
genial and
generous of friends.
Among the new
literary ventures that followed on our taking the large
publishing
premises in Fleet Street was a sixpenny magazine, edited by
myself, and
entitled _Our Corner_; its first number was dated January,
1883, and for
six years it appeared regularly, and served me as a
useful
mouthpiece in my Socialist and Labour propagandist work. Among
its
contributors were Moncure D. Conway, Professor Ludwig Büchner,
Yves Guyot,
Professor Ernst Haeckel, G. Bernard Shaw, Constance Naden,
Dr. Aveling,
J.H. Levy, J.L. Joynes, Mrs. Edgren, John Robertson,
and many another,
Charles Bradlaugh and I writing regularly each
month.
1883 broke
stormily, fights on every hand, and a huge constitutional
agitation going
on in the country, which forced the Government into
bringing in an
Affirmation Bill; resolutions from Liberal Associations
all over the
land; preparations to oppose the re-election of disloyal
members; no
less than a thousand delegates sent up to London by clubs,
Trade Unions,
associations of every sort; a meeting that packed
Trafalgar
Square; an uneasy crowd in Westminster Hall; a request from
Inspector
Denning that Mr. Bradlaugh would go out to them--they feared
for his safety
inside; a word from him, "The Government have pledged
themselves to
bring in an Affirmation Bill at once;" roar after roar
of cheering; a
veritable people's victory on that 15th of February,
1883. It was
the answer of the country to the appeal for justice, the
rebuke of the
electors to the House that had defied them.
Scarcely was
this over when a second prosecution for blasphemy against
Messrs. Foote,
Ramsey, and Kemp began, and was hurried on in the
Central
Criminal Court, before Mr. Justice North, a bigot of the
sternest type.
The trial ended in a disagreement of the jury, Mr.
Foote defending
himself in a splendid speech. The judge acted very
harshly
throughout, interrupted Mr. Foote continuously, and even
refused bail to
the defendants during the interval between the first
and second
trial; they were, therefore, confined in Newgate from
Thursday to
Monday, and we were only allowed to see them through iron
bars and
lattice, as they exercised in the prison yard between 8:30
and 9:30 a.m.
Brought up to trial again on Monday, they were
convicted, and
Mr. Foote was sentenced to a year's imprisonment, Mr.
Ramsey to nine
months, and Mr. Kemp to three months. Mr. Foote
especially
behaved with great dignity and courage in a most difficult
position, and
heard his cruel sentence without wincing, and with the
calm words,
"My Lord, I thank you; it is worthy your creed." A few of
us at once
stepped in, to preserve to Mr. Ramsey his shop, and to Mr.
Foote his
literary property; Dr. Aveling undertook the editing of the
_Freethinker_
and of Mr. Foote's magazine _Progress_; the immediate
necessities of
their families were seen to; Mr. and Mrs. Forder took
charge of the
shop, and within a few days all was in working order.
Disapproving as
many of us did of the policy of the paper, there was
no time to
think of that when a blasphemy prosecution had proved
successful, and
we all closed up in the support of men imprisoned for
conscience'
sake. I commenced a series of articles on "The Christian
Creed; what it
is blasphemy to deny," showing what Christians must
believe under
peril of prosecution. Everywhere a tremendous impulse
was given to
the Freethought movement, as men awakened to the
knowledge that
blasphemy laws were not obsolete.
From over the
sea came a word of sympathy from the pen of H.P.
Blavatsky in
the _Theosophist_. "We prefer Mr. Foote's actual position
to that of his
severe judge. Aye, and were we in his guilty skin, we
would feel more
proud, even in the poor editor's present position,
than we would
under the wig of Mr. Justice North."
In April, 1883,
the long legal struggles of Mr. Bradlaugh against Mr.
Newdegate and
his common informer, that had lasted from July 2, 1880,
till April 9,
1883, ended in his complete victory by the judgment of
the House of
Lords in his favour. "Court after Court decided against
me," he
wrote; "and Whig and Tory journals alike mocked at me for my
persistent
resistance. Even some good friends thought that my fight
was hopeless,
and that the bigots held me fast in their toils. I have,
however, at
last shaken myself free of Mr. Newdegate and his common
informer. The judgment
of the House of Lords in my favour is final and
conclusive, and
the boasts of the Tories that I should be made
bankrupt for
the penalties, have now, for ever, come to naught. Yet
but for the
many poor folk who have stood by me with their help and
sympathy, I
should have long since been ruined. The days and weeks
spent in the
Law Courts, the harassing work connected with each stage
of litigation,
the watching daily when each hearing was imminent, the
absolute
hindrance of all provincial lecturing--it is hardly possible
for any one to
judge the terrible mental and pecuniary strain of all
this
long-drawn-out struggle." Aye! it killed him at last, twenty
years before
his time, sapping his splendid vitality, undermining his
iron
constitution.
The blasphemy
trial of Mr. Bradlaugh, Mr. Foote, and Mr. Ramsey now
came on, but
this time in the Queen's Bench, before the Lord Chief
Justice
Coleridge. I had the honour of sitting between Mr. Bradlaugh
and Mr. Foote,
charged with the duty of having ready for the former
all his
references, and with a duplicate brief to mark off point after
point as he
dealt with it. Messrs. Foote and Ramsey were brought up in
custody, but
were brave and bright with courage unbroken. Mr.
Bradlaugh
applied to have his case taken separately, as he denied
responsibility
for the paper, and the judge granted the application;
it was clearly
proved that he and I--the "Freethought Publishing
Company"--had
never had anything to do with the production of the
paper; that until
November, 1881, we published it, and then refused to
publish it any
longer; that the reason for the refusal was the
addition of
comic Bible illustrations as a feature of the paper. I was
called as
witness and began with a difficulty; claiming to affirm, I
was asked by
the judge if the oath would not be binding on my
conscience; I
answered that any promise was binding on me whatever the
form, and after
some little argument the judge found a way out of the
insulting form
by asking whether the "invocation of the Deity added
anything to it
of a binding nature--added any sanction?" "None, my
Lord," was
the prompt reply, and I was allowed to affirm. Sir Hardinge
Giffard
subjected me to a very stringent cross-examination, doing his
best to
entangle me, but the perfect frankness of my answers broke all
his weapons of
finesse and inuendo.
Some of the
incidents of the trial were curious; Sir Hardinge
Giffard's
opening speech was very able and very unscrupulous. All
facts in Mr.
Bradlaugh's favour were distorted or hidden; anything
that could be
used against him was tricked out in most seductive
fashion. Among
the many monstrous perversions of the truth made by
this most pious
counsel, was the statement that changes of publisher,
and of registration
of the _Freethinker_ were made in consequence of a
question as to
prosecuting it put in the House of Commons. The change
of publisher
was admittedly made in November; the registration was
made for the
first time in November, and could not be changed, as
there was no
previous one. The House of Commons was not sitting in
November; the
question alluded to was asked in the following February.
This one
deliberate lie of the "defender of the faith" will do as well
as quoting a
score of others to show how wickedly and maliciously he
endeavoured to
secure an unjust verdict.
The speech
over, a number of witnesses were called. Sir Hardinge did
not call
witnesses who knew the facts, such as Mr. Norrish, the
shopman, or Mr.
Whittle, the printer. These he carefully avoided,
although he
subpoenaed both, because he did not want the real facts to
come out. But
he put in two solicitor's clerks, who had been hanging
about the
premises, and buying endless _National Reformers_ and
_Freethinkers_,
sheaves of them which were never used, but by which
Sir Hardinge
hoped to convey the impression of a mass of criminality.
He put in a
gentleman from the British Museum, who produced two large
books, presumed
to be _National Reformers_ and _Freethinkers_; what
they were
brought for nobody understood, the counsel for the Crown as
little as any
one, and the judge, surveying them over his spectacles,
treated them
with supreme contempt, as utterly irrelevant. Then a man
came to prove
that Mr. Bradlaugh was rated for Stonecutter Street, a
fact no one
disputed. Two policemen came to say they had seen him go
in. "You
saw many people go in, I suppose?" queried the Lord Chief
Justice. On the
whole the most miserably weak and obviously malicious
case that could
be brought into a court of law.
One witness,
however, must not be forgotten--Mr. Woodhams, bank
manager. When
he stated that Mr. Maloney, the junior counsel for the
Crown, had
inspected Mr. Bradlaugh's banking account, a murmur of
surprise and
indignation ran round the court. "Oh! Oh!" was heard from
the crowd of
barristers behind. The judge looked down incredulously,
and for a
moment the examination was stopped by the general movement.
Unless Sir
Hardinge Giffard is a splendid actor, he was not aware of
the infamous
proceeding, for he looked as startled as the rest of his
legal brethren.
Another queer
incident occurred, showing, perhaps more than aught
else, Mr.
Bradlaugh's swift perception of the situation and adaptation
to the
environment. He wanted to read the Mansion House deposition of
Norrish, to
show why he was not called; the judge objected, and
declined to
allow it to be read. A pause while you might count five;
then;
"Well, I think I may say the learned counsel did not call
Norrish because
..." and then the whole substance of the deposition
was given in
supposititious form. The judge looked down a minute, and
then went off
into silent laughter impossible to control at the adroit
change of means
and persistent gaining of end; barristers all round
broke into
ripples of laughter unrestrained; a broad smile pervaded
the jury box;
the only unmoved person was the defendant who proceeded
in his grave
statement as to what Norrish "might" have been asked. The
nature of the
defence was very clearly stated by Mr. Bradlaugh: "I
shall ask you
to find that this prosecution is one of the steps in a
vindictive
attempt to oppress and to crush a political opponent--that
it was a
struggle that commenced on my return to Parliament in 1880.
If the
prosecutor had gone into the box I should have shown you that
he was one of
the first then in the House to use the suggestion of
blasphemy
against me there. Since then I have never had any peace
until the
Monday of this week. Writs for penalties have been served,
and suits of
all kinds have been taken against me. On Monday last the
House of Lords
cleared me from the whole of one set, and, gentlemen, I
ask you to-day
to clear me from another. Three times I have been
re-elected by
my constituents, and what Sir Henry Tyler asks you to do
is to send me
to them branded with the dishonour of a conviction,
branded not
with the conviction for publishing heresy, but branded
with the
conviction, dishonourable to me, of having lied in this
matter. I have
no desire to have a prison's walls closed on me, but I
would sooner
ten times that, than that my constituents should think
that for one
moment I lied to escape the penalties. I am not indicted
for anything I
have ever written or caused to be written. As my Lord
at the very
first stage this morning pointed out, it is no question
with me, Are
the matters indicted blasphemous, or are they not
blasphemous?
Are they defensible, or are they not defensible? That is
not my duty
here. On this I make no comment. I have no duty here of
even discussing
the policy of the blasphemy laws, although I cannot
help thinking
that, if I were here making my defence against them, I
might say that
they were bad laws unfairly revived, doing more
mischief to
those who revive them than to those whom they are revived
against. But it
is not for anything I have said myself; it is not for
anything I have
written myself; it is not for anything I have
published
myself. It is an endeavour to make me technically liable for
a publication
with which I have nothing whatever to do, and I will ask
you to defeat
that here. Every time I have succeeded I have been met
with some new
thing. When I first fought it was hoped to defeat my
election. When
I was re-elected it was sought to make me bankrupt by
enormous
penalties, and when I escaped the suit for enormous penalties
they hope now
to destroy me by this. I have no question here about
defending my
heresy, not because I am not ready to defend it when it
is challenged
in the right way, and it there be anything in it that
the law can
challenge. I have never gone back from anything I have
ever said; I
have never gone back from anything I have ever written; I
have never gone
back from anything I have ever done; and I ask you not
to allow this
Sir Henry Whatley Tyler, who dares not come here to-day,
to use you as
the assassin uses the dagger, to stab a man from behind
whom he never
dares to face."
The summing up
by Lord Coleridge was perfect in eloquence, in thought,
in feeling. Nothing
more touching could be imagined than the conflict
between the
real religious feeling, abhorrent of heresy, and the
determination
to be just, despite all prejudice. The earnest effort
lest the
prejudice he felt as a Christian should weigh also in the
minds of the
jury, and should cause them to pervert justice. The
absolute
pleading to them to do what was right and not to admit
against the
unbeliever what they would not admit in ordinary cases.
Then the
protest against prosecution of opinions; the admission of the
difficulties in
the Hebrew Scriptures, and the pathetic fear lest by
persecution
"the sacred truths might be struck through the sides of
those who are
their enemies." For intellectual clearness and moral
elevation this
exquisite piece of eloquence, delivered in a voice of
silvery beauty,
would be hard to excel, and Lord Coleridge did this
piece of
service to the religion so dear to his heart, that he showed
that a
Christian judge could be just and righteous in dealing with a
foe of his
creed.
There was a
time of terrible strain waiting for the verdict, and when
at last it
came, "Not Guilty," a sharp clap of applause hailed it,
sternly and
rightly reproved by the judge. It was echoed by the
country, which
almost unanimously condemned the prosecution as an
iniquitous
attempt on the part of Mr. Bradlaugh's political enemies to
put a stop to
his political career. Thus the _Pall Mall Gazette_
wrote:--
"Whatever
may be the personal or political or religious aversion which
is excited by
Mr. Bradlaugh, it is impossible for even his bitterest
opponents to
deny the brilliance of the series of victories which he
has won in the
law courts. His acquittal in the blasphemy prosecution
of Saturday was
but the latest of a number of encounters in which he
has succeeded
in turning the tables upon his opponents in the most
decisive
fashion. The policy of baiting Mr. Bradlaugh which has been
persisted in so
long, savours so strongly of a petty and malignant
species of
persecution that it is well that those who indulge in it
should be made
to smart for their pains. The wise and weighty words
used by the
Lord Chief Justice in summing up should be taken seriously
to heart:
'Those persons are to be deprecated who would pervert the
law, even with
the best intentions, and "do evil that good may come,
whose
damnation" (says the apostle) "is just."' Without emulating the
severity of the
apostle, we may say that it is satisfactory that the
promoters of
all these prosecutions should be condemned in costs."
