Put Yourself in His Place

C >> Charles Reade >> Put Yourself in His Place


"The grinders are not to lose their time; a day and a half."

"What! am I to pay them for not working?"

"Well, sir, if we had come to you, of course the forgers and handlers
would have paid the grinders for lost time; but, as you have come to us,
you will have to pay them."

Cheetham made a wry face; but acquiesced.

"And then, sir," said Redcar, "there's another little matter. The
incidental expenses of the strike."

"I don't know what you mean."

"The expenses incurred by the secretaries, and a little present
to another gentleman, who advised us. It comes to thirty pounds
altogether."

"What!" cried Cheetham, struggling with his rising choler. "You want me
to pay men thirty pounds for organizing a strike, that will cost me so
dear, and rob me of a whole trade that was worth L300 a year? Why not
charge me for the gunpowder you blew up Little with, and spoiled my
forge? No, Bayne, no; this is too unjust and too tyrannical. Flesh
and blood won't bear it. I'll shut up the works, and go back to my
grindstone. Better live on bread and water than live like a slave."

Redcar took a written paper out of his pocket. "There are the terms
written down," said he, "if you sign them, the strike ends; if you
don't, it continues--till you do."

Cheetham writhed under the pressure. Orders were pouring in; trade
brisk; hands scarce. Each day would add a further loss of many pounds
for wages, and doubtless raise fresh exactions. He gulped down something
very like a sob, and both his hand and his voice shook with strong
passion as he took the pen. "I'll sign it; but if ever my turn comes,
I'll remember this against you. This shows what they really are, Bayne.
Oh, if ever you workmen get power, GOD HELP THE WORLD!"

These words seemed to come in a great prophetic agony out of a bursting
heart.

But the representative of the Unions was neither moved by them nor
irritated.

"All right," said he, phlegmatically; "the winner takes his bite: the
loser gets his bark: that's reason."


Henry Little was in his handling-room, working away, with a bright
perspective before him, when Bayne knocked at the door, and entered with
Redcar. Bayne's face wore an expression so piteous, that Henry divined
mischief at once.

"Little, my poor fellow, it is all over. We are obliged to part with
you."

"Cheetham has thrown me over?"

"What could he do? I am to ask you to vacate these rooms, that we may
get our half-day out of the grinders."

Henry turned pale, but there was no help for it.

He got up in a very leisurely way; and, while he was putting on his
coat, he told Bayne, doggedly, he should expect his month's salary.

As he was leaving, Redcar spoke to him in rather a sheepish way. "Shake
hands, old lad," said he; "thou knows one or t'other must win; and
there's not a grain of spite against thee. It's just a trade matter."

Henry stood with his arms akimbo, and looked at Redcar. "I was in
hopes," said he, grinding his teeth, "you were going to ask me to take a
turn with you in the yard, man to man. But I can't refuse my hand to one
of my own sort that asks it. There 'tis. After all, you deserve to win,
for you are true to each other; but a master can't be true to a man, nor
to anything on earth, but his pocket."

He then strolled out into the yard, with his hands in his pockets, and
whistled "The Harmonious Blacksmith" very sick at heart.




CHAPTER IX.


The strike was over, the grinders poured into the works, and the
grindstones revolved. Henry Little leaned against an angle of the
building, and listened with aching heart to their remorseless thunder.
He stood there disconsolate--the one workman out of work--and sipped
the bitter cup, defeat. Then he walked out at the gates, and wandered
languidly into the streets. He was miserable, and had nobody to mourn
to, for the main cause of his grief lay beneath the surface of this
defeat; and how could he reveal it, now that his ambitious love looked
utter madness? Young as he was, he had seen there is no sympathy in the
world for any man who loves out of his sphere. Indeed, whatever cures
or crushes such a passion, is hailed by the by-standers as a sharp but
wholesome medicine.

He sauntered about, and examined all the shops with lack-luster eye. He
looked in at everything, but observed nothing, scarcely saw anything.
All his senses were turned inward. It was such a pitiable and galling
result of a gallant fight. Even the insurance office had got the better
of him. It had taken one-third of his savings, and the very next day his
trade was gone, and his life in no danger. The "Gosshawk" had plucked
him, and the trade had tied his hands. Rack his invention how he would,
he could see no way of becoming a master in Hillsborough, except by
leaving Hillsborough, and working hard and long in some other town. He
felt in his own heart the love and constancy to do this; but his reason
told him such constancy would be wasted; for while he was working at a
distance, the impression, if any, he had made on her would wear away,
and some man born with money, would step in and carry her gayly off.
This thought returned to him again and again, and exasperated him so at
last, that he resolved to go to "Woodbine Villa," and tell her his heart
before he left the place. Then he should be rejected, no doubt, but
perhaps pitied, and not so easily forgotten as if he had melted silently
away.

