The Theosophical Society,
The Writings of Annie Besant
Annie
Besant
(1847
-1933)
Annie
Besant’s Autobiography
From a photograph by H.S.
Mendelssohn, 27, Cathcart Road, South Kensington, London
ANNIE BESANT
1885
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
Park, LondonAugust, 1893.
CONTENTS
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
INDEX
"OUT OF THE EVERYWHERE INTO
THE HERE."
On October 1, 1847, I am
credibly informed, my baby eyes opened to the light(?) of a London afternoon at
5.39.
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.
It has always been
somewhat of a grievance to me that I was born in London, "within the sound
of Bow Bells," when three-quarters of my 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 Devonshire Woods on his father's. The
Woods were yeomen of 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
London town, fought Queen Caroline's battles against her most religious and
gracious royal husband, aided the Duke of Kent with no niggard hand, and
received a baronetcy for his services from the Duke of Kent's royal daughter.
Since then they have given England a Lord 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 Ireland is it that if you stop to ask 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 Ireland, 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
Ireland, will you be bumping along the 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 Island of Saints, and shall once again be the Island of Sages, when
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
France"—the "Milesian kings"—and the tree grew up a 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 France, doubtless for cause shown, they had come over the sea to Ireland,
and there continued their 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 France." And Emily, 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 Norwood, worn
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, St. John's Wood. I can remember my
mother hovering round the 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 the 1st of October,
1851, jumping up 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.
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!
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 16½, 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 |
|
MONDAY. |
MONDAY. |
MONDAY. |
MONDAY. |
|
Cursed the fig-tree. Taught
in the |
Cursed the fig-tree.
Purified the |
Like Matthew. |
—— |
|
TUESDAY. |
TUESDAY. |
TUESDAY. |
TUESDAY. |
|
All chaps, xxi. 20,
xxii-xxv., spoken on Tuesday, for xxvi. 2 gives Passover as "after two
days." |
Saw fig-tree withered up.
Then discourses. |
Discourses. No date shown. |
—— |
|
WEDNESDAY. |
WEDNESDAY. |
WEDNESDAY. |
WEDNESDAY. |
|
Blank. (Possibly remained in |
|||
|
THURSDAY. |
THURSDAY. |
THURSDAY. |
THURSDAY. |
|
Preparation of Passover.
Eating of Passover, and institution of the Holy Eucharist. |
Same as Matt. |
Same as Matt. |
Discourses with disciples,
but before the Passover. Washes the disciples' feet. Nothing said of
Holy Eucharist, nor of agony in |
|
FRIDAY. |
FRIDAY. |
FRIDAY. |
FRIDAY. |
|
Led to Pilate. Judas hangs
himself. Tried. Condemned to death. Scourged and mocked. Led to crucifixion. Darkness
from 12 to 3. Died at 3. |
As Matthew, but hour of
crucifixion given, |
Led to Pilate. Sent to
Herod. Sent back to Pilate. Rest as in Matthew; but one malefactor
repents. |
Taken to Pilate. Jews would
not enter, that they might eat the Passover. Scourged by Pilate before
condemnation, 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.
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 galère,] 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. 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.
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."
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.
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."
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.
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.
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."
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!'
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." 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."
"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." 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."
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." 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."
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?"
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." 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."
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."
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."
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."
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.'"
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.'" 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."
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."
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."
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."
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."
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."
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." 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."
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.
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.
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 £200, and recognisances
of £500 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 £100, the queerest comment on his view of the case and of our characters,
since we were liable jointly to £1,400 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."
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 £50 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 £177 (subsequent
subscriptions raised the amount to £197 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
£1,292 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 £1,274 10s. This account was then closed and the balance of £17
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 £196 16s. 7d., and after paying the remainder of the
costs in Mr. Truelove's case, a balance of £26 15s. 2d. was carried on. This
again rose to £247 15s. 2½d., 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 £197 16s. 6d. was presented
to him, and after the close of the struggle some anonymous friend sent to me
personally £200 as "thanks for the courage and ability shown." In
addition to all this, the Malthusian League received no less than £455 11s. 9d.
during the first year of its life, and started on its second year with a
balance in hand of £77 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?