In the separate
trial of Messrs. Foote and Ramsey, Mr. Foote again
defended
himself in a speech of marked ability, and spoken of by the
judge as
"very striking." Lord Coleridge made a noble charge to the
jury, in which
he strongly condemned prosecutions of unpopular
opinions,
pointing out that no prosecution short of extermination
could be
effective, and caustically remarking on the very easy form of
virtue indulged
in by persecutors. "As a general rule," he said,
"persecution,
unless far more extreme than in England in the
nineteenth
century is possible, is certain to be in vain. It is also
true, and I
cannot help assenting to it, that it is a very easy form
of virtue. It
is a more difficult form of virtue, quietly and
unostentatiously
to obey what we believe to be God's will in our own
lives. It is
not very easy to do it; and it makes much less noise in
the world. It
is very easy to turn upon somebody else who differs from
us, and in the
guise of zeal of God's honour to attack somebody of a
difference of
opinion, whose life may be more pleasing to God and more
conducive to
His honour than our own. And when it is done by persons
whose own lives
are not free from reproach and who take that
particular form
of zeal for God which consists in putting the criminal
law in force
against others, that, no doubt, does more to create a
sympathy with
the defendant than with the prosecutor. And if it should
be done by
those who enjoy the wit of Voltaire, and who do not turn
away from the
sneers of Gibbon, and rather relish the irony of Hume,
our feelings do
not go with the prosecutors, and we are rather
disposed to
sympathise with the defendant. It is still worse if the
person who
takes such a course takes it, not from a kind of notion
that God wants
his assistance, and that he can give it less on his own
account than by
prosecuting others--but it is mixed up with anything
of partisan or
political feeling, then nothing can be more foreign to
what is
high-minded, or religious, or noble, in men's conduct; and
indeed, it
seems to me that any one who will do that, not for the
honour of God
but for the purpose of the ban, deserves the most
disdainful
disapprobation."
The jury
disagreed, and a _nolle prosequi_ was entered. The net
results of the
trials were a large addition to the membership of the
National
Secular Society, an increase of circulation of Freethought
literature, the
raising of Mr. Foote for a time to a position of great
influence and
popularity, and the placing of his name in history as a
brave martyr
for liberty of speech. The offence against good taste
will be
forgotten; the loyalty to conviction and to courage will
remain. History
does not ask if men who suffered for heresy ever
published a
rough word; it asks, Were they brave in their
steadfastness;
were they faithful to the truth they saw? It may be
well to place
on record Mr. Foote's punishment for blasphemy: he spent
twenty-two
hours out of the twenty-four alone in his cell; his only
seat was a stool
without a back; his employment was picking matting;
his bed was a
plank with a thin mattress. During the latter part of
his
imprisonment he was allowed some books.
CHAPTER XIII.
SOCIALISM.
The rest of
1883 passed in the usual way of hard work; the Affirmation
Bill was
rejected, and the agitation for Constitutional right grew
steadily; the
Liberal Press was won over, and Mr. Bradlaugh was
beginning to
earn golden opinions on all sides for his courage, his
tenacity, and
his self-control. A successful International Congress at
Amsterdam took
some of us over to the Northern Venice, where a most
successful
gathering was held. To me, personally, the year has a
special
interest, as being the one in which my attention was called,
though only
partially, to the Socialist movement. I had heard Louise
Michelle
lecture in the early spring; a brief controversy in the
_National
Reformer_ had interested me, but I had not yet concerned
myself with the
economic basis of Socialism; I had realised that the
land should be
public property, but had not gone into the deeper
economic causes
of poverty, though the question was pressing with
ever-increasing
force on heart and brain. Of Socialist teaching I knew
nothing, having
studied only the older English Economists in my
younger days.
In 1884 a more definite call to consider 299 these
teachings was
to come, and I may perhaps open the record of 1884 with
the words of
greeting spoken by me to our readers in the first number
of the
_Reformer_ for that year: "What tests 1884 may have for our
courage, what
strains on our endurance, what trials of our loyalty,
none can tell.
But this we know--that every test of courage
successfully
met, every strain of endurance steadily borne, every
trial of loyalty
nobly surmounted, leaves courage braver, endurance
stronger,
loyalty truer, than each was before. And therefore, for our
own and for the
world's sake, I will not wish you, friends, an 1884 in
which there
shall be no toil and no battling; but I will wish you,
each and all,
the hero's heart and the hero's patience, in the
struggle for
the world's raising that will endure through the coming
year."
On February 3rd
I came for the first time across a paper called
_Justice_, in
which Mr. Bradlaugh was attacked, and which gave an
account of a
meeting of the Democratic Federation--not yet the Social
Democratic--in
which a man had, apparently unrebuked, said that "all
means were
justifiable to attain" working-class ends. I protested
strongly against
the advocacy of criminal means, declaring that those
who urged the
use of such means were the worst foes of social
progress. A few
weeks later the _Echo_ repeated a speech of Mr.
Hyndman's in
which a "bloodier revolution" than that of France was
prophesied, and
the extinction of "book-learning" seemed coupled with
the success of
Socialism, and this again I commented on. But I had the
pleasure, a
week later, of reprinting from _Justice_ a sensible
paragraph,
condemning the advocacy of violence so long as free
agitation was
allowed.
The spring was
marked by two events on which I have not time or space
to dwell--the
resignation by Mr. Bradlaugh of his seat, on the
reiteration of
the resolution of exclusion, and his triumphant return
for the fourth
time by an increased majority, a vote of 4,032, a
higher poll
than that of the general election; and the release of Mr.
Foote, on
February 25th, from Holloway, whence he was escorted by a
procession a
quarter of a mile in length. On the 12th of March he and
his
fellow-prisoners received a magnificent reception and were
presented with
valuable testimonials at the Hall of Science.
Taking up again
the thread of Socialism, the great debate in St.
James's Hall,
London, between Mr. Bradlaugh and Mr. Hyndman on April
17th, roused me
to a serious study of the questions raised. Socialism
has in England
no more devoted, no more self-sacrificing advocate than
Henry Hyndman.
A man of wide and deep reading, wielding most ably a
singularly
fascinating pen, with talents that would have made him
wealthy in any
career he adopted, he has sacrificed himself without a
murmur to the
people's cause. He has borne obloquy from without,
suspicion and
unkindness from those he served, and surrounded by
temptations to
betray the people, he has never swerved from his
integrity. He
has said rash things, has been stirred to passionate
outbursts and
reckless phrases, but love to the people and sympathy
with suffering
lay at the root of his wildest words, and they count
but little as
against his faithful service. Personally, my debt to him
is of a mixed
character; he kept me from Socialism for some time by
his bitter and
very unjust antagonism to Mr. Bradlaugh; but it was the
debate at St.
James's Hall that, while I angrily resented his
injustice, made
me feel that there was something more in practical
Socialism than
I had imagined, especially when I read it over
afterwards,
away from the magic of Mr. Bradlaugh's commanding
eloquence and
personal magnetism. It was a sore pity that English
Socialists,
from the outset of their movement, treated Mr. Bradlaugh
so unfairly, so
that his friends were set against Socialists ere they
began to
examine their arguments. I must confess that my deep
attachment to
him led me into injustice to his Socialist foes in those
early days, and
often made me ascribe to them calculated malignity
instead of
hasty and prejudiced assertion. Added to this, their
uncurbed
violence in discussion, their constant interruptions during
the speeches of
opponents, their reckless inaccuracy in matters of
fact, were all
bars standing in the way of the thoughtful. When I came
to know them
better, I found that the bulk of their speakers were very
young men,
overworked and underpaid, who spent their scanty leisure in
efforts to
learn, to educate themselves, to train themselves, and I
learned to
pardon faults which grew out of the bitter sense of
injustice, and
which were due largely to the terrible pressure of our
system on
characters not yet strong enough--how few are strong
enough!--to
bear grinding injustice without loss of balance and of
impartiality.
None save those who have worked with them know how much
of real
nobility, of heroic self-sacrifice, of constant self-denial,
of brotherly affection,
there is among the Social Democrats.
At this time
also I met George Bernard Shaw, one of the most brilliant
of Socialist
writers and most provoking of men; a man with a perfect
genius for
"aggravating" the enthusiastically earnest, and with a
passion for
representing himself as a scoundrel. On my first
experience of
him on the platform at South Place Institute he
described
himself as a "loafer," and I gave an angry snarl at him in
the _Reformer_,
for a loafer was my detestation, and behold! I found
that he was
very poor, because he was a writer with principles and
preferred
starving his body to starving his conscience; that he gave
time and
earnest work to the spreading of Socialism, spending night
after night in
workmen's clubs; and that "a loafer" was only an
amiable way of
describing himself because he did not carry a hod. Of
course I had to
apologise for my sharp criticism as doing him a
serious
injustice, but privately felt somewhat injured at having been
entrapped into
such a blunder. Meanwhile I was more and more turning
aside from
politics and devoting myself to the social condition of the
people I find
myself, in June, protesting against Sir John Lubbock's
Bill which
fixed a twelve-hour day as the limit of a "young person's"
toil. "A
'day' of twelve hours is brutal," I wrote; "if the law fixes
twelve hours as
a 'fair day' that law will largely govern custom. I
declare that a
'legal day' should be eight hours on five days in the
week and not
more than five hours on the sixth. If the labour is of an
exhausting
character these hours are too long." On every side now the
Socialist
controversy grew, and I listened, read, and thought much,
but said
little. The inclusion of John Robertson in the staff of the
_Reformer_ brought
a highly intellectual Socialist into closer touch
with us, and
slowly I found that the case for Socialism was
intellectually
complete and ethically beautiful. The trend of my
thought was
shown by urging the feeding of Board School children,
breaking down
under the combination of education and starvation, and I
asked,
"Why should people be pauperised by a rate-supported meal, and
not pauperised
by, state-supported police, drainage, road-mending,
street-lighting,
&c? "Socialism in its splendid ideal appealed to my
heart, while
the economic soundness of its basis convinced my head.
All my life was
turned towards the progress of the people, the helping
of man, and it
leaped forward to meet the stronger hope, the lofty
ideal of social
brotherhood, the rendering possible to all of freer
life; so long
had I been striving thitherward, and here there opened
up a path to
the yearned-for goal! How strong were the feelings
surging in my
heart may be seen in a brief extract from an article
published second
week of January, 1885: "Christian charity? We know
its work. It
gives a hundred-weight of coal and five pounds of beef
once a year to
a family whose head could earn a hundred such doles if
Christian
justice allowed him fair wage for the work he performs. It
plunders the
workers of the wealth they make, and then flings back at
them a
thousandth part of their own product as 'charity.' It builds
hospitals for
the poor whom it has poisoned in filthy courts and
alleys, and
workhouses for the worn-out creatures from whom it has
wrung every
energy, every hope, every joy. Miss Cobbe summons us to
admire
Christian civilisation, and we see idlers flaunting in the
robes woven by
the toilers, a glittering tinselled super-structure
founded on the
tears, the strugglings, the grey, hopeless misery of
the poor."
This first
month of January, 1885, brought on me the first attack for
my Socialistic
tendencies, from the pen of Mr. W.P. Ball, who wrote
to the
_Reformer_ complaining of my paragraph, quoted above, in which
I had advocated
rate-supported meals for Board School children. A
brief
controversy thus arose, in which I supported my opinion, waiving
the question as
to my being "at heart a Socialist." In truth, I
dreaded to make
the plunge of publicly allying myself with the
advocates of
Socialism, because of the attitude of bitter hostility
they had
adopted towards Mr. Bradlaugh. On his strong, tenacious
nature,
nurtured on self-reliant individualism, the arguments of the
younger
generation made no impression. He could not change his methods
because a new
tendency was rising to the surface, and he did not see
how different
was the Socialism of our day to the Socialist dreams of
the past--noble
ideals of a future not immediately realisable in
truth, but to
be worked towards and rendered possible in the days to
come. Could I
take public action which might bring me into collision
with the
dearest of my friends, which might strain the strong and
tender tie so
long existing between us? My affection, my gratitude,
all warred
against the idea of working with those who wronged him so
bitterly. But
the cry of starving children was ever in my ears; the
sobs of women
poisoned in lead works, exhausted in nail works, driven
to prostitution
by starvation, made old and haggard by ceaseless work.
I saw their
misery was the result of an evil system, was inseparable
from private
ownership of the instruments of wealth production; that
while the
worker was himself but an instrument, selling his labour
under the law
of supply and demand, he must remain helpless in the
grip of the
employing classes, and that trade combinations could only
mean increased
warfare--necessary, indeed, for the time as weapons of
defence--but
meaning war, not brotherly co-operation of all for the
good of all. A
conflict which was stripped of all covering, a conflict
between a
personal tie and a call of duty could not last long, and
with a heavy
heart I made up my mind to profess Socialism openly and
work for it
with all my energy. Happily, Mr. Bradlaugh was as tolerant
as he was
strong, and our private friendship remained unbroken; but he
never again
felt the same confidence in my judgment as he felt before,
nor did he any
more consult me on his own policy, as he had done ever
since we first
clasped hands.
A series of
articles in _Our Corner_ on the "Redistribution of
Political
Power," on the "Evolution of Society," on "Modern
Socialism,"
made my position clear. "Over against those who laud the
present state
of Society, with its unjustly rich and its unjustly
poor, with its
palaces and its slums, its millionaires and its
paupers, be it
ours to proclaim that there is a higher ideal in life
than that of
being first in the race for wealth, most successful in
the scramble
for gold. Be it ours to declare steadfastly that health,
comfort,
leisure, culture, plenty for every individual are far more
desirable than
breathless struggle for existence, furious trampling
down of the
weak by the strong, huge fortunes accumulated out of the
toil of others,
to be handed down to those who had done nothing to
earn them. Be
it ours to maintain that the greatness of a nation
depends not on
the number of its great proprietors, on the wealth of
its great
capitalists, or the splendour of its great nobles, but on
the absence of
poverty among its people, on the education and
refinement of
its masses, on the universality of enjoyment in life....
