Part 6

Of the second class I call to mind, with especial pleasure, one little household. It was a mother and her son. Her means of support, a mangle, stood in the little room in which she had lived since she had raised herself up again. It was dinner-time. A table, neatly covered for two persons, stood in the room, and upon the iron stand before the fire was placed a dish of mashed potatoes, nicely browned, ready to be set on the table. The mother was waiting for her son, and the dinner was waiting for him. He was the organ-blower in a church during divine service, and he returned whilst I was still there. He was well dressed, but was a little, weakly man, and squinted; the mother’s eyes, however, regarded him with love. This son was her only one, and her all. And he, to whom mother Nature had acted as a stepmother, had a noble mother’s heart to warm himself with, which prepared for him an excellent home, a well-covered table, and a comfortable bed. That poor little home was not without its wealth.

As belonging to the third and highest class, I must mention two families, both of them shoemakers, and both of them inhabiting cellars. The one family consisted of old, the other of young people. The old shoemaker had to maintain his wife, who was lame and sick, from a fall in the street, and a daughter. The young one had a young wife, and five little children to provide for; but work was scanty and the mouths many. At this house, also, it was dinner-time, and I saw upon the table nothing but potatoes. The children were clean, and had remarkably agreeable faces; but—they were pale; so was also the father of the family. The young and pretty, but very pale mother, said, “Since I have come into this room I have never been well, and this I know—I shall not live long!” Her eyes filled with tears; and it was plain enough to see that this really delicate constitution could not long sustain the effects of the cold, damp room, into which no sunbeam entered. These two families, of the same trade, and alike poor, had become friends in need. When one of the fathers of the family wanted work, and was informed by the Home-Missionary who visited them that the other had it, the intelligence seemed a consolation to him. Gladdening sight of human sympathy, which keeps the head erect and the heart sound under the depressing struggle against competition! But little gladdening to me would have been the sight of these families in their cellar-homes, had I not at the same time been aware of the increase of those “Model Lodging-Houses,” which may be met with in many parts of England, and which will remove these inhabitants of cellars, they who sit in darkness, into the blessing of the light of life—which will provide worthy dwellings for worthy people. But of this I shall speak somewhat later, in connection with other new institutions for the advancement of the health, both of body and soul, of—all classes.

“For no one for himself doth live or suffer.”

For myself, I was well provided for by English hospitality, and enjoyed an excellent home in the house of the noble and popular preacher, J. M——. With him, and his wife (one of these beautiful, motherly natures, who through a peculiar geniality of heart is able to accomplish so much, and to render herself and every thing that is good twofold, in quite another manner to that of the multiplication-table, which merely makes two and two into four)—with them and their family I spent some beautiful days amid conversation and music. There, in the neighborhood of their house, I saw also one of those English parks, whose verdant, carefully-kept sward, and groups of shrubs and flowers, give so peculiar and so attractive a charm to the English landscape. Add to this a river-like sheet of water; swans, groups of beautiful children and ladies feeding them on the banks, the song of birds every where amongst the shrubs; scattered palaces, and handsome country-houses—and every thing looking so finished, so splendid, so beautiful and perfect, as if nothing out of condition, nothing in tatters or shabby was to be found in the world. Such was the impression produced by the Prince’s Park, which was laid out by a wealthy private gentleman, Mr. J——, on the birth of the Prince of Wales, the eldest son of Queen Victoria, and thrown open to the public with only this single admonition exhibited, in large letters, in various parts of the park, “it is hoped the public will protect that which is intended for the public enjoyment.”

But I must leave this enchanting Idyll, and hasten into the manufacturing districts; and, first of all, to Manchester:

In my imagination Manchester was like a colossal woman sitting at her spinning-wheel, with her enormous manufactories; her subject towns, suburbs, villages, factories, lying for many miles round, spinning, spinning, spinning clothes for all the people on the face of the earth. And there, as she sat, the queen of the spindle, with her masses of ugly houses and factories, enveloped in dense rain-clouds, as if in cobwebs, the effect she made upon me was gloomy and depressing. Yet even here, also, I was to breathe a more refreshing atmosphere of life; even here was I also to see light. Free-trade had brought hither her emancipating spirit. It was a time of remarkable activity and prosperity. The work-people were fully employed; wages were good, and food was cheap. Even here also had ragged-schools been established, together with many institutions for improving the condition of the poor working-classes. In one of these ragged-schools the boys had a perfectly organized band of music, in which they played and blew so that it was a pleasure—and sometimes a disadvantage, to hear them. The lamenting “cry of the children” was no longer heard from the factories. Government had put an end to the cruelties and oppressions formerly practiced on these little ones by the unscrupulous lust of gain. No child under ten years old can now be employed in the factories, and even such, when employed, must of necessity be allowed part of the day for school. Every large factory has now generally its own school, with a paid master for the children. The boys whom I saw in the great rooms of the factories and with whom I conversed, looked both healthy and cheerful.