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.
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.
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."
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 Hindû 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."
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." 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.
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.
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 £400 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 cortège,
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.
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 10½ 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 £5 shares was quoted at £18 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.
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.
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 Hindû 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. 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,
£150 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 £1,000, 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
The Theosophical Society,
Helena Petrovna Blavatsky 1831 – 1891
The Founder of Modern Theosophy
Index of Articles by
By
H P Blavatsky
Is the Desire to Live Selfish?
Ancient Magic in Modern Science
Precepts Compiled by H P Blavatsky
Obras Por H P Blavatsky
En Espanol
Articles about the Life of H P Blavatsky
Nature is infinite in space and
time -- boundless and eternal, unfathomable and ineffable. The all-pervading
essence of infinite nature can be called space, consciousness, life, substance,
force, energy, divinity -- all of which are fundamentally one.
2) The finite and the infinite
Nature is a unity in
diversity, one in essence, manifold in form. The infinite whole is composed of
an infinite number of finite wholes -- the relatively stable and autonomous
things (natural systems or artefacts) that we observe around us. Every natural
system is not only a conscious, living, substantial entity, but is
consciousness-life-substance, of a particular range of density and form.
Infinite nature is an abstraction, not an entity; it therefore does not act or
change and has no attributes. The finite, concrete systems of which it is
composed, on the other hand, move and change, act and interact, and possess
attributes. They are composite, inhomogeneous, and ultimately transient.
3)
Vibration/worlds within worlds
The one essence manifests not
only in infinitely varied forms, and on infinitely varied scales, but also in
infinitely varying degrees of spirituality and substantiality, comprising an
infinite spectrum of vibration or density. There is therefore an endless series
of interpenetrating, interacting worlds within worlds, systems within systems.
The energy-substances of
higher planes or subplanes (a plane being a particular range of vibration) are
relatively more homogeneous and less differentiated than those of lower planes
or subplanes.
Just as boundless space is
comprised of endless finite units of space, so eternal duration is comprised of
endless finite units of time. Space is the infinite totality of worlds within
worlds, but appears predominantly empty because only a tiny fraction of the
energy-substances composing it are perceptible and tangible to an entity at any
particular moment. Time is a concept we use to quantify the rate at which
events occur; it is a function of
change and motion, and
presupposes a succession of cause and effect. Every entity is extended in space
and changes 'in time'.
All change (of position,
substance, or form) is the result of causes; there is no such thing as absolute
chance. Nothing can happen for no reason at all for nothing exists in
isolation; everything is part of an intricate web of causal interconnections and
interactions. The keynote of nature is harmony: every action is automatically
followed by an equal and opposite reaction, which sooner or later rebounds upon
the originator of the initial act. Thus, all our thoughts and deeds will
eventually bring us 'fortune' or 'misfortune' according to the degree to which
they were harmonious or disharmonious. In the long term, perfect justice
prevails in nature.
Because nature is
fundamentally one, and the same basic habits and structural, geometric, and
evolutionary principles apply throughout, there are correspondences between
microcosm and macrocosm. The principle of analogy -- as above, so below -- is a
vital tool in our efforts to understand reality.
All finite systems and their
attributes are relative. For any entity, energy-substances vibrating within the
same range of frequencies as its outer body are 'physical' matter, and finer
grades of substance are what we call energy, force, thought, desire, mind,
spirit, consciousness, but these are just as material to entities on the
corresponding planes as our physical world is to us. Distance and time units
are also relative: an atom is a solar system on its own scale, reembodying perhaps
millions of times in what for us is one second, and our whole galaxy may be a
molecule in some supercosmic entity, for which a million of our years is just a
second. The range of scale is infinite: matter-consciousness is both infinitely
divisible and infinitely aggregative.