Enough for each
of work, of leisure, of joy; too little for none, too
much for
none--such is the Social ideal. Better to strive after it
worthily and
fail, than to die without striving for it at all."
Then I
differentiated the methods of the Socialist and the Radical
Individualist,
pleading for union among those who formed the wings of
the army of
Labour, and urging union of all workers against the
idlers. For the
weakness of the people has ever been in their
divisions, in
the readiness of each section to turn its weapons
against other
sections instead of against the common foe. All
privileged
classes, when they are attacked, sink their differences and
present a
serried front to their assailants; the people alone fight
with each
other, while the battle between themselves and the
privileged is
raging.
I strove, as so
many others were striving, to sound in the ears of the
thoughtless and
the careless the cry of the sufferings of the poor,
endeavouring to
make articulate their misery. Thus in a description of
Edinburgh slums
came the following: "I saw in a 'house' which was made
by boarding up
part of a passage, which had no window, and in which it
was necessary
to burn an oil lamp all day, thus adding to the burden
of the rent, a
family of three--man, wife, and child--whose lot was
hardly 'of
their own making.' The man was tall and bronzed, but he was
dying of heart
disease; he could not do hard work, and he was too
clumsy for
light work; so he sat there, after two days' fruitless
search,
patiently nursing his miserable, scrofulous baby in his dim
and narrow den.
The cases of individual hopeless suffering are
heartbreaking.
In one room lay a dying child, dying of low fever
brought on by
want of food. 'It hae no faither,' sobbed the mother;
and for a
moment I did not catch the meaning that the father had left
to the mother
all the burden of a child unallowed by law. In another
lay the corpse
of a mother, with the children round her, and
hard-featured,
gentle-hearted women came in to take back to their
overcrowded
beds 'the mitherless bairns.' In yet another a woman,
shrunken and
yellow, crouched over a glimmer of fire; "I am dying of
cancer of the
womb," she said, with that pathetic resignation to the
inevitable so
common among the poor. I sat chatting for a few minutes.
'Come again,
deary,' she said as I rose to go; 'it's gey dull sitting
here the day
through.'"
The article in
which these, among other descriptions, occurred was
closed with the
following: "Passing out of the slums into the streets
of the town,
only a few steps separating the horror and the beauty, I
felt, with a
vividness more intense than ever, the fearful contrasts
between the
lots of men; and with more pressing urgency the question
seemed to ring
in my ears, 'Is there no remedy? Must there always be
rich and poor?'
Some say that it must be so; that the palace and the
slum will for
ever exist as the light and the shadow. Not so do I
believe. I
believe that the poverty is the result of ignorance and of
bad social
arrangements, and that therefore it may be eradicated by
knowledge and
by social change. I admit that for many of these adult
dwellers in the
slums there is no hope. Poor victims of a civilisation
that hides its
brutality beneath a veneer of culture and of grace, for
them
individually there is, alas! no salvation. But for their
children, yes!
Healthy surroundings, good food, mental and physical
training,
plenty of play, and carefully chosen work--these might save
the young and
prepare them for happy life. But they are being left to
grow up as
their parents were, and even when a few hours of school are
given them the
home half-neutralises what the education effects. The
scanty aid
given is generally begrudged, the education is to be but
elementary, as
little as possible is doled out. Yet these children
have each one
of them hopes and fears, possibilities of virtue and of
crime, a life
to be made or marred. We shower money on generals and on
nobles, we keep
high-born paupers living on the national charity, we
squander wealth
with both hands on army and navy, on churches and
palaces; but we
grudge every halfpenny that increases the education
rate and howl
down every proposal to build decent houses for the poor.
We cover our
heartlessness and indifference with fine phrases about
sapping the
independence of the poor and destroying their
self-respect.
With loathsome hypocrisy we repair a prince's palace for
him, and let
him live in it rent-free, without one word about the
degradation
involved in his thus living upon charity; while we refuse
to 'pauperise'
the toiler by erecting decent buildings in which he may
live--not
rent-free like the prince, but only paying a rent which
shall cover the
cost of erection and maintenance, instead of one which
gives a yearly
profit to a speculator. And so, year after year, the
misery grows,
and every great city has on its womb a cancer; sapping
its vitality,
poisoning its life-blood. Every great city is breeding
in its slums a
race which is reverting through the savage to the
brute--a brute
more dangerous in that degraded humanity has
possibilities
of evil in it beyond the reach of the mere wild beast.
If not for
Love's sake, then for fear; if not for justice or for human
pity, then for
sheer desire of self-preservation; I appeal to the wise
and to the
wealthy to set their hands to the cure of social evil, ere
stolidity gives
place to passion and dull patience vanishes before
fury, and they
"'Learn at
last, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare.'"
Because it was
less hotly antagonistic to the Radicals than the two
other Socialist
organisations, I joined the Fabian Society, and worked
hard with it as
a speaker and lecturer. Sidney Webb, G. Bernard Shaw,
Hubert and Mrs.
Bland, Graham Wallas--these were some of those who
gave time,
thought, incessant work to the popularising of Socialist
thought, the
spreading of sound economics, the effort to turn the
workers' energy
toward social rather than merely political reform. We
lectured at
workmen's clubs wherever we could gain a hearing, till we
leavened London
Radicalism with Socialist thought, and by treating the
Radical as the
unevolved Socialist rather than as the anti-Socialist,
we gradually
won him over to Socialist views. We circulated questions
to be put to
all candidates for parliamentary or other offices,
stirred up
interest in local elections, educated men and women into an
understanding
of the causes of their poverty, won recruits for the
army of
propagandists from the younger of the educated middle class.
That the London
working classes to-day are so largely Socialist is
greatly due to
the years of work done among them by members of the
Fabian Society,
as well to the splendid, if occasionally too militant,
energy of the
Social Democratic Federation, and to the devotion of
that noble and
generous genius, William Morris.
During this
same year (1885) a movement was set on foot in England to
draw attention
to the terrible sufferings of the Russian political
prisoners, and
it was decided at a meeting held in my house to form a
society of the
friends of Russia, which should seek to spread accurate
and careful
information about the present condition of Russia. At that
meeting were
present Charles Bradlaugh, "Stepniak," and many others,
E.R. Pease
acting as honorary secretary. It is noteworthy that some
of the most
prominent Russian exiles--such as Kropotkin--take the view
that the Tzar
himself is not allowed to know what occurs, and is very
largely the
victim of the bureaucracy that surrounds him.
Another matter,
that increased as the months went on, was the attempt
of the police
authorities to stop Socialist speaking in the open air.
Christians,
Freethinkers, Salvationists, agitators of all kinds were,
for the most
part, left alone, but there was a regular crusade against
the Socialists.
Liberal and Tory journals alike condemned the way in
which in Dod
Street, in September, the Socialists' meetings were
attacked. Quiet
persistence was shown by the promoters--members of the
Social
Democratic Federation--and they were well supported by other
Socialists and
by the Radical clubs. I volunteered to speak on October
4th (my first
Sunday in London after the summoning and imprisoning of
the speakers
had commenced), but the attitude of the people was so
determined on
the preceding Sunday that all interference was
withdrawn.
Herbert Burrows
stood for the School Board for the Tower Hamlets in
the November of
this year, and I find a paragraph in the _Reformer_ in
which I
heartily wished him success, especially as the first candidate
who had put
forward a demand for industrial education. In this, as in
so many
practical proposals, Socialists have led the way. He polled
4,232 votes,
despite the furious opposition of the clergy to him as a
Freethinker, of
the publicans to him as a teetotaler, of the
maintainers of
the present social system to him as a Socialist. And
his fight did
much to make possible my own success in 1888.
With this
autumn, too, began, in connection with the struggle for the
right of
meeting, the helping of the workmen to fair trial by
providing of
bail and legal defence. The first case that I bailed out
was that of
Lewis Lyons, sent to gaol for two months with hard labour
by Mr.
Saunders, of the Thames Police Court. Oh, the weary, sickening
waiting in the
court for "my prisoner," the sordid vice, the revolting
details of
human depravity to which my unwilling eyes and ears were
witnesses. I
carried Lyons off in triumph, and the Middlesex
magistrates
quashed the conviction, the evidence being pronounced by
them to be
"confusing, contradictory, and worthless." Yet but for the
chance of one
of us stepping forward to offer bail and to provide the
means for an
appeal (I acted on Mr. Bradlaugh's suggestion and advice,
for he acted as
counsellor to me all through the weary struggles that
lasted till
1888, putting his great legal knowledge at my disposal,
though he often
disapproved my action, thinking me Quixotic)--but for
this, Lewis
Lyons would have had to suffer his heavy sentence.
The general
election took place this autumn, and Northampton returned
Mr. Bradlaugh
for the fifth time, thus putting an end to the long
struggle, for
he took the oath and his seat in the following January,
and at once
gave notice of an Oaths Bill, to give to all who claimed
it, under all
circumstances, the right to affirm. He was returned with
the largest
vote ever polled for him--4,315--and he entered Parliament
with all the
prestige of his great struggle, and went to the front at
once, one of
the recognised forces in the House. The action of Mr.
Speaker Peel
promptly put an end to an attempted obstruction. Sir
Michael Hicks
Beach, Mr. Cecil Raikes, and Sir John Hennaway had
written to the
Speaker asking his interference, but the Speaker
declared that
he had no authority, no right to stand between a duly
elected member
and the duty of taking the oath prescribed by statute.
Thus ended the
constitutional struggle of six years, that left the
victor
well-nigh bankrupt in health and in purse, and sent him to a
comparatively
early grave. He lived long enough to justify his
election, to
prove his value to the House and to his country, but he
did not live
long enough to render to England all the services which
his long
training, his wide knowledge, his courage, and his honesty so
eminently
fitted him to yield.
[Illustration:
NORWICH BRANCH OF THE SOCIALIST LEAGUE.]
_Our Corner_
now served as a valuable aid in Socialist propaganda, and
its monthly
"Socialist Notes" became a record of Socialist progress in
all lands. We
were busy during the spring in organising a conference
for the
discussion of "The Present Commercial System, and the Better
Utilisation of
National Wealth for the Benefit of the Community," and
this was
successfully held at South Place Institute on June 9th, 10th,
11th, the three
days being given respectively, to the "Utilisation of
Land," the
"Utilisation of Capital," and the "Democratic Policy." On
the 9th Mr.
Bradlaugh spoke on the utilisation of waste lands, arguing
that in a
thickly populated country no one had the right to keep
cultivable land
uncultivated, and that where land was so kept there
should be
compulsory expropriation, the state taking the land and
letting it out
to cultivating tenants. Among the other speakers were
Edward Carpenter,
William Morris, Sidney Webb, John Robertson, William
Saunders, W.
Donnisthorpe, Edward Aveling, Charlotte Wilson, Mrs.
Fenwick Miller,
Hubert Bland, Dr. Pankhurst, and myself--men and women
of many views,
met to compare methods, and so help on the cause of
social
regeneration.
Bitter attacks
were made on me for my Socialist advocacy by some of
the Radicals in
the Freethought party, and looking back I find myself
condemned as a
"Saint Athanasius in petticoats," and as possessing a
"mind like
a milk-jug." This same courteous critic remarked, "I have
heard Mrs.
Besant described as being, like most women, at the mercy of
her last male
acquaintance for her views on economics." I was foolish
enough to break
a lance in self-defence with this assailant, not
having then
learned that self-defence was a waste of time that might
be better
employed in doing work for others. I certainly should not
now take the
trouble to write such a paragraph as the following: "The
moment a man
uses a woman's sex to discredit her arguments, the
thoughtful
reader knows that he is unable to answer the arguments
themselves. But
really these silly sneers at woman's ability have lost
their force,
and are best met with a laugh at the stupendous 'male
self-conceit'
of the writer. I may add that such shafts are specially
pointless
against myself. A woman who thought her way out of
Christianity
and Whiggism into Freethought and Radicalism absolutely
alone; who gave
up every old friend, male and female, rather than
resign the
beliefs she had struggled to in solitude; who, again, in
embracing
active Socialism, has run counter to the views of her
nearest 'male
friends'; such a woman may very likely go wrong, but I
think she may
venture, without conceit, to at least claim independence
of judgment. I
did not make the acquaintance of one of my present
Socialist
comrades, male or female, until I had embraced Socialism." A
foolish
paragraph, as are all self-defences, and a mischievous one, as
all retort
breeds fresh strife. But not yet had come the self-control
that estimates
the judgments of others at their true value, that recks
not of praise
and blame; not yet had I learned that evil should not be
met with evil,
wrath with wrath; not yet were the words of the Buddha
the law to
which I strove to render obedience: "Hatred ceases not by
hatred at any
time; hatred ceases by love." The year 1886 was a
terrible one
for labour, everywhere reductions of wages, everywhere
increase of the
numbers of the unemployed; turning over the pages of
_Our Corner_, I
see "Socialist Notes" filled, month after month, with
a monotonous
tale, "there is a reduction of wages at" such and such a
place; so many
"men have been discharged at -----, owing to the
slackness of
trade." Our hearts sank lower and lower as summer passed
into autumn,
and the coming winter threatened to add to starvation the
bitter pains of
cold. The agitation for the eight hours' day increased
in strength as
the unemployed grew more numerous week by week "We
can't stand
it," a sturdy, quiet fellow had said to me during the
preceding
winter; "flesh and blood can't stand it, and two months of
this bitter
cold, too." "We may as well starve idle as starve
working,"
had said another, with a fierce laugh. And a spirit of
sullen
discontent was spreading everywhere, discontent that was wholly
justified by
facts. But ah! how patient they were for the most part,
how sadly,
pathetically patient, this crucified Christ, Humanity;
wrongs that
would set my heart and my tongue afire would be accepted
as a matter of
course. O blind and mighty people, how my heart went
out to you;
trampled on, abused, derided, asking so little and needing
so much; so
pathetically grateful for the pettiest services; so loving
and so loyal to
those who offered you but their poor services and
helpless love.