Two ideas were impressed upon my mind at this place: how dangerous it is, even amid a high degree of social culture, to give one class of men unrestrained power over another; and how easily a free people, with a powerful public spirit, and accustomed to self-government, can raise themselves out of humiliating circumstances. This spirit has done much already in England, but it has yet more to do.

Upon one of those large, gloomy factories in Manchester, I read, inscribed in iron letters, “The Great Beehive;” and in truth, a good name for these enormous hives of human industrial toil, in which people have sometimes forgotten, and still forget, that man is any thing more than a working-bee, which lives to fill its cell in the hive, and die. I visited several of these huge beehives. In one of them, which employed twelve hundred work-people, I saw, in a large room, above three hundred women sitting in rows winding cotton on reels. The room was clean, and so also were all the women. It did not appear to be hard work; but the steadfastly-fixed attention with which these women pursued their labor seemed to me distressingly wearisome. They did not allow themselves to look up, still less to turn their heads or to talk. Their life seemed to depend upon the cotton thread.

In another of these great beehives, a long, low room, in which were six hundred power-looms, represented an extraordinary appearance. What a snatching to and fro, what a jingling, what an incessant stir, and what a moist atmosphere there was between floor and ceiling, as if the limbs of some absurd, unheard-of beast, with a thousand arms, had been galvanized! Around us, from three to four hundred operatives, women and men, stood among the rapid machinery watching and tending. The twelve o’clock bell rung, and now the whole throng of work-people would go forth to their various mid-day quarters; the greatest number to their respective dwellings in the neighborhood of the factory. I placed myself, together with my conductor, in the court outside the door of the room, which was on lower ground, in order that I might have a better view of the work-people as they came out.

Just as one sees bees coming out of a hive into the air, two, three, or four at a time—pause, as it were, a moment from the effects of open air and light, and then with a low hum, dart forth into space, each one his own way, so was it in this case. Thus came they forth, men and women, youths and girls. The greater number were well dressed, looked healthy, and full of spirit. In many, however, might be seen the expression of a rude life; they bore the traces of depravity about them.

As labor is now organized in the factories at Manchester, it cannot easily be otherwise. The master-manufacturer is not acquainted with his work-people. He hires spinners; and every spinner is master of a room, and he it is who hires the hands. He is the autocrat of the room, and not unfrequently is a severe and immoral one. The operatives live in their own houses, apart from every thing belonging to the master-manufacturer, with the exception of the raw material.

In the country it is otherwise; there the master-manufacturer may be, and often is, a fatherly friend and guardian of his people. And where he is so, it is in general fully acknowledged. The character which each manufacturer bears as an employer, even in Manchester, is perfectly well known. People mention with precision the good, the worthless, or the wicked master. I visited factories belonging to some of these various characters, but perceived a more marked difference in the manners and appearance of the masters themselves, than in the appearance and condition of the work-people. At the present moment the difference could not be very perceptible, because the general demand for hands causes the circumstances of the lower classes to be generally good. But, as before remarked, the patriarchal connection between master and servant, with its good, as well as its evil consequences, no longer exists in the manufacturing towns of England. Employer and employed stand beside each other, or rather opposed to each other, excepting through the requirements of labor. The whole end and aim of the Manchester manufacturer—when he is not subjected to machinery, and lives merely as a screw, or portion of it—is, to get out of Manchester. He spins and makes use of all means, good or bad, to lay by sufficient money to live independently, or to build himself a house at a distance from the smoky, restless town, away from the bustle—away from the throng of restless, striving work-people. His object is to arrive at quiet in the country, in a comfortable home; and having attained this object, he looks upon the noisy, laboring hive, out of which he has lately come, as a something with which he has no concern, and out of which he is glad to have escaped with a whole skin. Such is the case with many—God forbid that we should say, with all!

Two subjects of conversation occupied the people of Manchester very much at this time. The one was the question—a vital question for the whole of England—of popular education. The people of Manchester had begun to take the subject into serious consideration, and had come to the conclusion that there might at once be adopted a simple system of education by which, as in the United States, every one should receive in the people’s school practical and moral instruction, and that religious instruction should be left for the home or for the Sunday teaching. The willingness to thus act in concert which has been shown by the clergy of the Established Church in Manchester, is a good omen to the various religious sects united in this work. All things considered, it seems to me that there is at this moment in England the most decided movement toward a new development, a new life as well in theoretic as in practically popular respects; and it is more apparent in the Established Church than in any other religious body.