He walked up the hill, first rapidly, then slowly. He called at
"Woodbine Villa."

The answer was "Not at home."

"Everything is against me," said he.

He wandered wearily down again, and just at the entrance of the town
he met a gentleman with a lady on each arm, and one of those ladies was
Miss Carden. The fortunate cavalier was Mr. Coventry, whom Henry would
have seen long before this, but he had been in Paris for the last four
months. He had come back fuller than ever of agreeable gossip, and Grace
was chatting away to him, and beaming with pleasure, as innocent girls
do, when out on a walk with a companion they like. She was so absorbed
she did not even see Henry Little. He went off the pavement to make room
for their tyrannical crinolines, and passed unnoticed.

He had flushed with joy at first sight of her, but now a deadly qualm
seized him. The gentleman was handsome and commanding; Miss Carden
seemed very happy, hanging on his arm; none the less bright and happy
that he, her humble worshiper, was downcast and wretched.

It did not positively prove much; yet it indicated how little he must
be to her: and somehow it made him realize more clearly the great
disadvantage at which he lay, compared with an admirer belonging to her
own class. Hitherto his senses had always been against his reason: but
now for once they co-operated with his judgment, and made him feel that,
were he to toil for years in London, or Birmingham, and amass a fortune,
he should only be where that gentleman was already; and while the
workman, far away, was slaving, that gentleman and others would be
courting her. She might refuse one or two. But she would not refuse them
all.

Then, in his despair, he murmured, "Would to God I had never seen her!"

He made a fierce resolve he would go home, and tell his mother she could
pack up.

He quickened his steps, for fear his poor sorrowful heart should falter.

But, when he had settled on this course, lo! a fountain of universal
hatred seemed to bubble in his heart. He burned to inflict some mortal
injury upon Jobson, Parkin, Grotait, Cheetham, and all who had taken
a part, either active or passive, in goading him to despair. Now Mr.
Cheetham's works lay right in his way; and it struck him he could make
Cheetham smart a little. Cheetham's god was money. Cheetham had thrown
him over for money. He would go to Cheetham, and drive a dagger into his
pocket.

He walked into the office. Mr. Cheetham was not there: but he found
Bayne and Dr. Amboyne.

"Mr. Bayne," said he, abruptly, "I am come for my month's wages."

The tone was so aggressive, Bayne looked alarmed. "Why, Little, poor Mr.
Cheetham is gone home with a bad headache, and a sore heart."

"All the better. I don't want to tell him to his face he is a bragging
cur; all I want out of him now is my money; and you can pay me that."

The pacific Bayne cast a piteous glance at Dr. Amboyne. "I have told you
the whole business, sir. Oughtn't Mr. Little to wait till to-morrow, and
talk it over with Mr. Cheetham? I'm only a servant: and a man of peace."

"Whether he ought or not, I think I can answer for him that he will."

"I can't, sir," said Henry, sturdily. "I leave the town to-morrow."

"Oh, that alters the case. But must you leave us so soon?"

"Yes, sir."

"I am very sorry for that. Tell me your reason. I don't ask out of mere
curiosity."

Henry replied with less than his usual candor; "Is it not reason enough
for leaving a place, that my life has been attempted in it, and now my
livelihood is taken?"

"Those are strong reasons. But, on the other hand, your life is no
longer in danger; and your livelihood is not gone; for, to speak
plainly, I came over here the moment I heard you were discharged, to
ask if you would enter my service on the same terms as Mr. Cheetham gave
you, only guineas instead of pounds."

"What, turn doctor?"

"Oh dear, no; the doctors' Union would forbid that. No, Mr. Little, I am
going to ask you to pay me a compliment; to try my service blindfold for
one week. You can leave it if you don't like it; but give me one week's
trial."

"How can I refuse you that?" said Henry, hanging his head. "You have
been a good friend to me. But, sir, mark my words, this place will be my
destruction. Well, when am I to begin work?"

"To-morrow, at ten."

"So be it," said Henry, wearily, then left the works and went home;
but, as he went, he said to himself. "It is not my doing." And his
double-faced heart glowed and exulted secretly.

He told his mother how the Trades had beaten him, and he was out of
work.