Deeper and deeper into my innermost nature ate the
growing desire
to succour, to suffer for, to save. I had long given up
my social
reputation, I now gave up with ever-increasing surrender
ease, comfort,
time; the passion of pity grew stronger and stronger,
fed by each new
sacrifice, and each sacrifice led me nearer and nearer
to the
threshold of that gateway beyond which stretched a path of
renunciation I
had never dreamed of, which those might tread who were
ready wholly to
strip off self for Man's sake, who for Love's sake
would surrender
Love's return from those they served, and would go out
into the
darkness for themselves that they might, with their own souls
as fuel, feed the
Light of the World.
As the
suffering deepened with the darkening months, the meetings of
the unemployed
grew in number, and the murmurs of discontent became
louder. The
Social Democratic Federation carried on an outdoor
agitation, not
without making blunders, being composed of human
beings, but
with abundant courage and self-sacrifice. The policy of
breaking up
Socialist meetings went on while other meetings were
winked at, and
John Williams, a fiery speaker, but a man with a record
of pathetic
struggle and patient heroism, was imprisoned for two
months for
speaking in the open air, and so nearly starved in gaol
that he came
out with his health broken for life.
1887 dawned,
the year that was to close so stormily, and Socialists
everywhere were
busying themselves on behalf of the unemployed, urging
vestries to
provide remunerative work for those applying for relief,
assailing the
Local Government Board with practicable proposals for
utilising the
productive energies of the unemployed, circulating
suggestions to
municipalities and other local representative bodies,
urging remedial
measures. A four days' oral debate with Mr. Foote, and
a written
debate with Mr. Bradlaugh, occupied some of my energies, and
helped in the
process of education to which public opinion was being
subjected. Both
these debates were largely circulated as pamphlets. A
series of
afternoon debates between representative speakers was
organised at
South Place Institute, and Mr. Corrie Grant and myself
had a lively discussion,
I affirming "That the existence of classes
who live upon
unearned incomes is detrimental to the welfare of the
community, and
ought to be put an end to by legislation." Another
debate--in this
very quarrelsome spring of 1887--was a written one in
the _National
Reformer_ between the Rev. G.F. Handel Rowe and myself
on the
proposition, "Is Atheism logically tenable, and is there a
satisfactory
Atheistic System for the guidance of Human Conduct." And
so the months
went on, and the menace of misery grew louder and
louder, till in
September I find myself writing: "This one thing is
clear--Society
must deal with the unemployed, or the unemployed will
deal with
Society. Stormier and stormier becomes the social outlook,
and they at
least are not the worst enemies of Society who seek to
find some way
through the breakers by which the ship of the
Commonwealth
may pass into quiet waters."
Some amusement
turned up in the shape of a Charing Cross Parliament,
in which we
debated with much vigour the "burning questions" of the
day. We
organised a compact Socialist party, defeated a Liberal
Government,
took the reins of office, and--after a Queen's Speech in
which her
Majesty addressed her loyal Commons with a plainness of
speech never
before (or since) heard from the throne--we brought in
several Bills
of a decidedly heroic character. G. Bernard Shaw, as
President of
the Local Government Board, and I, as Home Secretary,
came in for a
good deal of criticism in connection with various
drastic
measures. An International Freethought Congress, held in
London,
entailed fairly heavy work, and the science classes were ever
with us.
Another written debate came with October, this time on the
"Teachings
of Christianity," making the fifth of these set discussions
held by me
during the year. This same month brought a change, painful
but just: I
resigned my much-prized position as co-editor of the
_National
Reformer,_ and the number for October 23rd bore Charles
Bradlaugh's
name alone. The change did not affect my work on the
paper, but I
became merely a subordinate, though remaining, of course,
joint
proprietor. The reason cannot be more accurately given than in
the paragraph
penned at the time: "For a considerable time past, and
lately in increasing
number, complaints have reached me from various
quarters of the
inconvenience and uncertainty that result from the
divided
editorial policy of this paper on the question of Socialism.
Some months ago
I proposed to avoid this difficulty by resigning my
share in the
editorship; but my colleague, with characteristic
liberality,
asked me to let the proposal stand over and see if matters
would not
adjust themselves. But the difficulty, instead of
disappearing,
has only become more pressing; and we both feel that our
readers have a
right to demand that it be solved.
"When I
became co-editor of this paper I was not a Socialist; and,
although I
regard Socialism as the necessary and logical outcome of
the Radicalism
which for so many years the _National Reformer_ has
taught, still,
as in avowing myself a Socialist I have taken a
distinct step,
the partial separation of my policy in labour questions
from that of my
colleague has been of my own making, and not of his,
and it is,
therefore, for me to go away. Over by far the greater part
of our sphere
of action we are still substantially agreed, and are
likely to
remain so. But since, as Socialism becomes more and more a
question of
practical politics, differences of theory tend to produce
differences in
conduct; and since a political paper must have a single
editorial
programme in practical politics, it would obviously be most
inconvenient
for me to retain my position as co-editor. I therefore
resume my
former position as contributor only, thus clearing the
_National
Reformer_ of all responsibility for the views I hold."
To this Mr.
Bradlaugh added the following:--
"I need
hardly add to this how very deeply I regret the necessity for
Mrs. Besant's
resignation of the joint editorship of this Journal, and
the real grief
I feel in accepting this break in a position in which
she has
rendered such enormous service to the Freethought and Radical
cause. As a
most valued contributor I trust the _National Reformer_
may never lose
the efficient aid of her brain and pen. For thirteen
years this
paper has been richer for good by the measure of her
never-ceasing
and most useful work. I agree with her that a journal
must have a
distinct editorial policy; and I think this distinctness
the more
necessary when, as in the present case, every contributor has
the greatest
freedom of expression. I recognise in the fullest degree
the spirit of
self-sacrifice in which the lines, to which I add these
words, have
been penned by Mrs. Besant. "CHARLES BRADLAUGH."
It was a
wrench, this breaking of a tie for which a heavy price had
been paid
thirteen years before, but it was just. Any one who makes a
change with
which pain is connected is bound, in honour and duty, to
take that pain
as much as possible on himself; he must not put his
sacrifice on
others, nor pay his own ransom with their coin. There
must be honour
kept in the life that reaches towards the Ideal, for
broken faith to
that is the only real infidelity.
And there was
another reason for the change that I dared not name to
him, for his
quick loyalty would then have made him stubbornly
determined
against change. I saw the swift turning of public opinion,
the gradual
approach to him among Liberals who had hitherto held
aloof, and I knew
that they looked upon me as a clog and a burden, and
that were I
less prominently with him his way would be the easier to
tread. So I
slipped more and more into the background, no longer went
with him to his
meetings; my use to him in public was over, for I had
become
hindrance instead of help. While he was outcast and hated I had
the pride of
standing at his side; when all the fair-weather friends
came buzzing
round him I served him best by self-effacement, and I
never loved him
better than when I stood aside. But I continued all
the literary
work unaltered, and no change of opinions touched his
kindness to me,
although when, a little later, I joined the
Theosophical
Society, he lost his trust in my reasoning powers and
judgment.
In this same
month of October the unemployed began walking in
procession
through the streets, and harshness on the part of the
police led to
some rioting. Sir Charles Warren thought it his duty to
dragoon London
meetings after the fashion of Continental prefects,
with the
inevitable result that an ill-feeling grew up between the
people and the
police.
At last we
formed a Socialist Defence Association, in order to help
poor workmen
brought up and sentenced on police evidence only, without
any chance
being given them of proper legal defence, and I organised a
band of
well-to-do men and women, who promised to obey a telegraphic
summons, night
or day, and to bail out any prisoner arrested for
exercising the
ancient right of walking in procession and speaking. To
take one
instance: Mr. Burleigh, the well-known war correspondent, and
Mr. Winks were
arrested and "run in" with Mr. J. Knight, a workman,
for seditious
language. I went down to the police-station to offer
bail for the
latter: Chief-Constable Howard accepted bail for Messrs.
Burleigh and
Winks, but refused it for Mr. Knight. The next day, at
the
police-court, the preposterous bail of Ł400 was demanded for Mr.
Knight and
supplied by my faithful band, and on the next hearing Mr.
Poland,
solicitor to the Treasury, withdrew the charge against him for
lack of
evidence!
Then came the
closing of Trafalgar Square, and the unexpected and
high-handed
order that cost some men their lives, many their liberty,
and hundreds
the most serious injuries. The Metropolitan Radical
Federation had
called a meeting for November 13th to protest against
the
imprisonment of Mr. O'Brien, and as Mr. Matthews, from his place
in the House,
had stated that there was no intention of interfering
with _bonâ
fide_ political meetings, the Radical clubs did not expect
police
interference. On November 9th Sir Charles Warren had issued an
order
forbidding all meetings in the Square, but the clubs trusted the
promise of the
Home Secretary. On Saturday evening only, November
12th, when all
arrangements were completed, did he issue a peremptory
order,
forbidding processions within a certain area. With this trap
suddenly sprung
upon them, the delegates from the clubs, the Fabian
Society, the
Social Democratic Federation, and the Socialist League,
met on that
same Saturday evening to see to any details that had been
possibly left
unsettled. It was finally decided to go to the Square as
arranged, and,
if challenged by the police, to protest formally
against the
illegal interference, then to break up the processions and
leave the
members to find their own way to the Square. It was also
decided to go
Sunday after Sunday to the Square, until the right of
public meetings
was vindicated.
The procession
I was in started from Clerkenwell Green, and walked
with its banner
in front, and the chosen speakers, including myself,
immediately
behind the flag. As we were moving slowly and quietly
along one of
the narrow streets debouching on Trafalgar Square,
wondering
whether we should be challenged, there was a sudden charge,
and without a
word the police were upon us with uplifted truncheons;
the banner was
struck down, and men and women were falling under a
hail of blows.
There was no attempt at resistance, the people were too
much astounded
at the unprepared attack. They scattered, leaving some
of their number
on the ground too much injured to move, and then made
their way in
twos and threes to the Square. It was garrisoned by
police, drawn
up in serried rows, that could only have been broken by
a deliberate
charge. Our orders were to attempt no violence, and we
attempted none.
Mr. Cunninghame Graham and Mr. John Burns, arm-in-arm,
tried to pass
through the police, and were savagely cut about the head
and arrested.
Then ensued a scene to be remembered; the horse police
charged in
squadrons at a hand-gallop, rolling men and women over like
ninepins, while
the foot police struck recklessly with their
truncheons,
cutting a road through the crowd that closed immediately
behind them. I
got on a waggonette and tried to persuade the driver to
pull his trap
across one of the roads, and to get others in line, so
as to break the
charges of the mounted police; but he was afraid, and
drove away to
the Embankment, so I jumped out and went back to the
Square. At last
a rattle of cavalry, and up came the Life Guards,
cleverly
handled but hurting none, trotting their horses gently and
shouldering the
crowd apart; and then the Scots Guards with bayonets
fixed marched
through and occupied the north of the Square. Then the
people
retreated as we passed round the word, "Go home, go home." The
soldiers were
ready to fire, the people unarmed; it would have been
but a massacre.
Slowly the Square emptied and all was still. All other
processions
were treated as ours had been, and the injuries inflicted
were terrible.
Peaceable, law-abiding workmen, who had never dreamed
of rioting,
were left with broken legs, broken arms, wounds of every
description.
One man, Linnell, died almost immediately, others from
the effect of
their injuries. The next day a regular court-martial in
Bow Street
Police Court, witnesses kept out by the police, men dazed
with their
wounds, decent workmen of unblemished character who had
never been
charged in a police-court before, sentenced to imprisonment
without chance
of defence. But a gallant band rallied to their rescue.
William T.
Stead, most chivalrous of journalists, opened a Defence
Fund, and money
rained in; my pledged bail came up by the dozen, and
we got the men
out on appeal. By sheer audacity I got into the
police-court,
addressed the magistrate, too astounded by my profound
courtesy and
calm assurance to remember that I had no right there, and
then produced
bail after bail of the most undeniable character and
respectability,
which no magistrate could refuse. Breathing-time
gained, a
barrister, Mr. W.M. Thompson, worked day after day with
hearty
devotion, and took up the legal defence. Fines we paid, and
here Mrs. Marx
Aveling did eager service. A pretty regiment I led out
of Millbank
Prison, after paying their fines; bruised, clothes torn,
hatless, we
must have looked a disreputable lot. We stopped and bought
hats, to throw
an air of respectability over our _cortčge_, and we
kept together
until I saw the men into train and omnibus, lest, with
the bitter
feelings now roused, conflict should again arise. We formed
the Law and
Liberty League to defend all unjustly assailed by the
police, and
thus rescued many a man from prison; and we gave poor
Linnell, killed
in Trafalgar Square, a public funeral. Sir Charles
Warren forbade
the passing of the hearse through any of the main
thoroughfares
west of Waterloo Bridge, so the processions waited there
for it. W.T.
Stead, R. Cunninghame Graham, Herbert Burrows, and
myself walked
on one side the coffin, William Morris, F. Smith, R.
Dowling, and J.
Seddon on the other; the Rev. Stewart D. Headlam, the
officiating
clergyman, walked in front; fifty stewards carrying long
wands guarded
the coffin. From Wellington Street to Bow Cemetery the
road was one
mass of human beings, who uncovered reverently as the
slain man went
by; at Aldgate the procession took three-quarters of an
hour to pass
one spot, and thus we bore Linnell to his grave, symbol
of a cruel
wrong, the vast orderly, silent crowd, bareheaded, making
mute protest
against the outrage wrought.