The second great subject of conversation, as well in Manchester as in Liverpool, was Queen Victoria’s expected visit. The Queen had announced her intention of visiting the great towns of the manufacturing districts, in company with Prince Albert, in the middle of the month, and they were accordingly expected in a few days. Several of these towns had never before seen a crowned head within their walls, and this, in connection with the great popularity of the Queen, and the liking and the love which the people have for her, had perfectly enchanted the inhabitants of Manchester. They were preparing to give a royal reception to their lofty guests. Nothing could be too magnificent or too costly in the eyes of the Manchester people which could testify their homage. The whole of the district, now that the Queen was expected, was said to be “brimful of loyalty,” and the whole of England was at this time, both in heart and soul, monarchical. Opposition against the royal family exists no longer in England; the former members of this opposition had become converted. On all hands there was but one voice of devotion and praise. Wonderful! yes, incomprehensible, thought I, when I was informed that the Queen had requested not long since to have a grant from Parliament of 72,000_l._ for the erection of new stables at her palace of Windsor, and the same year 30,000_l._, for Prince Albert to repair his dog-kennels, and now, again, just lately, 17,000_l._ for the erection of stables at a palace which the Queen has obtained for her eldest son, and of which he will take possession on attaining his majority. Thus 119,000_l._ for stables and dog-kennels.

What? 119,000_l._ for stables and dog-kennels; for the maintenance of fine horses and dogs, and that at a time when Ireland is perishing of hunger or emigrating in the deepest distress; when even in England so infinitely much remains to be done for humanity, so much untold good might be effected for the public with this sum. Queen Elizabeth was accustomed to say, that she considered her money best put out when it was in the pockets of her subjects, and she scorned to desire any great project for her own pleasure. Queen Victoria desires, year after year, immense grants for her stables and kennels; desires this of her people, and yet, for all this, is homage paid to her—is she loved and supported by the people in this extraordinary manner! Parliament grumbles, but consents to all that the Queen desires, fully consents without a murmur, because it loves her. Such projects would otherwise be dangerous to the power of the monarch. Such projects overturned the throne of Louis Philippe—have undermined many thrones. But the light foot of this Queen—a well-beloved little foot it ought to be—dances again and again on the brink of the dangerous abyss, and it gives not way. But how is this possible? What is it that makes this Queen so popular, so universally beloved by the people, spite of the desire for stables and dog-kennels, unnecessary articles of luxury, when hundred thousands of her subjects are in want even of the necessaries of life; want even the means to secure a home and daily bread?

Thus I asked, and thus they replied to me:

The English people wish that their royal family should live with a certain degree of state. They are fond of beautiful horses and dogs themselves, and it flatters the national pride that the royal personages should have such, and should have magnificent dwellings for them. The character of the Queen, her domestic and public virtues, and the influence of her example, which is of such high value to the nation, causes it to regard no sacrifice of money as too great for the possession of such a Queen. England is aware that under the protection of the throne, under the shadow of the sceptre of this Queen, and the stability which it gives to the affairs of the kingdom, she can in freedom and peace manage her own internal concerns, and advance forward on the path of democratic development and self-government, with a security which other nations do not possess.

Hence it is that the reigning family now upon the English throne presents a spectacle extraordinary upon this throne, or upon any throne in the world. The Queen and her husband stand before the people as the personation of every domestic and public virtue! The Queen is an excellent wife and mother; she attends to the education of her children, and fulfills her duties as sovereign, alike conscientiously. She is an early riser; is punctual and regular in great as well as in small things. She pays ready money for all that she purchases, and never is in debt to any one. Her court is remarkable for its good and beautiful morals. On their estates, she and Prince Albert carry every thing out in the best manner, establish schools and institutions for the good of the poor; these institutions and arrangements of theirs, serve as examples to every one. Their uprightness, kindness, generosity, and the tact which they under all circumstances display, win the heart of the nation. They show a warm sympathy for the great interests of the people, and by this very sympathy are they promoted. Of this, the successful carrying out of free-trade, and the Exhibition in the Crystal Palace, projected in the first instance by Prince Albert, and powerfully seconded by the Queen, furnish brilliant examples. The sympathies of the Queen are those of the heart as well as of the head. When that noble statesman, the great promoter of free-trade, Sir Robert Peel, died, the Queen shut herself in for several days, and wept for him as if she had lost a father. And whenever a warm sympathy is called forth, either in public or in private affairs, it is warmly and fully participated by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.