Mrs. Little consoled him hypocritically. She was delighted. Then he told
her his departure had been delayed by Dr. Amboyne: that made her look a
little anxious.

"One question, dear: now the Union has beaten you, they will not be so
spiteful, will they?"

"Oh, no. That is all over. The conquerors can afford to be good-natured.
Confound them!"

"Then that is all I care about. Then do not leave Hillsborough. Why
should you? Wait here patiently. You do not know what may turn up."

"What, mother, do YOU want to stay here now?" said Henry, opening his
eyes with astonishment.

"Wherever my son is happy and safe from harm, there I wish to stay--of
course."

Next morning Henry called on Dr. Amboyne, and found him in his study,
teaching what looked a boy of sixteen, but was twenty-two, to read
monosyllables. On Little's entrance the pupil retired front his uphill
work, and glowered with vacillating eyes. The lad had a fair feminine
face, with three ill things in it: a want, a wildness, and a weakness.
To be sure Henry saw it at a disadvantage: for vivid intelligence would
come now and then across this mild, wild, vacant face, like the breeze
that sweeps a farm-yard pond.

"Good-morning, Little. This is your fellow-workman."

"He does not look up to much," said Henry, with all a workman's
bluntness.

"What, you have found him out! Never mind; he can beat the town at one
or two things, and it is for these we will use him. Some call him an
idiot. The expression is neat and vigorous, but not precise; so I have
christened him the Anomaly. Anomaly, this is Mr. Little; go and shake
hands with him, and admire him."

The Anomaly went directly, and gazed into Little's face for some time.

He then made his report. "He is beautiful and black."

"I've seen him blacker. Now leave off admiring him, and look at these
pictures while I prose. Two thousand philosophers are writing us
dead with 'Labor and Capital.' But I vary the bore. 'Life, Labor, and
Capital,' is my chant: and, whereas Life has hitherto been banished from
the discussion, I put Life in its true place, at the head of the trio.
(And Life I divide into long Life, and happy Life.) The subject is too
vast to be dealt with all at once; but I'll give you a peep of it. The
rustic laborer in the South sells his labor for too little money to
support life comfortably. That is a foul wrong. The rustic laborer in
the North has small wages, compared with a pitman, or a cutler; but he
has enough for health, and he lives longer and more happily than either
the pitman or the cutler; so that account is square, in my view of
things. But now dive into the Hillsborough trades, and you will find
this just balance of Life, Labor, and Capital regarded in some, but
defied in others: a forger is paid as much or more than a dry-grinder,
though forging is a hard but tolerably healthy trade, and dry-grinding
means an early death after fifteen years of disease and misery. The
file-cutters are even more killed and less paid. What is to be done
then? Raise the wages of the more homicidal trades! But this could only
be done by all the Unions acting in concert. Now the rival philosophers,
who direct the Unions, are all against Democritus--that's myself; they
set no value on life. And indeed the most intelligent one, Grotait,
smiles blandly on Death, and would grind his scythe for him--AT THE
STATEMENT PRICE--because that scythe thins the labor market, and so
helps keep up prices."

"Then what can we do? I'm a proof one can't fight the Unions."

"Do? Why, lay hold of the stick at the other end. Let Pseudo-Philosophy
set the means above the end, and fix its shortsighted eyes on Labor and
Capital, omitting Life. (What does it profit a file-cutter if he gains
his master's whole capital and loses his own life?) But you and I, Mr.
Little, are true philosophers and the work we are about to enter on
is--saving cutlers' lives."

"I'd rather help take them."

"Of course; and that is why I made the pounds guineas."

"All right, sir," said Henry, coloring. "I don't expect to get six
guineas a week for whistling my own tune. How are we to do the job?"

"By putting our heads together. You have, on the side of your temple, a
protuberance, which I have noticed in the crania of inventors. So I want
you to go round the works, and observe for yourself how Life is thrown
gayly away, in a moment, by needless accident, and painfully gnawed away
by steel-dust, stone grit, sulphuret of lead, etc.; and then cudgel your
brain for remedies."

"Sir," said Henry, "I am afraid I shall not earn my money. My heart is
not in the job."

"Revenge is what you would like to be at, not Philanthropy--eh?"

"Ay, doctor." And his black eye flashed fire.

"Well, well, that is natural. Humor my crotchet just now, and perhaps I
may humor yours a month or two hence. I think I could lay my hand on the
fellow who blew you up."

"What, sir! Ah! tell me that, and I'll do as much philanthropy as you
like--after--"

"After you have punched your fellow-creature's head."

