Crying for the Light; Or, Fifty Years Ago. Vol. 1 [of 3]

by J. Ewing Ritchie

The editor of the Trumpet of Freedom was aware of this failing of the working-class, of whom he constituted himself the champion, and was able to supply them with any amount of the article in question. If he was poor in ideas he was rich in words, in that respect being gifted almost as much as an Irish orator. I need not give the particulars of his speech. It was one he had often made before, and of a character very common before the Corn Laws were repealed, when the Tories were playing the game of the Chartists, and contending for all the abuses which the latter pointed to as illustrations of the need of their famous remedy for all the evils to which political flesh is heir.

The speaker was particularly severe on the lazy lives of the parsons, and the way in which they humbugged the people. They were charged with every crime. They were none of them righteous, no, not one. If a profligate prince reigned, who more fulsome in his praise than the Bishops? If a profligate war was to be carried on—a war which was to slaughter thousands of honest lads, and to reduce thousands of homes to wretchedness and want—did not the Bishops consecrate the banners, and offer up the mockery of a prayer to heaven, as if God approved of such wanton slaughter? Did they not always vote against the interests of the public? Every parson was a robber of the poor. Did they not take the tithes? Did they not take the part of the rich against the poor? Did not they preach submission to the powers that be? Did they not drive the wretched voters, at election times, to vote for the Tories? ‘Down with the parsons!’ said the speaker, and the cry was repeated angrily by the mob. Some said, ‘More pigs and fewer parsons’; others hinted it would be as well to march to the Rectory, and to taste some of the Rector’s old port; others that there would be no great harm if they were to burn down his house and hunt him out of the town.

Just as the mob were on the point of being goaded to the verge of madness by the London orator, the young man from Bethesda Chapel, as he was called, claimed to be heard. At first he was received with disfavour. He was a stranger to them all. That was against him. It was still more against him that he had on a black coat and a white choker. A still further offence was it that his tone was that of a gentleman. Angry words were heard. He was a spy—a Government informer—a wolf in sheep’s clothing—and ought to be ducked in the nearest horse-pond. It was urged that he might be permitted to speak, in order that he might show what a fool he was. The London orator especially headed all these anti-sympathetic demonstrations.

‘I am a parson,’ said Mr. Wentworth—then there was a tremendous burst of indignation—‘and I come here to show that a parson may feel for a poor man, and may aid him in his efforts to obtain political power. It is not all parsons who take tithes, but if you would abolish tithes to-morrow, the only effect would be that the landlord would be richer, that is all, as the difference would only go into the landlord’s pocket; but I come here to say, with you, that you must have political power; that it is unjust and unfair to deprive you of it; and I say so because I am a firm believer in a book which is very unpopular here, called the Bible. It is because I read that book that I wish you well. My Bible tells me that I “must love my neighbour as myself”; that I must do to others as I would have others do to me; and how can I do this so long as we have class legislation, and injustice, upheld in the name of law? I deny the right of Government to exclude you from the franchise. I agree with much that has been said. There are abuses to be remedied. There are rights to be gained. In the past you have had unjust treatment, partly owing to your own ignorance and partly to the selfishness of your rulers. You have been refused education; you have been reduced to the condition of serfs; you have been unfairly taxed; you have been denied the chance of getting an honest living; you have been sacrificed to high rents; and I think the parsons are much to blame that they have not more openly taken your part. They have been too prone rather to ask you to submit to what they call the dispensation of Providence than to assist you in your righteous efforts to get rid of bad laws and to secure better. It is to be feared that, in some respects, you have acted indiscreetly. Why turn friends into enemies by the bitterness of your invective and by the absurdity of your exaggerations?’ Here there were signs of disapproval. ‘You have been badly advised.’ (‘No, no!’) ‘You are too easily made the dupe of the designing demagogue.’ Here the London orator grew very angry, and resented the attack as personal, as perhaps it was. ‘By the violence of your attacks on those who are ready to help you, you make the gulf between you and your true friends, the Liberals, greater than it really is. Especially do you made a terrible blunder,’ continued the orator, ‘when you assume that Christianity and priestcraft are the same, and that in this respect all parsons are alike, whether they be of the Church of Rome, or of the Church of England, or Wesleyans, or Baptists, or Independents. The Master whom I serve, and whose Gospel I preach, was as poor as most of you; was the son of a carpenter; was born in a manger; had not where to lay His head; lived a life of poverty; died a death of shame. In His life and death I see the Charter of your Freedom and my own. In His promises you have solace and support in the bitterest of your sufferings, under the most grievous of your wrongs. You can have no truer friend, no nobler guide. He can make sorrow and suffering such as yours light as no one else can.’

Then the attention of the hearers relaxed. ‘They had not come there to hear a sermon,’ they said. One Freethinker went so far as to shake his fist at the speaker, while another enlightened hearer tried to make a grab at the orator’s coat-tail, in the hope to pull him down. Nevertheless, the speaker continued:

‘To a great extent I, and most Dissenting parsons, at any rate, sympathize with you. We are quite ready to go with you at any rate part of the way; but you frighten us when you talk of physical force. “They that use the sword shall perish by the sword.” What could they do against a disciplined military force? Mightier far is the force of an enlightened public opinion. You can gain nothing by violence. You can’t master the soldiers and the constables, and you will array against yourselves a public opinion which would otherwise be compelled to listen to your claims, and to treat them with the attention they deserve. Many of the leaders in politics admit them; many members of the House of Commons admit them; many of the aristocracy are coming to your side. We have on the throne a young Queen, who has a woman’s heart of tenderness for all that suffer. By rashness, by injudicious action, by unwise invective, you may play into the hands of your enemies, and thus put back the hour of your triumph for another generation at least.’

Then there was a howl which rendered further speaking impossible. The crowd was split into two parties, those who admired the young parson’s sense and pluck, and those who followed the Chartist agitators, who had their own ends to serve, and their own ways of attaining them. The speech had, to a certain extent, damaged them, inasmuch as it was clear many of the respectable operatives present sided with the speaker. The chairman, the committee, the editor from London, were as angry as they could well be. The effect of what was to have been a mighty demonstration was destroyed. It was feared the subscriptions would fall off. It was true, in the next week’s list, ‘Junius Brutus’ was down for a shilling, and ‘A Hater of Tyrants’ for eighteenpence, and others for a few sums equally small; but these were a poor response to the chairman’s appeal. In that same number of the Trumpet of Freedom was a very scorching article on the jackanapes of an Independent parson. There is a great advantage in being an editor. An editor has always the last word.

‘There goes the scorpiant,’ said the chairman, as Mr. Wentworth passed him, at the end of the meeting. ‘There goes the scorpiant.’

‘Scorpion, I presume you mean,’ said the individual alluded to.

‘No, I don’t,’ repeated the chairman angrily. ‘You are a scorpiant; that’s what I said, and that I’ll stick to.’