In confirmation of this opinion regarding Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, which I heard every where, and from all parties in England, a number of anecdotes of their life and actions were related to me, which fully bore it out.

This universal impression, universally produced by the sovereign, who, properly speaking, can govern nothing—because it is well known that the monarch of England is merely a nominal executor of the wishes of the people, a hand which subscribes that which the minister lays before it in the name of the people; this great power, in a Queen, is without any political power.

Monarchs and their people no longer bear the same relation to each other as in the time when, for example, Charles the Ninth put forth his demands, with the addition,—

“Do it, and be off with you!”

This injunction to do a thing, and then take themselves off, can no longer be given to the people by the King, but by reason. The people have arrived at years of discretion, and the monarch is the executor of their laws and their wishes. He is so in England, it is said.

From Manchester I traveled to Birmingham. I saw again the land of the fire-worshipers, their smoking altars, in tall columns and pyramids, towering above the green fields; saw again the burning gulfs yawning in the earth, and, saw them now with unmixed pleasure. I heard no longer, amid their boiling roar, the lamenting cry of the children; I heard and saw them now only as the organs of the public prosperity, and rejoiced over them as proofs of man’s power over fire and water, over all the powers of nature; the victory of the gods over the giants!

In Birmingham I visited a steel-pen manufactory, and followed from room to room the whole process of those small metal tongues which go abroad over all the world, and do so much—evil, and so much good; so much that is great, so much that is small; so much that is important, so much that is trivial. I saw four hundred young girls, sitting in large, light rooms, each with her little pen-stamp, employed in a dexterous and easy work, especially fitted for women. All were well dressed, seemed healthy and cheerful, many were pretty: upon the whole, it was a spectacle of prosperity which surpassed even that of the mill-girls in the celebrated factories of Lowell, in America.

Birmingham was at this time in a most flourishing condition, and had more orders for goods than it could supply, nor were there any male paupers to be found in the town; there was full employment for all.

In Birmingham I saw a large school of design. Not less than two hundred young female artists studied here in a magnificent hall or rotunda, abundantly supplied with models of all kinds, and during certain hours in the week, exclusively opened to these female votaries of art. A clever, respectable, old woman, the porter of the school-house, spoke of many of these with especial pleasure, as if she prided herself on them in some degree.

I saw in Birmingham a beautiful park, with hot-houses, in which were tropical plants, open to the public; saw also a large concert-room, where twice in the week “glees” were sung, and to which the public were admitted at a low price: all republican institutions, and which seem to prosper more in a monarchical realm than in republics themselves.

I met with a surprise in Birmingham; that is to say, I was all at once carried back fifteen centuries into the Syrian desert of Chalsis, and there lived a life so unlike Birmingham and Birmingham-life, that just for the sake of contrast, it was very refreshing. The thing was quite simple in itself, inasmuch as one evening I accompanied an amiable family, who resided in Birmingham, to a lecture, which was given by a young, gifted preacher, on the old Church-father, Saint Jerome (Hieronymus.)

The subject of the lecture, which was extempore, and delivered with much ease and perspicuity, was evidently not intended to recommend to his auditors, but rather to repel them from an ascetic and contemplative life. Saint Jerome was delineated as a noble fool, a curiosity in human nature, and was to be deplored as a sacrifice to perverted reason, by no means to be imitated. The true end of humanity was not to be attained by flying from city life, and burying one’s self in a desert for study and self-mortification; that end was rather to be attained in the busy city, than in the isolated existence of the wilderness; and so on. Such was the lecturer’s moral. But upon me his arguments made an impression considerably antithetical to that which he intended. I saw this warrior of the third century devoured by a burning thirst of light and knowledge, of purity for his whole being; saw him wander out, seeking the wells of life; saw him, separating from the agreeable circles of city existence, roam on amid catacombs and the tombs of martyrs; saw him seeing in Gaul, and on the Rhine, and there finding—Christianity. Saw him there, after being baptized, with his Bible under his arm, retire into the deserts of Syria, and there, in the burning sands of Chalsis, bury himself for a number of years, amid exegetic studies and severe deeds of penance. I heard him, even at the time that he, according to his own words, “watered his couch with his tears,” and while he was given over, and regarded as a fool by his friends, still reproach those friends for having chosen the worse part, that of the life of enjoyment in the city, and break forth in transport, “O! silent wildernesses, flower-strewn by Jesus Christ! O! wild solitudes, full of his spirit!”