"But it is impossible, sir. How can you know? These acts are kept as
secret as the grave."

"And how often has the grave revealed its secrets to observant men? Dr.
Donne sauntered about among graves, and saw a sexton turn up a skull.
He examined it, found a nail in it, identified the skull, and had the
murderess hung. She was safe from the sexton and the rest of the parish,
but not from a stray observer. Well, the day you were blown up, I
observed something, and arrived at a conclusion, by my art."

"What, physic?"

"Oh, dear, no; my other art, my art of arts, that I don't get paid for;
the art of putting myself in other people's places. I'll tell you. While
you lay on the ground, in Mr. Cheetham's yard, I scanned the workmen's
faces. They were full of pity and regret, and were much alike in
expression--all but one. That one looked a man awakened from a dream.
His face was wild, stupid, confused, astonished. 'Hallo!' said I, 'why
are your looks so unlike the looks of your fellows?' Instantly I
put myself in his place. I ceased to be the Democritus, or laughing
philosopher of Hillsborough, and became a low uneducated brute of a
workman. Then I asked this brute, viz, myself, why I was staring and
glaring in that way, stupidly astonished, at the injured man? 'Were you
concerned in the criminal act, ye blackguard?' said I to myself. The
next step was to put myself in the place of the criminal. I did so; and
I realized that I, the criminal, had done the act to please the Unions,
and expecting the sympathy of all Union workmen to be with me. Also that
I, being an ignorant brute, had never pictured to myself what suffering
I should inflict. But what was the result? I now saw the sufferer, and
did not like my own act; and I found all the sympathy of my fellows went
with him, and that I was loathed and execrated, and should be lynched
on the spot were I to own my act. I now whipped back to Dr. Amboyne with
the theory thus obtained, and compared it with that face; the two fitted
each other, and I saw the criminal before me."

"Good heavens! This is very deep."

"No slop-basin was ever deeper. So leave it for the present, and go
to work. Here are cards admitting you, as my commissioner, to all the
principal works. Begin with--Stop a moment, while I put myself in your
place. Let me see, 'Cheetham's grinders think they have turned me out of
Hillsborough. That mortifies a young man of merit like me. Confound
'em! I should like to show them they have not the power to drive me out.
Combine how they will, I rise superior. I forge as they could not forge:
that was my real crime. Well, I'll be their superior still. I'm their
inspector, and their benefactor, at higher wages than they, poor devils,
will ever earn at inspecting and benefiting, or any thing else.' Ah!
your color rises. I've hit the right nail, isn't it an excellent and
most transmigratory art? Then begin with Cheetham. By-the-bye, the
Anomaly has spotted a defective grindstone there. Scrutinize all his
departments severely; for no man values his people's lives less than my
good friend John Cheetham. Away with you both; and God speed you."

Henry walked down the street with the Anomaly, and tried to gauge his
intellects.

"What's your real name, my man?"

"Silly Billy."

"Oh, then I'm afraid you can't do much to help me."

"Oh yes, I can, because--"

"Because what?"

"Because I like you."

"Well, that's lucky, any way."

"Billy can catch trout when nobody else can," said the youngster,
turning his eyes proudly up to Henry's.

"Oh, indeed! But you see that is not exactly what the doctor wants us
for."

"Nay; he's wrapped up in trout. If it wasn't for Billy and the trout,
he'd die right off."

Henry turned a look of silent pity on the boy, and left him in his
pleasing illusion. He wondered that Dr. Amboyne should have tacked this
biped on to him.

They entered Cheetham's works, and Henry marched grimly into the office,
and showed Mr. Bayne his credentials.

"Why, Little, you had no need of that."

"Oh, it is as well to have no misunderstanding with your employer's
masters. I visit these works for my present employer, Dr. Amboyne, with
the consent of Mr. Cheetham, here written."

"Very well, sir," said Bayne, obsequiously; "and I respectfully solicit
the honor of conducting our esteemed visitor."

A young man's ill-humor could not stand against this. "Come along, old
fellow," said Henry. "I'm a bear, with a sore heart; but who could be
such a brute as quarrel with you? Let us begin with the chaps who drove
me out--the grinders. I'm hired to philanthropize 'em--d--n 'em."