It is pleasant
to put on record here Mr. Bradlaugh's grave approval of
the heavy work
done in the police-courts, and the following paragraph
shows how
generously he could praise one not acting on his own lines:
"As I have
on most serious matters of principle recently differed very
widely from my
brave and loyal co-worker, and as the difference has
been
regrettably emphasised by her resignation of her editorial
functions on
this Journal, it is the more necessary that I should say
how thoroughly
I approve, and how grateful I am to her for, her
conduct in not
only obtaining bail and providing legal assistance for
the helpless
unfortunates in the hands of the police, but also for her
daily personal
attendance and wise conduct at the police-stations and
police-courts,
where she has done so much to abate harsh treatment on
the one hand
and rash folly on the other. While I should not have
marked out this
as fitting woman's work, especially in the recent very
inclement
weather, I desire to record my view that it has been bravely
done, well
done, and most usefully done, and I wish to mark this the
more
emphatically as my views and those of Mrs. Besant seem wider
apart than I
could have deemed possible on many of the points of
principle
underlying what is every day growing into a most serious
struggle."
Ever did I find Charles Bradlaugh thus tolerant of
difference of
opinion, generously eager to approve what to him seemed
right even in a
policy he disapproved.
The indignation
grew and grew; the police were silently boycotted, but
the people were
so persistent and so tactful that no excuse for
violence was
given, until the strain on the police force began to
tell, and the
Tory Government felt that London was being hopelessly
alienated; so
at last Sir Charles Warren fell, and a wiser hand was
put at the
helm.
CHAPTER XIV.
THROUGH STORM
TO PEACE.
Out of all this
turmoil and stress rose a Brotherhood that had in it
the promise of
a fairer day. Mr. Stead and I had become close
friends--he
Christian, I Atheist, burning with one common love for
man, one common
hatred against oppression. And so in _Our Corner_ for
February, 1888,
I wrote:--"Lately there has been dawning on the minds
of men far
apart in questions of theology, the idea of founding a new
Brotherhood, in
which service of Man should take the place erstwhile
given to
service of God--a brotherhood in which work should be worship
and love should
be baptism, in which none should be regarded as alien
who was willing
to work for human good. One day as I was walking
towards
Millbank Gaol with the Rev. S.D. Headlam, on the way to
liberate a
prisoner, I said to him: 'Mr. Headlam, we ought to have a
new Church,
which should include all who have the common ground of
faith in and
love for man.' And a little later I found that my friend
Mr. W.T. Stead,
editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette,_ had long been
brooding over a
similar thought, and wondering whether men 'might not
be persuaded to
be as earnest about making this world happy as they
are over saving
their souls.' The teaching of social duty, the
upholding of
social righteousness, the building up of a true
commonwealth--such
would be among the aims of the Church of the
future. Is the
hope too fair for realisation? Is the winning of such
beatific vision
yet once more the dream of the enthusiast? But surely
the one fact
that persons so deeply differing in theological creeds as
those who have
been toiling for the last three months to aid and
relieve the
oppressed, can work in absolute harmony side by side for
the one
end--surely this proves that there is a bond which is stronger
than our
antagonisms, a unity which is deeper than the speculative
theories which
divide."
How
unconsciously I was marching towards the Theosophy which was to
become the
glory of my life, groping blindly in the darkness for that
very
brotherhood, definitely formulated on these very lines by those
Elder Brothers
of our race, at whose feet I was so soon to throw
myself. How
deeply this longing for something loftier than I had yet
found had
wrought itself into my life, how strong the conviction was
growing that
there was something to be sought to which the service of
man was the
road, may be seen in the following passage from the same
article:--
"It has
been thought that in these days of factories and of tramways,
of shoddy, and
of adulteration, that all life must tread with even
rhythm of
measured footsteps, and that the glory of the ideal could no
longer glow
over the greyness of a modern horizon. But signs are not
awanting that
the breath of the older heroism is beginning to stir
men's breasts,
and that the passion for justice and for liberty, which
thrilled
through the veins of the world's greatest in the past, and
woke our pulses
to responsive throb, has not yet died wholly out of
the hearts of
men. Still the quest of the Holy Grail exercises its
deathless fascination,
but the seekers no longer raise eyes to heaven,
nor search over
land and sea, for they know that it waits them in the
suffering at
their doors, that the consecration of the holiest is on
the agonising
masses of the poor and the despairing, the cup is
crimson with
the blood of the
"'People,
the grey-grown speechless Christ.'
... If there be
a faith that can remove the mountains of ignorance and
evil, it is
surely that faith in the ultimate triumph of Right in the
final
enthronement of Justice, which alone makes life worth the
living, and
which gems the blackest cloud of depression with the
rainbow-coloured
arch of an immortal hope."
As a step
towards bringing about some such union of those ready to
work for man,
Mr. Stead and I projected the _Link_, a halfpenny
weekly, the
spirit of which was described in its motto, taken from
Victor Hugo:
"The people are silence. I will be the advocate of this
silence. I will
speak for the dumb. I will speak of the small to the
great and of the
feeble to the strong.... I will speak for all the
despairing
silent ones. I will interpret this stammering; I will
interpret the
grumblings, the murmurs, the tumults of crowds, the
complaints
ill-pronounced, and all these cries of beasts that, through
ignorance and
through suffering, man is forced to utter ... I will be
the Word of the
People. I will be the bleeding mouth whence the gag is
snatched out. I
will say everything." It announced its object to be
the
"building up" of a "New Church, dedicated to the service of
man,"
and "what
we want to do is to establish in every village and in every
street some man
or woman who will sacrifice time and labour as
systematically
and as cheerfully in the temporal service of man as
others do in
what they believe to be the service of God." Week after
week we issued
our little paper, and it became a real light in the
darkness. There
the petty injustices inflicted on the poor found
voice; there
the starvation wages paid to women found exposure; there
sweating was
brought to public notice. A finisher of boots paid 2s.
6d. per dozen
pairs and "find your own polish and thread"; women
working for
10-1/2 hours per day, making shirts--"fancy best"--at from
10d. to 3s. per
dozen, finding their own cotton and needles, paying
for gas, towel,
and tea (compulsory), earning from 4s. to 10s. per
week for the
most part; a mantle finisher 2s. 2d. a week, out of which
6d. for
materials; "respectable hard-working woman" tried for
attempted
suicide, "driven to rid herself of life from want." Another
part of our
work was defending people from unjust landlords, exposing
workhouse
scandals, enforcing the Employers' Liability Act, Charles
Bradlaugh's
Truck Act, forming "Vigilance Circles" whose members kept
watch in their
own district over cases of cruelty to children,
extortion,
insanitary workshops, sweating, &c., reporting each case to
me. Into this
work came Herbert Burrows, who had joined hands with me
over the
Trafalgar Square defence, and who wrote some noble articles
in the _Link_.
A man loving the people with passionate devotion,
hating
oppression and injustice with equal passion, working himself
with
remorseless energy, breaking his heart over wrongs he could not
remedy. His
whole character once came out in a sentence when he was
lying delirious
and thought himself dying: "Tell the people how I have
loved them
always."
In our crusade
for the poor we worked for the dockers." To-morrow
morning, in
London alone 20,000 to 25,000 adult men," wrote Sidney
Webb,
"will fight like savages for permission to labour in the docks
for 4d. an
hour, and one-third of them will fight in vain, and be
turned workless
away." We worked for children's dinners. "If we insist
on these
children being educated, is it not necessary that they shall
be fed? If not,
we waste on them knowledge they cannot assimilate, and
torture many of
them to death. Poor waifs of humanity, we drive them
into the school
and bid them learn; and the pitiful, wistful eyes
question us why
we inflict this strange new suffering, and bring into
their dim lives
this new pang. 'Why not leave us alone? 'ask the
pathetically
patient little faces. Why not, indeed, since for these
child martyrs
of the slums, Society has only formulas, not food." We
cried out
against "cheap goods," that meant "sweated and therefore
stolen
goods." "The ethics of buying should surely be simply enough.
We want a
particular thing, and we do not desire to obtain it either
by begging or
by robbery; but if in becoming possessed of it, we
neither beg it
nor steal, we must give for it something equivalent in
exchange; so
much of our neighbour's labour has been put into the
thing we
desire; if we will not yield him fair equivalent for that
labour, yet
take his article, we defraud him, and if we are not
willing to give
that fair equivalent we have no right to become the
owners of his
product."
This branch of
our work led to a big fight--a fight most happy in its
results. At a
meeting of the Fabian Society, Miss Clementina Black
gave a capital
lecture on Female Labour, and urged the formation of a
Consumers'
League, pledged only to buy from shops certificated "clean"
from unfair
wage. H.H. Champion, in the discussion that followed,
drew attention
to the wages paid by Bryant & May (Limited), while
paying an
enormous dividend to their shareholders, so that the value
of the original
Ł5 shares was quoted at Ł18 7s. 6d. Herbert Burrows
and I
interviewed some of the girls, got lists of wages, of fines, &c.
"A typical
case is that of a girl of sixteen, a piece-worker; she
earns 4s. a
week, and lives with a sister, employed by the same firm,
who 'earns good
money, as much as 8s. or 9s. a week.' Out of the
earnings 2s. a
week is paid for the rent of one room. The child lives
only on bread
and butter and tea, alike for breakfast and dinner, but
related with
dancing eyes that once a month she went to a meal where
'you get coffee
and bread and butter, and jam and marmalade, and lots
of it.'"
We published the facts under the title of "White Slavery in
London,"
and called for a boycott of Bryant & May's matches. "It is
time some one
came and helped us," said two pale-faced girls to me;
and I asked:
"Who will help? Plenty of people wish well to any good
cause; but very
few care to exert themselves to help it, and still
fewer will risk
anything in its support. 'Some one ought to do it, but
why should I?'
is the ever re-echoed phrase of weak-kneed amiability.
'Some one ought
to do it, so why _not_ I?' is the cry of some earnest
servant of man,
eagerly forward springing to face some perilous duty.
Between those
two sentences lie whole centuries of moral evolution."
I was promptly
threatened with an action for libel, but nothing came
of it; it was
easier to strike at the girls, and a few days later
Fleet Street
was enlivened by the irruption of a crowd of match-girls,
demanding Annie
Besant. I couldn't speechify to match-girls in Fleet
Street, so
asked that a deputation should come and explain what they
wanted. Up came
three women and told their story: they had been asked
to sign a paper
certifying that they were well treated and contented,
and that my
statements were untrue; they refused. "You had spoke up
for us,"
explained one, "and we weren't going back on you." A girl,
pitched on as
their leader, was threatened with dismissal; she stood
firm; next day
she was discharged for some trifle, and they all threw
down their
work, some 1,400 of them, and then a crowd of them started
off to me to
ask what to do next. If we ever worked in our lives,
Herbert Burrows
and I worked for the next fortnight. And a pretty
hubbub we
created; we asked for money, and it came pouring in; we
registered the
girls to receive strike pay, wrote articles, roused the
clubs, held public
meetings, got Mr. Bradlaugh to ask questions in
Parliament,
stirred up constituencies in which shareholders were
members, till
the whole country rang with the struggle. Mr. Frederick
Charrington
lent us a hall for registration, Mr. Sidney Webb and
others moved
the National Liberal Club to action; we led a procession
of the girls to
the House of Commons, and interviewed, with a
deputation of
them, Members of Parliament who cross-questioned them.
The girls
behaved splendidly, stuck together, kept brave and bright
all through.
Mr. Hobart of the Social Democratic Federation, Messrs.
Shaw, Bland,
and Oliver, and Headlam of the Fabian Society, Miss
Clementina
Black, and many another helped in the heavy work. The
London Trades
Council finally consented to act as arbitrators and a
satisfactory
settlement was arrived at; the girls went in to work,
fines and
deductions were abolished, better wages paid; the
Match-makers'
Union was established, still the strongest woman's
Trades Union in
England, and for years I acted as secretary, till,
under press of
other duties, I resigned, and my work was given by the
girls to Mrs.
Thornton Smith; Herbert Burrows became, and still is,
the treasurer.
For a time there was friction between the Company and
the Union, but
it gradually disappeared under the influence of common
sense on both
sides, and we have found the manager ready to consider
any just
grievance and to endeavour to remove it, while the Company
have been
liberal supporters of the Working Women's Club at Bow,
founded by H.P.
Blavatsky.
[Illustration:
STRIKE COMMITTEE OF THE MATCHMAKERS' UNION.]
The worst
suffering of all was among the box-makers, thrown out of
work by the
strike, and they were hard to reach. Twopence-farthing per
gross of boxes,
and buy your own string and paste, is not wealth, but
when the work
went more rapid starvation came. Oh, those trudges
through the
lanes and alleys round Bethnal Green Junction late at
night, when our
day's work was over; children lying about on shavings,
rags, anything;
famine looking out of baby faces, out of women's eyes,
out of the
tremulous hands of men. Heart grew sick and eyes dim, and
ever louder
sounded the question, "Where is the cure for sorrow, what
the way of
rescue for the world?"
In August I
asked for a "match-girls' drawing-room." "It will want a
piano, tables
for papers, for games, for light literature; so that it
may offer a
bright, homelike refuge to these girls, who now have no
real homes, no
playground save the streets. It is not proposed to
build an
'institution' with stern and rigid discipline and enforcement
of prim
behaviour, but to open a home, filled with the genial
atmosphere of
cordial comradeship, and self-respecting freedom--the
atmosphere so
familiar to all who have grown up in the blessed shelter
of a happy
home, so strange, alas! to too many of our East London
girls." In
the same month of August, two years later, H.P. Blavatsky
opened such a
home.
Then came a cry
for help from South London, from tin-box makers,
illegally
fined, and in many cases grievously mutilated by the
non-fencing of
machinery; then aid to shop assistants, also illegally
fined; legal
defences by the score still continued; a vigorous
agitation for a
free meal for children, and for fair wages to be paid
by all public
bodies; work for the dockers and exposure of their
wrongs; a visit
to the Cradley Heath chain-makers, speeches to them,
writing for
them; a contest for the School Board for the Tower Hamlets
division, and
triumphant return at the head of the poll. Such were
some of the
ways in which the autumn days were spent, to say nothing
of scores of
lectures--Secularist, Labour, Socialist--and scores of
articles
written for the winning of daily bread. When the School Board
work was added
I felt that I had as much work as one woman's strength
could do.