All natural systems consist
of smaller systems and form part of larger systems. Hierarchies extend both
'horizontally' (on the same plane) and 'vertically' or inwardly (to higher and
lower planes). On the horizontal level, subatomic particles form atoms, which
combine into molecules, which arrange themselves into cells, which form tissues
and organs, which form part of organisms, which form part of ecosystems, which
form part of planets, solar systems, galaxies, etc. The constitution of worlds
and of the organisms that inhabit them form 'vertical' hierarchies, and can be
divided into several interpenetrating layers or elements, from physical-astral
to psychomental to spiritual-divine, each of which can be further divided.
The human constitution can be
divided up in several different ways: e.g. into a trinity of body, soul, and
spirit; or into 7 'principles' -- a lower quaternary consisting of physical
body, astral model-body, life-energy, and lower thoughts and desires, and an
upper triad consisting of higher mind (reincarnating ego), spiritual intuition,
and inner god. A planet or star can be regarded as a 'chain' of 12 globes, existing
on 7 planes, each globe comprising several subplanes.
The highest part of every
multilevelled organism or hierarchy is its spiritual summit or 'absolute',
meaning a collective entity or 'deity' which is relatively perfected in
relation to the hierarchy in question. But the most 'spiritual' pole of one
hierarchy is the most 'material' pole of the next, superior hierarchy, just as
the lowest pole of one hierarchy is the highest pole of the one below.
Each level of a hierarchical
system exercises a formative and organizing influence on the lower levels
(through the patterns and prototypes stored up from past cycles of activity),
while the lower levels in turn react upon the higher. A system is therefore
formed and organized mainly from within outwards, from the inner levels of its
constitution, which are relatively more enduring and developed than the outer
levels. This inner guidance is sometimes active and selfconscious, as in our
acts of free will (constrained, however, by karmic tendencies from the past),
and sometimes it is automatic and passive, giving rise to our own automatic
bodily functions and habitual and instinctual behavior, and to the orderly,
lawlike operations of nature in general. The 'laws' of nature are therefore the
habits of the various grades of conscious entities that compose reality,
ranging from higher intelligences (collectively
forming the universal mind) to elemental nature-forces.
10) Consciousness and its vehicles
The core of every entity --
whether atom, human, planet, or star -- is a monad, a unit of consciousness-life-substance,
which acts through a series of more material vehicles or bodies. The monad or
self in which the consciousness of a particular organism is focused is animated
by higher monads and expresses itself through a series of lesser monads, each
of which is the nucleus of one of the lower vehicles of the entity in question.
The following monads can be distinguished: the divine or galactic monad, the
spiritual or solar monad, the higher human or planetary-chain monad, the lower
human or globe monad, and the animal, vital-astral, and physical monads. At our
present stage of evolution, we are essentially the lower human monad, and our
task is to raise our consciousness from the animal-human to the spiritual-human
level of it.
Evolution means the
unfolding, the bringing into active manifestation, of latent powers and
faculties 'involved' in a previous cycle of evolution. It is the building of
ever fitter vehicles for the expression of the mental and spiritual powers of
the monad. The more sophisticated the lower vehicles of an entity, the greater
their ability to express the powers locked up in the higher levels of its
constitution. Thus all things are alive and conscious, but the degree of
manifest life and consciousness is extremely varied.
Evolution results from the
interplay of inner impulses and environmental stimuli. Ever building on and
modifying the patterns of the past, nature is infinitely creative.
12) Cyclic evolution/re-embodiment
Cyclic evolution is a
fundamental habit of nature. A period of evolutionary activity is followed by a
period of rest. All natural systems evolve through re-embodiment. Entities are
born from a seed or nucleus remaining from the previous evolutionary cycle of
the monad, develop to maturity, grow old, and pass away, only to re-embody in a
new form after a period of rest. Each new embodiment is the product of past
karma and present choices.