They went among the dry-grinders first; and Henry made the following
observations. The workman's hair and clothes were powdered with grit
and dust from the grindstones. The very air was impregnated with it,
and soon irritated his own lungs perceptibly. Here was early death,
by bronchitis and lung diseases, reduced to a certainty. But he
also learned from the men that the quantity of metal ground off
was prodigious, and entered their bodies they scarce knew how. A
razor-grinder showed him his shirt: it was a deep buff-color. "There,
sir," said he, "that was clean on yesterday. All the washerwomen in
Hillsbro' can't make a shirt of mine any other color but that." The
effect on life, health, and happiness was visible; a single glance
revealed rounded shoulders and narrow chests, caused partly by the
grinder's position on his horsing, a position very injurious to the
organs of breathing, and partly by the two devil's dusts that filled the
air; cadaverous faces, the muscles of which betrayed habitual suffering,
coughs short and dry, or with a frothy expectoration peculiar to the
trade. In answer to questions, many complained of a fearful tightness
across the chest, of inability to eat or to digest. One said it took him
five minutes to get up the factory stairs, and he had to lean against
the wall several times.

A razor-grinder of twenty-two, with death in his face, told Henry he had
come into that room when he was eleven. "It soon takes hold of boys,"
said he. "I've got what I shall never get shut on."

Another, who looked ill, but not dying, received Henry's sympathy with a
terrible apathy. "I'm twenty-eight," said he; "and a fork-grinder is an
old cock at thirty. I must look to drop off my perch in a year or two,
like the rest."

Only one, of all these victims, seemed to trouble his head about whether
death and disease could be averted. This one complained that some
employers provided fans to drive the dust from the grinder, but Cheetham
would not go to the expense.

The rest that Henry spoke to accepted their fate doggedly. They were
ready to complain, but not to move a finger in self-defense. Their
fathers had been ground out young, and why not they?

Indifferent to life, health, and happiness, they could nevertheless be
inflamed about sixpence a week. In other words, the money-price of their
labor was every thing to them, the blood-price nothing.

Henry found this out, and it gave him a glimpse into the mind of
Amboyne.

He felt quite confused, and began to waver between hate, contempt, and
pity. Was it really these poor doomed wretches who had robbed him of his
livelihood? Could men so miscalculate the size of things, as to strike
because an inoffensive individual was making complete caring-tools all
by himself, and yet not strike, nor even stipulate for fans, to carry
disease and death away from their own vitals? Why it seemed wasting
hate, to bestow it on these blind idiots.

He went on to the wet-grinders, and he found their trade much healthier
than dry-grinding: yet there were drawbacks. They suffered from the grit
whenever a new stone was hung and raced. They were also subject to
a canker of the hands, and to colds, coughs, and inflammations, from
perspiration checked by cold draughts and drenched floors. These floors
were often of mud, and so the wet stagnated and chilled their feet,
while their bodies were very hot. Excellent recipe for filling graves.

Here Bayne retired to his books, and Henry proceeded to the
saw-grinders, and entered their rooms with no little interest, for they
were an envied trade. They had been for many years governed by Grotait,
than whom no man in England saw clearer; though such men as Amboyne
saw further. Grotait, by a system of Machiavellian policy, ingeniously
devised and carried out, nobly, basely, craftily, forcibly,
benevolently, ruthlessly, whichever way best suited the particular
occasion, had built a model Union; and still, with unremitting zeal and
vigilance, contrived to keep numbers down and prices up--which is the
great Union problem.

The work was hard, but it was done in a position favorable to the lungs,
and the men were healthy, brawny fellows; one or two were of remarkable
stature.

Up to this moment Silly Billy had fully justified that title. He had
stuck to Henry's side like a dog, but with no more interest in the
inquiry than a calf, indeed, his wandering eye and vacant face had
indicated that his scanty wits were wool-gathering miles from the place
that contained his body.

But, as soon as he entered the saw-grinders' room, his features lighted
up, and his eye kindled. He now took up a commanding position in the
center, and appeared to be listening keenly. And he had not listened
many seconds before he cried out, "There's the bad music! there! there!"
And he pointed to a grindstone that was turning and doing its work
exactly like the others. "Oh, the bad music!" cried Billy. "It is out of
tune. It says, 'Murder! murder! Out of tune!'"

Henry thought it his duty to inspect the grindstone so vigorously
denounced, and, naturally enough, went in front of the grinder. But
Billy pulled him violently to the side. "You musn't stand there," said
he. "That is the way they fly when they break, and kill the poor father,
and then the mother lets down her hair, and the boy goes crazed."

By this time the men were attracted by the Anomaly's gestures and
exclamations, and several left their work, and came round him. "What is
amiss, Billy? a flawed stone, eh? which is it?"