Thus was
ushered in 1889, the to me never-to-be-forgotten year in
which I found
my way "Home," and had the priceless good fortune of
meeting, and of
becoming the pupil of, H.P. Blavatsky. Ever more and
more had been
growing on me the feeling that something more than I had
was needed for
the cure of social ills. The Socialist position
sufficed on the
economic side, but where to gain the inspiration, the
motive, which
should lead to the realisation of the Brotherhood of
Man? Our
efforts to really organise bands of unselfish workers had
failed. Much
indeed had been done, but there was not a real movement
of
self-sacrificing devotion, in which men worked for Love's sake
only, and asked
but to give, not to take. Where was the material for
the nobler
Social Order, where the hewn stones for the building of the
Temple of Man?
A great despair would oppress me as I sought for such a
movement and
found it not.
[Illustration:
MEMBERS OF THE MATCHMAKERS' UNION.]
Not only so;
but since 1886 there had been slowly growing up a
conviction that
my philosophy was not sufficient; that life and mind
were other
than, more than, I had dreamed. Psychology was advancing
with rapid
strides; hypnotic experiments were revealing unlooked-for
complexities in
human consciousness, strange riddles of multiplex
personalities,
and, most startling of all, vivid intensities of mental
action when the
brain, that should be the generator of thought, was
reduced to a
comatose state. Fact after fact came hurtling in upon me,
demanding
explanation I was incompetent to give. I studied the
obscurer sides
of consciousness, dreams, hallucinations, illusions,
insanity. Into
the darkness shot a ray of light--A.P. Sinnett's
"Occult
World," with its wonderfully suggestive letters, expounding
not the
supernatural but a nature under law, wider than I had dared to
conceive. I
added Spiritualism to my studies, experimenting privately,
finding the
phenomena indubitable, but the spiritualistic explanation
of them
incredible. The phenomena of clairvoyance, clairaudience,
thought-reading,
were found to be real. Under all the rush of the
outer life,
already sketched, these questions were working in my mind,
their answers
were being diligently sought. I read a variety of books,
but could find
little in them that satisfied me. I experimented in
various ways
suggested in them, and got some (to me) curious results.
I finally
convinced myself that there was some hidden thing, some
hidden power,
and resolved to seek until I found, and by the early
spring of 1889
I had grown desperately determined to find at all
hazards what I
sought. At last, sitting alone in deep thought as I had
become
accustomed to do after the sun had set, filled with an intense
but nearly
hopeless longing to solve the riddle of life and mind, I
heard a Voice
that was later to become to me the holiest sound on
earth, bidding
me take courage for the light was near. A fortnight
passed, and
then Mr. Stead gave into my hands two large volumes. "Can
you review
these? My young men all fight shy of them, but you are
quite mad
enough on these subjects to make something of them." I took
the books; they
were the two volumes of "The Secret Doctrine," written
by H.P.
Blavatsky.
Home I carried
my burden, and sat me down to read. As I turned over
page after page
the interest became absorbing; but how familiar it
seemed; how my
mind leapt forward to presage the conclusions, how
natural it was,
how coherent, how subtle, and yet how intelligible. I
was dazzled,
blinded by the light in which disjointed facts were seen
as parts of a
mighty whole, and all my puzzles, riddles, problems,
seemed to
disappear. The effect was partially illusory in one sense,
in that they
all had to be slowly unravelled later, the brain
gradually
assimilating that which the swift intuition had grasped as
truth. But the
light had been seen, and in that flash of illumination
I knew that the
weary search was over and the very Truth was found.
I wrote the
review, and asked Mr. Stead for an introduction to the
writer, and
then sent a note asking to be allowed to call. I received
the most
cordial of notes, bidding me come, and in the soft spring
evening Herbert
Burrows and I--for his aspirations were as mine on
this
matter--walked from Netting Hill Station, wondering what we
should meet, to
the door of 17, Lansdowne Road. A pause, a swift
passing through
hall and outer room, through folding-doors thrown
back, a figure
in a large chair before a table, a voice, vibrant,
compelling,
"My dear Mrs. Besant, I have so long wished to see you,"
and I was
standing with my hand in her firm grip, and looking for
the first time
in this life straight into the eyes of "H.P.B." I
was conscious
of a sudden leaping forth of my heart--was it
recognition?--and
then, I am ashamed to say, a fierce rebellion, a
fierce
withdrawal, as of some wild animal when it feels a mastering
hand. I sat
down, after some introductions that conveyed no ideas to
me, and
listened. She talked of travels, of various countries, easy
brilliant talk,
her eyes veiled, her exquisitely moulded fingers
rolling
cigarettes incessantly. Nothing special to record, no word of
Occultism,
nothing mysterious, a woman of the world chatting with her
evening
visitors. We rose to go, and for a moment the veil lifted, and
two brilliant,
piercing eyes met mine, and with a yearning throb in
the voice:
"Oh, my dear Mrs. Besant, if you would only come among us!"
I felt a
well-nigh uncontrollable desire to bend down and kiss her,
under the
compulsion of that yearning voice, those compelling eyes,
but with a
flash of the old unbending pride and an inward jeer at my
own folly, I
said a commonplace polite good-bye, and turned away with
some inanely
courteous and evasive remark. "Child," she said to me
long
afterwards, "your pride is terrible; you are as proud as Lucifer
himself."
But truly I think I never showed it to her again after that
first evening,
though it sprang up wrathfully in her defence many and
many a time,
until I learned the pettiness and the worthlessness of
all criticism,
and knew that the blind were objects of compassion not
of scorn.
Once again I
went, and asked about the Theosophical Society, wishful
to join, but
fighting against it. For I saw, distinct and clear--with
painful
distinctness, indeed--what that joining would mean. I had
largely
conquered public prejudice against me by my work on the London
School Board,
and a smoother road stretched before me, whereon effort
to help should
be praised not blamed. Was I to plunge into a new
vortex of
strife, and make myself a mark for ridicule--worse than
hatred--and
fight again the weary fight for an unpopular truth? Must I
turn against
Materialism, and face the shame of publicly confessing
that I had been
wrong, misled by intellect to ignore the Soul? Must I
leave the army
that had battled for me so bravely, the friends who
through all
brutality of social ostracism had held me dear and true?
And he, the
strongest and truest friend of all, whose confidence I had
shaken by my
Socialism--must he suffer the pang of seeing his
co-worker, his
co-fighter, of whom he had been so proud, to whom he
had been so
generous, go over to the opposing hosts, and leave the
ranks of
Materialism? What would be the look in Charles Bradlaugh's
eyes when I
told him that I had become a Theosophist? The struggle was
sharp and keen,
but with none of the anguish of old days in it, for
the soldier had
now fought many fights and was hardened by many
wounds. And so
it came to pass that I went again to Lansdowne Road to
ask about the
Theosophical Society. H.P. Blavatsky looked at me
piercingly for
a moment. "Have you read the report about me of the
Society for
Psychical Research?" "No; I never heard of it, so far as I
know."
"Go and read it, and if, after reading it, you come
back--well."
And nothing more would she say on the subject, but
branched off to
her experiences in many lands.
I borrowed a
copy of the Report, read and re-read it. Quickly I saw
how slender was
the foundation on which the imposing structure was
built. The
continual assumptions on which conclusions were based; the
incredible
character of the allegations; and--most damning fact of
all--the foul
source from which the evidence was derived. Everything
turned on the
veracity of the Coulombs, and they were self-stamped as
partners in the
alleged frauds. Could I put such against the frank,
fearless nature
that I had caught a glimpse of, against the proud
fiery
truthfulness that shone at me from the clear, blue eyes, honest
and fearless as
those of a noble child? Was the writer of "The Secret
Doctrine"
this miserable impostor, this accomplice of tricksters, this
foul and loathsome
deceiver, this conjuror with trap-doors and sliding
panels? I
laughed aloud at the absurdity and flung the Report aside
with the
righteous scorn of an honest nature that knew its own kin
when it met
them, and shrank from the foulness and baseness of a lie.
The next day
saw me at the Theosophical Publishing Company's office at
7, Duke Street,
Adelphi, where Countess Wachtmeister--one of the
lealest of
H.P.B.'s friends--was at work, and I signed an
application to
be admitted as fellow of the Theosophical Society.
On receiving my
diploma I betook myself to Lansdowne Road, where I
found H.P.B.
alone. I went over to her, bent down and kissed her,
but said no
word. "You have joined the Society?" "Yes." "You have
read
the
report?" "Yes." "Well?" I knelt down before her and
clasped her
hands in mine,
looking straight into her eyes. "My answer is, will you
accept me as
your pupil, and give me the honour of proclaiming you my
teacher in the
face of the world?" Her stern, set face softened, the
unwonted gleam
of tears sprang to her eyes; then, with a dignity more
than regal, she
placed her hand upon my head. "You are a noble woman.
May Master
bless you."
From that day,
the 10th of May, 1889, until now--two years three and
half months
after she left her body on May 8, 1891--my faith in her
has never
wavered, my trust in her has never been shaken. I gave her
my faith on an
imperious intuition, I proved her true day after day in
closest
intimacy living by her side; and I speak of her with the
reverence due
from a pupil to a teacher who never failed her, with the
passionate
gratitude which, in our School, is the natural meed of the
one who opens
the gateway and points out the path. "Folly!
fanaticism!"
scoffs the Englishman of the nineteenth century. Be it
so. I have
seen, and I can wait. I have been told that I plunged
headlong into
Theosophy and let my enthusiasm carry me away. I think
the charge is
true, in so far as the decision was swiftly taken; but
it had been
long led up to, and realised the dreams of childhood on
the higher
planes of intellectual womanhood. And let me here say that
more than all I
hoped for in that first plunge has been realised, and
a certainty of
knowledge has been gained on doctrines seen as true as
that swift
flash of illumination. I _know_, by personal experiment,
that the Soul
exists, and that my Soul, not my body, is myself; that
it can leave
the body at will; that it can, disembodied, reach and
learn from
living human teachers, and bring back and impress on the
physical brain
that which it has learned; that this process of
transferring
consciousness from one range of being, as it were, to
another, is a
very slow process, during which the body and brain are
gradually
correlated with the subtler form which is essentially that
of the Soul,
and that my own experience of it, still so imperfect, so
fragmentary,
when compared with the experience of the highly trained,
is like the
first struggles of a child learning to speak compared with
the perfect
oratory of the practised speaker; that consciousness, so
far from being
dependent on the brain, is more active when freed from
the gross forms
of matter than when encased within them; that the
great Sages
spoken of by H.P. Blavatsky exist; that they wield powers
and possess
knowledge before which our control of Nature and knowledge
of her ways is
but as child's play. All this, and much more, have I
learned, and I
am but a pupil of low grade, as it were in the infant
class of the
Occult School; so the first plunge has been successful,
and the
intuition has been justified. This same path of knowledge that
I am treading
is open to all others who will pay the toll demanded at
the
gateway--and that toll is willingness to renounce everything for
the sake of
spiritual truth, and willingness to give all the truth
that is won to
the service of man, keeping back no shred for self.
On June 23rd,
in a review of "The Secret Doctrine" in the _National
Reformer,_ the
following passages occur, and show how swiftly some of
the main points
of the teaching had been grasped. (There is a blunder
in the
statement that of the seven modifications of Matter Science
knows only
four, and till lately knew only three; these four are
sub-states
only, sub-divisions of the lowest plane.)
After saying
that the nineteenth-century Englishman would be but too
likely to be
repelled if he only skimmed the book, I went on: "With
telescope and
with microscope, with scalpel and with battery, Western
Science
interrogates nature, adding fact to fact, storing experience
after
experience, but coming ever to gulfs unfathomable by its
plummets, to
heights unscalable by its ladders. Wide and masterful in
its answers to
the 'How?' the 'Why?' ever eludes it, and causes remain
enwrapped in
gloom. Eastern Science uses as its scientific instrument
the penetrating
faculties of the mind alone, and regarding the
material plane
as _Maya_--illusion--seeks in the mental and spiritual
planes of being
the causes of the material effects. There, too, is the
only reality;
there the true existence of which the visible universe
is but the
shadow.
"It is
clear that from such investigations some further mental
equipment is
necessary than that normally afforded by the human body.
And here comes
the parting of the ways between East and West. For the
study of the
material universe, our five senses, aided by the
instruments
invented by Science, may suffice. For all we can hear and
see, taste and
handle, these accustomed servitors, though often
blundering, are
the best available guides to knowledge. But it lies in
the nature of
the case that they are useless when the investigation is
to be into
modes of existence which cannot impress themselves on our
nerve-ends. For
instance, what we know as colour is the vibration
frequency of
etheric waves striking on the retina of the eye, between
certain
definite limits--759 trillions of blows from the maximum, 436
trillions from
the minimum--these waves give rise in us to the
sensation which
the brain translates into colour. (Why the 436
trillion blows
at one end of a nerve become 'Red' at the other end we
do not know; we
chronicle the fact but cannot explain it.) But our
capacity to
respond to the vibration cannot limit the vibrational
capacity of the
ether; to _us_ the higher and lower rates of vibration
do not exist,
but if our sense of vision were more sensitive we should
see where now
we are blind. Following this line of thought we realise
that matter may
exist in forms unknown to us, in modifications to
which our
senses are unable to respond. Now steps in the Eastern Sage
and says: 'That
which you say _may_ be, _is_; we have developed and
cultivated
senses as much superior to yours as your eye is superior to
that of the
jelly-fish; we have evolved mental and spiritual faculties
which enable us
to investigate on the higher planes of being with as
much certainty
as you are investigating on the physical plane; there
is nothing
_supernatural_ in the business, any more than your
knowledge is
supernatural, though much above that accessible to the
fish; we do not
speculate on these higher forms of existence; we
_know_ them by
personal study, just as you know the fauna and flora of
your world. The
powers we possess are not supernatural, they are
latent in every
human being, and will be evolved as the race
progresses. All
that we have done is to evolve them more rapidly than
our neighbours,
by a procedure as open to you as it was to us. Matter
is everywhere,
but it exists in seven modifications of which you only
know four, and
until lately only knew three; in those higher forms
reside the
causes of which you see the effects in the lower, and to
know these
causes you must develop the capacity to take cognisance of
the higher
planes.'"