Nothing comes from nothing:
matter and energy can be neither created nor destroyed, but only transformed.
Everything evolves from preexisting material. The growth of the body of an
organism is initiated on inner planes, and involves the transformation of higher
energy-substances into lower, more material ones, together with the attraction
of matter from the environment.
When an organism has
exhausted the store of vital energy with which it is born, the coordinating
force of the indwelling monad is withdrawn, and the organism 'dies', i.e. falls
apart as a unit, and its constituent components go their separate ways. The
lower vehicles decompose on their respective subplanes, while, in the case of
humans, the reincarnating ego enters a dreamlike state of rest and assimilates
the experiences of the previous incarnation. When the time comes for the next
embodiment, the reincarnating ego clothes itself in many of the same atoms of
different grades that it had used previously, bearing the appropriate karmic
impress. The same basic processes of birth, death,
and rebirth apply to all entities, from atoms to humans to stars.
14)
Evolution and involution of worlds
Worlds or spheres, such as
planets and stars, are composed of, and provide the field for the evolution of,
10 kingdoms -- 3 elemental kingdoms, mineral, plant, animal, and human
kingdoms, and 3 spiritual kingdoms. The impulse for a new manifestation of a
world issues from its spiritual summit or hierarch, from which emanate a series
of steadily denser globes or planes; the One expands into the many. During the
first half of the evolutionary cycle (the arc of descent) the energy-substances
of each plane materialize or condense, while during the second half (the arc of
ascent) the trend is towards dematerialization or etherealization, as globes
and entities are reabsorbed into the spiritual hierarch for a period of nirvanic
rest. The descending arc is characterized by the evolution of matter and
involution of spirit, while the ascending arc is characterized by the evolution
of spirit and involution of matter.
In each grand cycle of
evolution, comprising many planetary embodiments, a monad begins as an
unselfconsciousness god-spark, embodies in every kingdom of nature for the
purpose of gaining experience and unfolding its inherent faculties, and ends
the cycle as a self conscious god. Elementals ('baby monads') have no free
choice, but automatically act in harmony with one another and the rest of
nature. In each successive kingdom differentiation and individuality increase,
and reach their peak in the human kingdom with the attainment of
selfconsciousness and a large measure of free will.
In the human kingdom in
particular, self-directed evolution comes into its own. There is no superior
power granting privileges or handing out favours; we evolve according to our
karmic merits and demerits. As we progress through the spiritual kingdoms we
become increasingly at one again with nature, and willingly 'sacrifice' our
circumscribed selfconscious freedoms (especially the freedom to 'do our own
thing') in order to work in peace and harmony with the greater whole of which
we form an integral part. The highest gods of one hierarchy or world-system
begin as elementals in the next. The matter of any plane is composed of
aggregated, crystallized monads in their nirvanic sleep, and the spiritual and
divine entities embodied as planets and stars are the electrons and atomic
nuclei -- the material building blocks -- of worlds on even larger scales.
Evolution is without beginning and without end, an endless adventure through
the fields of infinitude, in which there are always new worlds of experience in
which to become selfconscious masters of life.
There is no absolute
separateness in nature. All things are made of the same essence, have the same
spiritual-divine potential, and are interlinked by magnetic ties of sympathy.
It is impossible to realize our full potential, unless we recognize the
spiritual unity of all living beings and make universal brotherhood the keynote
of our lives.
Hey Look!
Theosophy in Cardiff
Cardiff Theosophical Society
in Wales
Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24 – 1DL
_________________
Wales Picture Gallery
The
Great Orme
Llandudno
Promenade
Great
Orme Tramway
New
Radnor
Blaenavon
Ironworks
Llandrindod
Wells
Cardiff Theosophical Society
in Wales
Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24 – 1DL
Presteign
Railway
Caerwent
Roman Ruins
Denbigh
Nefyn
Penisarwaen
Cardiff Theosophical Society
in Wales
Cardiff, Wales, UK. CF24 – 1DL