Then followed a
brief outline of the cycle of evolution, and I went
on: "What
part does man play in this vast drama of a universe?
Needless to
say, he is not the only living form in a Cosmos, which for
the most part
is uninhabitable by him. As Science has shown living
forms
everywhere on the material plane, races in each drop of water,
life throbbing
in every leaf and blade, so the 'Secret Doctrine'
points to
living forms on higher planes of existence, each suited to
its
environment, till all space thrills with life, and nowhere is
there death,
but only change. Amid these myriads are some evolving
towards
humanity, some evolving away from humanity as we know it,
divesting
themselves of its grosser parts. For man is regarded as a
sevenfold being,
four of these parts belonging to the animal body, and
perishing at,
or soon after, death; while three form his higher self,
his true
individuality, and these persist and are immortal. These form
the Ego, and it
is this which passes through many incarnations,
learning life's
lesson as it goes, working out its own redemption
within the
limits of an inexorable law, sowing seeds of which it ever
reaps the
harvest, building its own fate with tireless fingers, and
finding nowhere
in the measureless time and space around it any that
can lift for it
one weight it has created, one burden it has gathered,
unravel for it
one tangle it has twisted, close for it one gulf it has
digged."
Then after
noting the approaches of Western Science to Eastern, came
the final
words: "it is of curious interest to note how some of the
latest theories
seem to catch glimpses of the occult Doctrines, as
though Science
were standing on the very threshold of knowledge which
shall make all
her past seem small. Already her hand is trembling
towards the
grasp of forces beside which all those now at her command
are
insignificant. How soon will her grip fasten on them? Let us hope
not until
social order has been transformed, lest they should only
give more to
those who have, and leave the wretched still wretcheder
by force of
contrast. Knowledge used by selfishness widens the gulf
that divides
man from man and race from race, and we may well shrink
from the idea
of new powers in Nature being yoked to the car of Greed.
Hence the
wisdom of those 'Masters,' in whose name Madame Blavatsky
speaks, has
ever denied the knowledge which is power until Love's
lesson has been
learned, and has given only into the hands of the
selfless the
control of those natural forces which, misused, would
wreck
society."
This review,
and the public announcement, demanded by honesty, that I
had joined the
Theosophical Society, naturally raised somewhat of a
storm of
criticism, and the _National Reformer_ of June 30th contained
the following:
"The review of Madame Blavatsky's book in the last
_National
Reformer_, and an announcement in the _Star_, have brought
me several
letters on the subject of Theosophy. I am asked for an
explanation as
to what Theosophy is, and as to my own opinion on
Theosophy--the
word 'theosoph' is old, and was used among the
Neo-platonists.
From the dictionary its new meaning appears to be,
'one who claims
to have a knowledge of God, or of the laws of nature
by means of
internal illumination.' An Atheist certainly cannot be a
Theosophist. A
Deist might be a Theosophist. A Monist cannot be a
Theosophist.
Theosophy must at least involve Dualism. Modern
Theosophy,
according to Madame Blavatsky, as set out in last week's
issue, asserts
much that I do not believe, and alleges some things
that, to me,
are certainly not true. I have not had the opportunity of
reading Madame
Blavatsky's two volumes, but I have read during the
past ten years
many publications from the pen of herself, Colonel
Olcott, and of
other Theosophists. They appear to me to have sought to
rehabilitate a
kind of Spiritualism in Eastern phraseology. I think
many of their
allegations utterly erroneous, and their reasonings
wholly unsound.
I very deeply regret indeed that my colleague and
co-worker has,
with somewhat of suddenness, and without any
interchange of
ideas with myself, adopted as facts matters which seem
to me to be as
unreal as it is possible for any fiction to be. My
regret is
greater as I know Mrs. Besant's devotion to any course she
believes to be
true. I know that she will always be earnest in the
advocacy of any
views she undertakes to defend, and I look to possible
developments of
her Theosophic views with the very gravest misgiving.
The editorial
policy of this paper is unchanged, and is directly
antagonistic to
all forms of Theosophy. I would have preferred on this
subject to have
held my peace, for the public disagreeing with Mrs.
Besant on her
adoption of Socialism has caused pain to both; but on
reading her article
and taking the public announcement made of her
having joined
the Theosophical organisation, I owe it to those who
look to me for
guidance to say this with clearness.
"CHARLES
BRADLAUGH."
"It is not
possible for me here to state fully my reasons for joining
the
Theosophical Society, the three objects of which are: To found a
Universal
Brotherhood without distinction of race or creed; to forward
the study of
Aryan literature and philosophy; to investigate
unexplained
laws of nature and the physical powers latent in man. On
matters of
religious opinion the members are absolutely free. The
founders of the
society deny a personal God, and a somewhat subtle
form of
Pantheism is taught as the Theosophic view of the universe,
though even
this is not forced on members of the society. I have no
desire to hide
the fact that this form of Pantheism appears to me to
promise
solution of some problems, especially problems in psychology,
which Atheism
leaves untouched.
"ANNIE
BESANT."
Theosophy, as
its students well know, so far from involving Dualism,
is based on the
One, which becomes Two on manifestation, just as
Atheism posits
one existence, only cognisable in the duality force and
matter, and as
philosophic--though not popular--Theism teaches one
Deity whereof
are spirit and matter. Mr. Bradlaugh's temperate
disapproval was
not copied in its temperance by some other Freethought
leaders, and
Mr. Foote especially distinguished himself by the
bitterness of
his attacks. In the midst of the whirl I was called away
to Paris to
attend, with Herbert Burrows, the great Labour Congress
held there from
July 15th to July 20th, and spent a day or two at
Fontainebleau
with H.P. Blavatsky, who had gone abroad for a few
weeks' rest.
There I found her translating the wonderful fragments
from "The
Book of the Golden Precepts," now so widely known under the
name of
"The Voice of the Silence." She wrote it swiftly, without any
material copy
before her, and in the evening made me read it aloud to
see if the
"English was decent." Herbert Burrows was there, and Mrs.
Candler, a
staunch American Theosophist, and we sat round H.P.B. while
I read. The
translation was in perfect and beautiful English, flowing
and musical;
only a word or two could we find to alter, and she looked
at us like a
startled child, wondering at our praises--praises that
any one with
the literary sense would endorse if they read that
exquisite prose
poem.
A little
earlier in the same day I had asked her as to the agencies at
work in
producing the taps so constantly heard at Spiritualistic
_Séances_.
"You don't use spirits to produce taps," she said; "see
here." She
put her hand over my head, not touching it, and I heard and
felt slight
taps on the bone of my skull, each sending a little
electric thrill
down the spine. She then carefully explained how such
taps were
producible at any point desired by the operator, and how
interplay of
the currents to which they were due might be caused
otherwise than
by conscious human volition. It was in this fashion
that she would
illustrate her verbal teachings, proving by experiment
the statements
made as to the existence of subtle forces controllable
by the trained
mind. The phenomena all belonged to the scientific side
of her teaching,
and she never committed the folly of claiming
authority for
her philosophic doctrines on the ground that she was a
wonder-worker.
And constantly she would remind us that there was no
such thing as
"miracle"; that all the phenomena she had produced were
worked by
virtue of a knowledge of nature deeper than that of average
people, and by
the force of a well-trained mind and will; some of them
were what she
would describe as "psychological tricks," the creation
of images by
force of imagination, and in pressing them on others as a
"collective
hallucination"; others, such as the moving of solid
articles,
either by an astral hand projected to draw them towards her,
or by using an
Elemental; others by reading in the Astral Light, and
so on. But the
proof of the reality of her mission from those whom she
spoke of as
Masters lay not in these comparatively trivial physical
and mental
phenomena, but in the splendour of her heroic endurance,
the depth of
her knowledge, the selflessness of her character, the
lofty
spirituality of her teaching, the untiring passion of her
devotion, the
incessant ardour of her work for the enlightening of
men. It was
these, and not her phenomena, that won for her our faith
and
confidence--we who lived beside her, knowing her daily life--and
we gratefully
accepted her teaching not because she claimed any
authority, but
because it woke in us powers, the possibility of which
in ourselves we
had not dreamed of, energies of the Soul that
demonstrated
their own existence.
Returning to
London from Paris, it became necessary to make a very
clear and
definite presentment of my change of views, and in the
_Reformer_ of
August 4th I find the following: "Many statements are
being made just
now about me and my beliefs, some of which are
absurdly, and
some of which are maliciously, untrue. I must ask my
friends not to
give credence to them. It would not be fair to my
friend Mr.
Bradlaugh to ask him to open the columns of this Journal to
an exposition
of Theosophy from my pen, and so bring about a long
controversy on
a subject which would not interest the majority of the
readers of the
_National Reformer_. This being so I cannot here answer
the attacks
made on me. I feel, however, that the party with which I
have worked for
so long has a right to demand of me some explanation
of the step I
have taken, and I am therefore preparing a pamphlet
dealing fully
with the question. Further, I have arranged with Mr.
R.O. Smith to
take as subject of the lectures to be delivered by me at
the Hall of
Science on August 4th and 11th 'Why I became a
Theosophist.'
Meanwhile I think that my years of service in the ranks
of the
Freethought party give me the right to ask that I should not be
condemned
unheard, and I even venture to suggest, in view of the
praises
bestowed on me by Freethinkers in the past, that it is
possible that
there may be something to be said, from the intellectual
standpoint, in
favour of Theosophy. The caricatures of it which have
appeared from
some Freethinkers' pens represent it about as accurately
as the
Christian Evidence caricatures of Atheism represent that
dignified
philosophy of life; and, remembering how much they are
themselves
misrepresented, I ask them to wait before they judge."
The lectures
were delivered, and were condensed into a pamphlet
bearing the
same title, which has had a very great circulation. It
closed as
follows:--
"There
remains a great stumblingblock in the minds of many
Freethinkers
which is certain to prejudice them against Theosophy, and
which offers to
opponents a cheap subject for sarcasm--the assertion
that there
exist other living beings than the men and animals found on
our own globe.
It may be well for people who at once turn away when
such an
assertion is made to stop and ask themselves whether they
really and
seriously believe that throughout this mighty universe, in
which our
little planet is but as a tiny speck of sand in the Sahara,
this one planet
only is inhabited by living things? Is all the
universe dumb
save for _our_ voices? eyeless save for _our_ vision?
dead save for
_our_ life? Such a preposterous belief was well enough
in the days
when Christianity regarded our world as the centre of the
universe, the
human race as the one for which the Creator had deigned
to die. But now
that we are placed in our proper position, one among
countless
myriads of worlds, what ground is there for the preposterous
conceit which
arrogates as ours all sentient existence? Earth, air,
water, all are
teeming with living things suited to their environment;
our globe is
overflowing with life. But the moment we pass in thought
beyond our
atmosphere everything is to be changed. Neither reason nor
analogy support
such a supposition. It was one of Bruno's crimes that
he dared to
teach that other worlds than ours were inhabited; but he
was wiser than
the monks who burned him. All the Theosophists aver is
that each phase
of matter has living things suited to it, and that all
the universe is
pulsing with life. 'Superstition!' shriek the bigoted.
It is no more
superstition than the belief in Bacteria, or in any
other living
thing invisible to the ordinary human eye. 'Spirit' is a
misleading
word, for, historically, it connotes immateriality and a
supernatural
kind of existence, and the Theosophist believes neither
in the one nor
the other. With him all living things act in and
through a
material basis, and 'matter' and 'spirit' are not found
dissociated.
But he alleges that matter exists in states other than
those at
present known to science. To deny this is to be about as
sensible as was
the Hindű prince who denied the existence of ice
because water,
in his experience, never became solid. Refusal to
believe until
proof is given is a rational position; denial of all
outside of our
own limited experience is absurd.
"One last
word to my Secularist friends. If you say to me, 'Leave our
ranks,' I will
leave them; I force myself on no party, and the moment
I feel myself
unwelcome I will go.[29] It has cost me pain enough and
to spare to
admit that the Materialism from which I hoped all has
failed me, and
by such admission to bring on myself the disapproval of
some of my
nearest friends. But here, as at other times in my life, I
dare not
purchase peace with a lie. An imperious necessity forces me
to speak the
truth, as I see it, whether the speech please or
displease,
whether it bring praise or blame. That one loyalty to Truth
I must keep
stainless, whatever friendships fail me or human ties be
broken. She may
lead me into the wilderness, yet I must follow her;
she may strip
me of all love, yet I must pursue her; though she slay
me, yet will I
trust in her; and I ask no other epitaph on my tomb but
"'SHE
TRIED TO FOLLOW TRUTH.'"
Meanwhile, with
this new controversy on my hands, the School Board
work went on,
rendered possible, I ought to say, by the generous
assistance of
friends unknown to me, who sent me, Ł150 a year during
the last year
and a half. So also went on the vigorous Socialist work,
and the
continual championship of struggling labour movements,
prominent here
being the organisation of the South London fur-pullers
into a union,
and the aiding of the movement for shortening the hours
of tram and
'bus men, the meetings for which had to be held after
midnight. The
feeding and clothing of children also occupied much time
and attention,
for the little ones in my district were, thousands of
them,
desperately poor. My studies I pursued as best I could, reading
in railway
carriages, tramcars, omnibuses, and stealing hours for
listening to
H.P.B. by shortening the nights.
In October, Mr.
Bradlaugh's shaken strength received its death-blow,
though he was
to live yet another fifteen months. He collapsed
suddenly under
a most severe attack of congestion and lay in imminent
peril,
devotedly nursed by his only remaining child, Mrs. Bonner, his
elder daughter
having died the preceding autumn. Slowly he struggled
back to life,
after four weeks in bed, and, ordered by his physician
to take rest
and if possible a sea voyage, he sailed for India on
November 28th,
to attend the National Congress, where he was
enthusiastically
acclaimed as "Member for India."
In November I
argued a libel suit, brought by me against the Rev. Mr.
Hoskyns, vicar
of Stepney, who had selected some vile passages from a
book which was
not mine and had circulated them as representing my
views, during
the School Board election of 1888. I had against me the
Solicitor-General,
Sir Edward Clarke, at the bar, and Baron Huddleston
on the bench;
both counsel and judge did their best to browbeat me and
to use the
coarsest language, endeavouring to prove that by advocating
the limitation
of the family I had condemned chastity as a crime. Five
hours of brutal
cross-examination left my denial of such teachings
unshaken, and
even the pleadings of the judge for the clergyman,
defending his
parishioners against an unbeliever and his laying down
as law that the
statement was privileged, did not avail to win a
verdict. The
jury disagreed, not, as one of them told me afterwards,
on the question
of the libel, but on some feeling that a clergyman
ought not to be
mulcted in damages for his over-zeal in defence of his
faith against
the ravening wolf of unbelief, while others, regarding
the libel as a
very cruel one, would not agree to a verdict that did
not carry
substantial damages. I did not carry the case to a new
trial, feeling
that it was not worth while to waste time over it
further, my
innocence of the charge itself having been fully proved.
Busily the
months rolled on, and early in the year 1890 H.P.Blavatsky
had given to
her Ł1,000, to use in her discretion for human service,
and if she
thought well, in the service of women. After a good deal of
discussion she
fixed on the establishment of a club in East London for
working girls,
and with her approval Miss Laura Cooper and I hunted
for a suitable
place. Finally we fixed on a very large and old house,
193, Bow Road,
and some months went in its complete renovation and the
building of a
hall attached to it. On August 15th it was opened by
Madame
Blavatsky, and dedicated by her to the brightening of the lot
of hardworking
and underpaid girls. It has nobly fulfilled its mission
for the last
three years. Very tender was H.P.B.'s heart to human
suffering,
especially to that of women and children. She was very poor
towards the end
of her earthly life, having spent all on her mission,
and refusing to
take time from her Theosophical work to write for the
Russian papers
which were ready to pay highly for her pen. But her
slender purse
was swiftly emptied when any human pain that money could
relieve came in
her way. One day I wrote a letter to a comrade that
was shown to
her, about some little children to whom I had carried a
quantity of
country flowers, and I had spoken of their faces pinched
with want. The
following characteristic note came to me:--
"MY
DEAREST FRIEND,--I have just read your letter to ---- and my heart
is sick for the
poor little ones! Look here; I have but 30s. of _my
own money_ of
which I can dispose (for as you know I am a pauper, and
proud of it),
but I want you to take them and _not say a word_. This
may buy thirty
dinners for thirty poor little starving wretches, and I
may feel
happier for thirty minutes at the thought. Now don't say a
word, and do
it; take them to those unfortunate babies who loved your
flowers and
felt happy. Forgive your old uncouth friend, _useless_ in
this world!
"Ever
yours,
"H.P.B."
It was this
tenderness of hers that led us, after she had gone, to
found the
"H.P.B. Home for little children," and one day we hope to
fulfil her
expressed desire that a large but homelike Refuge for
outcast
children should be opened under the auspices of the
Theosophical
Society.
The lease of
17, Lansdowne Road expiring in the early summer of 1890,
it was decided
that 19, Avenue Road should be turned into the
headquarters of
the Theosophical Society in Europe. A hall was built
for the
meetings of the Blavatsky Lodge--the lodge founded by her--and
various
alterations made. In July her staff of workers was united
under one roof;
thither came Archibald and Bertram Keightley, who had
devoted
themselves to her service years before, and the Countess
Wachtmeister,
who had thrown aside all the luxuries of wealth and of
high social
rank to give all to the cause she served and the friend
she loved with
deep and faithful loyajty; and George Mead, her
secretary and
earnest disciple, a man of strong brain and strong
character, a
fine scholar and untiring worker; thither, too, Claude
Wright, most
lovable of Irishmen, with keen insight underlying a
bright and
sunny nature, careless on the surface, and Walter Old,
dreamy and
sensitive, a born psychic, and, like many such, easily
swayed by those
around him; Emily Kislingbury also, a studious and
earnest woman;
Isabel Cooper Oakley, intuitional and studious, a rare
combination,
and a most devoted pupil in Occult studies; James Pryse,
an American,
than whom none is more devoted, bringing practical
knowledge to
the help of the work, and making possible the large
development of
our printing department. These, with myself, were at
first the
resident staff, Miss Cooper and Herbert Burrows, who were
also identified
with the work, being prevented by other obligations
from living
always as part of the household.
The rules of
the house were--and are--very simple, but H.P.B.
insisted on
great regularity of life; we breakfasted at 8 a.m.,
worked till
lunch at 1, then again till dinner at 7. After dinner
the outer work
for the Society was put aside, and we gathered in
H.P.B.'s room
where we would sit talking over plans, receiving
instructions,
listening to her explanation of knotty points. By 12
midnight all
the lights had to be extinguished. My public work took me
away for many
hours, unfortunately for myself, but such was the
regular run of
our busy lives. She herself wrote incessantly; always
suffering, but
of indomitable will, she drove her body through its
tasks,
merciless to its weaknesses and its pains. Her pupils she
treated very
variously, adapting herself with nicest accuracy to their
differing
natures; as a teacher she was marvellously patient,
explaining a
thing over and over again in different fashions, until
sometimes after
prolonged failure she would throw herself back in her
chair: "My
God!" (the easy "Mon Dieu" of the foreigner) "am I a fool
that you can't
understand? Here, So-and-so"--to some one on whose
countenance a
faint gleam of comprehension was discernible--"tell
these
flapdoodles of the ages what I mean." With vanity, conceit,
pretence of
knowledge, she was merciless, if the pupil were a
promising one;
keen shafts of irony would pierce the sham. With some
she would get
very angry, lashing them out of their lethargy with
fiery scorn;
and in truth she made herself a mere instrument for the
training of her
pupils, careless what they, or any one else thought of
her, providing
that the resulting benefit to them was secured. And we,
who lived
around her, who in closest intimacy watched her day after
day, we bear
witness to the unselfish beauty of her life, the nobility
of her
character, and we lay at her feet our most reverent gratitude
for knowledge
gained, lives purified, strength developed. O noble and
heroic Soul,
whom the outside purblind world misjudges, but whom your
pupils partly
saw, never through lives and deaths shall we repay the
debt of
gratitude we owe to you.
And thus I came
through storm to peace, not to the peace of an
untroubled sea
of outer life, which no strong soul can crave, but to
an inner peace
that outer troubles may not avail to ruffle--a peace
which belongs
to the eternal not to the transitory, to the depths not
to the shallows
of life. It carried me scatheless through the terrible
spring of 1891,
when death struck down Charles Bradlaugh in the
plenitude of
his usefulness, and unlocked the gateway into rest for H.
P. Blavatsky.
Through anxieties and responsibilities heavy and
numerous it has
borne me; every strain makes it stronger; every trial
makes it
serener; every assault leaves it more radiant. Quiet
confidence has
taken the place of doubt; a strong security the place
of anxious
dread. In life, through death, to life, I am but the
servant of the
great Brotherhood, and those on whose heads but for a
moment the
touch of the Master has rested in blessing can never again
look upon the
world save through eyes made luminous with the radiance
of the Eternal
Peace.
PEACE TO ALL
BEINGS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1:
This odious law has now been altered, and a married woman
is a person,
not a chattel.]
[Footnote 2:
"The Disciples," p. 14.]
[Footnote 3:
"On the Nature and Existence of God." 1874.]
[Footnote 4:
"On the Nature and Existence of God." 1874.]
[Footnote 5:
"The Gospel of Atheism." 1876.]
[Footnote 6:
"Why I do not Believe in God." 1887.]
[Footnote 7:
Ibid.]
[Footnote 8:
Ibid.]
[Footnote 9:
"Life, Death, and Immortality." 1886.]
[Footnote 10:
"Life, Death, and Immortality." 1886.]
[Footnote 11:
"Life, Death, and Immortality." 1886.]
[Footnote 12:
Ibid.]
[Footnote 13:
"The Gospel of Atheism." 1876.]
[Footnote 14:
"On the Nature and Existence of God." 1874.]
[Footnote 15:
"The True Basis of Morality." 1874.]
[Footnote 16:
"Gospel of Atheism." 1876.]
[Footnote 17:
"On the Nature and Existence of God." 1874.]
[Footnote 18:
"A World without God." 1885.]
[Footnote 19:
"The Gospel of Atheism." 1876.]
[Footnote 20:
"The Gospels of Christianity and Freethought." 1874.]
[Footnote 21:
"A World without God." 1885.]
[Footnote 22:
"A World without God." 1885.]
[Footnote 23:
"The Gospel of Atheism." 1876.]
[Footnote 24:
"A World without God." 1885.]
[Footnote 25:
"A World without God." 1885.]
[Footnote 26:
"The Christian Creed." 1884.]
[Footnote 27:
_National Reformer_, June 18, 1882]
[Footnote 28:
_Theosophist_, June, 1882.]
[Footnote 29: I
leave these words as they were written in 1889. I
resigned my
office in the N.S.S. in 1890, feeling that the N.S.S. was
so identified
with Materialism that it had no longer place for me.]
LIST OF BOOKS
QUOTED.
"Autobiography,"
J.S. Mill, 184
"Christian
Creed, The," 173
"Freethinkers'
Text-book," 144
"Gospel of
Atheism, The," 145, 152, 158, 168
"Gospels
of Christianity and Freethought," 164
"Life,
Death, and Immortality," 147, 149, 150
_Link_, The,
333
_National
Reformer_, The, 79, 80, 280, 346-50, 354
_Our Corner,
_286, 329
_Theosophist_,
The, 282, 288
"True
Basis of Morality," 156
"Why I do
Not Believe in God," 146
"World
without God," 165, 169, 172
INDEX.
Affirmation
Bill brought in, 287
rejected, 299
Atheist,
position as an, 139
Authorship,
first attempts at, 84.
Bennett, D.M.,
prosecution of, 232
Blasphemy
prosecution, 283, 287, 289
Blavatsky,
H.P., 189, 337
meeting with, 341
"Bloody
Sunday," 324
Bradlaugh,
Charles, first meeting with, 135
as friend, 137
in the Clock Tower, 258
and the scene in the House, 265
_v_. Newdegate; result, 289
prosecuted for blasphemy, 283, 289
Confirmation,
51
Daughter,
application to remove, 213
denied access to, 219
Death of
father, 21
of mother, 126
Doubt the
first, 58
"Elements
of Social Science," 196
Engagement, 69
Essay, first
Freethought, 113
Fenians, the,
73
_Freethinker_
prosecution, 283, 287, 296
Freethought
Publishing Company, the, 285
Harrow, life
at, 30
Hoskyns, Rev.
E., libel action against, 359
Knowlton pamphlet,
the, 205
prosecution, 208
trial, 210
"Law of
Population, The," 212, 210
"Law and
Liberty League," the, 326
Lecture, the
first, 181
Linnell, the
Trafalgar Square victim, 316
funeral of, 327
_Link_,
founding of the, 331
Malthusian
League formed, 229
Malthusianism
and Theosophy, 240
Marriage, 70
tie broken, no
Match-girls'
strike, 335
Union, established, 336
_National
Reformer,_ the, 134
first contribution to, 180
resignation of co-editorship, 320
National Secular
Society joined, 135
elected vice-president of, 202
resignation of, 357
Northampton
Election, 183
struggle, 253, 344
Oaths Bill,
the, 314, 329
_Our Corner_,
286, 314
Political
Opinions, 174
Pusey, Dr.,
109, 284
Russian
politics, 311
Scientific
work, 249
School Board,
election to, 338
Scott, Thomas,
112, 127
Socialism, 299
debate on, between Messrs. Bradlaugh and
Hyndman, 301
Socialist
debates, 318, 319
Socialists and
open-air speaking, 312
Defence Association, 323
Stanley, Dean,
23, 122
Theosophical
Society, the, 180
joined, 344
headquarters established, 361
Theosophy and
Charles Bradlaugh, 350
the National Secular Society, 357
Trafalgar
Square, closing of, to the public, 323
Truelove,
Edward, trial of, 225
Voysey, Rev.
Charles, 106
Working Women's
Club, 337, 360
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Preface
Theosophy and the Masters General Principles
The Earth Chain Body and Astral Body Kama – Desire
Manas Of Reincarnation Reincarnation Continued
Karma Kama Loka
Devachan
Cycles
Arguments Supporting Reincarnation
Differentiation Of Species Missing Links
Psychic Laws, Forces, and Phenomena
Psychic Phenomena and Spiritualism
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What is Theosophy ? Theosophy Defined (More Detail)
Three Fundamental Propositions Key Concepts of Theosophy
Cosmogenesis Anthropogenesis Root Races
Ascended Masters After Death States
The Seven Principles of Man Karma
Reincarnation Helena Petrovna Blavatsky
Colonel Henry Steel Olcott William Quan Judge
The Start of the Theosophical
Society
History of the Theosophical
Society
Theosophical Society Presidents
History of the Theosophical
Society in Wales
The Three Objectives of the Theosophical
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The Theosophical Order of
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Glossaries of Theosophical Terms
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A Modern Revival of Ancient Wisdom
(Selection of Articles by H P Blavatsky)
The Secret Doctrine – Volume 3
A compilation of H P Blavatsky’s
writings published after her death
Esoteric Christianity or the Lesser Mysteries
The Early Teachings of The Masters
A Collection of Fugitive Fragments
Fundamentals of the Esoteric Philosophy
Mystical,
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and Scientific
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Edited by George Robert Stow Mead
From Talks on the Path of Occultism - Vol. II
In the Twilight”
Series of Articles
The In the
Twilight” series appeared during
1898 in The
Theosophical Review and
from 1909-1913
in The Theosophist.
compiled from
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Letters and
Talks on Theosophy and the Theosophical Life
Obras
Teosoficas En Espanol
Theosophische
Schriften Auf Deutsch
An Outstanding
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By a student of
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Elementary Theosophy Who is the Man? Body and Soul
Body, Soul and Spirit Reincarnation Karma
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