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<h4>CHAPTER X.</h4> The town of Barhampton--or rather, that town which it suits me so to denominate--is one of no great importance in point of size, and of no great commerce, for railroads have not yet reached it; and the nearest point which had been attained by any of those strange contrivances for hurrying man through life and through a country, lay at the distance of nearly fifty miles at the time of which I speak. Nevertheless, it was a sea-port; and had it been near the capital, near any important town, or situated in a thickly-populated district, it possessed several considerable advantages, which would have secured to it, in all probability, an extensive and lucrative trade. It had a very nice small harbour, for which man had done something and nature much. The water was deep therein; and had there been room for one of the unwieldy monsters of the deep, a three-decker might have lain at anchor there with six fathom under her keel. But the harbour was very small, and had a line-of-battle ship attempted it, her boom would probably have knocked down the harbour-master's office at the end of the little jetty, while her bowsprit entered the Lord Nelson public-house by the windows of the first floor. Boats and coasters, of from thirty to ninety tons, could come in at all times of tide, but nothing larger was seen in the harbour of Barhampton. Outside the harbour, however, in what was called the bay, especially when the wind set strong from the southwest, a very different scene was displayed, for there nature seemed to have laboured alone on a far grander scale. Two high and rocky promontories, at some points about a mile and a half apart, stretched forth from the general line of the coast into the sea, like two gigantic piers. One, following the line of the high ridge which crowned it, was nearly straight; the other swept round in the arc of a large circle, projecting considerably farther into the ocean than the other, but gradually approaching, in its sweep, the opposite promontory; so that, at the entrance of this magnificent bay, the passage was not more than half a mile in width. Few winds, of all those to which mariners have given name, affected in any great degree the deep still waters within that high and mountainous circle; and there, when tempests were raging without, might be seen riding, in calm security, the rich argosie and the stately ship of war. No cargoes, however, were now disembarked at Barhampton, except those of the small vessels which entered the harbour, and which supplied the town and the neighbouring country with a variety of miscellaneous articles of ordinary use. Nevertheless, in former times, the town, it would appear, must have been a place of some importance. Rising up the slopes of the hills, from the brink of the harbour, its narrow, tortuous, ill-lighted, unswept, and dilapidated-looking streets reached the summit of the high ground, where a number of superior houses were to be found, somewhat stately in appearance, antique in form, and cold and formal in aspect, except, indeed, where a cheerful little garden interposed, blushing with china-astres, dahlias, and other autumnal flowers. Yet even these could not give it an air of life, or if they did at all, it was an air of vegetable life. There was no movement, there was no activity in it. It seemed as if everybody in the place was dead, except a few men who had come in to bury the rest. Beyond these houses of the better classes, as rich people are called, were some poorer dwellings, descending the slope on the opposite side of the ridge; and beyond these again, came the ancient walls of the town, built and perfected when Barhampton was a place of strength. The town had not, indeed, been dismantled even yet, but it had been disarmed; and now, instead of large cannon, and soldiers 'bearded like pard,' the broad ramparts displayed the nursery-maids and the little children of the citizens flirting with apprentices, or peeping out of empty embrasures; or, on the Sunday, the great mass of the inhabitants of the town walking in gay attire, enjoying the fine air, and gazing over the wide prospect. Round about, nearly in the shape of a horse-shoe, from one point of the harbour to the other, enclosing the whole city, if it could be so called, within their area, swept those old walls, time-worn, and lichen-covered, and loaded with snapdragon. No mason's trowel, no busy chisel, had been employed upon them for more than two centuries, and the hard knocks of Oliver Cromwell's cannon had left traces still unobliterated even by the equalizing hand of time. The external appearance of the place was not at all deceptive. The march of improvement was not a quick march in Barhampton. In fact, in the space of fifty years, but one improvement had been made in the town, and the audacious and reforming mayor, who had sanctioned, recommended, and successfully carried out this act of innovation, had been held in execration ever since by a considerable portion of his fellow-townsmen. The deed I speak of was the enlargement of the High-street, and the giving it as near as possible a straightforward direction. It would now admit two carriages, or even waggons, abreast in every part; formerly only one could pass, except at particular places, where a greater expansion had been purposely given to the road, in order to prevent the comers up and goers down from jamming each other together immovably. In previous times, also, this street had pursued a sort of zigzag direction, which nearly doubled its length, and this had evidently been done, not for the purpose of avoiding the acclivities, but rather for that of finding them out; for even in going down the hill, carriages had to mount as often, though not so far at any one time, as they had to descend; and in coming up, one rise seemed only to be overcome in order to go down and seek for another. The same innovating magistrate who had committed the heinous act of straightening and widening the street, had expressed an antipathy to the old town gates, and their heavy oaken doors, with portcullis and draw-bridge; but the whole town rose as one man to resist his rash and horrible proceedings. In vain he showed that more than one horse had taken fright in going over the clattering, rickety, old bridge; in vain he pointed out that a very respectable old lady had broken her neck at the same spot, by a fall into the ditch. The people said that the horses were mad and the lady drunk, to do such things; and the mayor died, like all great patriots, before he saw his schemes for the improvement of his native place carried into full accomplishment. Thirty years had passed since the reign of this potentate, and a change had come over the spirit of the people of Barhampton. There were many great reformers in the place--men who sighed for a complete change in all things--who stood up for the rights and liberties of the people; who would have all men permitted to sell gin and cordial compounds from any hour at which they chose to begin, to any hour at which they chose to end; who corrected municipal abuses, and castigated corrupt parish officers; who worried the mayor, tormented the aldermen, bored the county magistrates and members of parliament, abused the overseers, and set even the beadle at nought. But in the mending of their ways they still forgot to mend the ways of the city: that did not come under their notions of reform. They refused a church-rate, and therefore could not be expected to vote a paving and lighting rate. They objected to all taxes of all kinds, and most of all they objected to tax themselves. They evaded imposts wherever they could; paid grumblingly those they were compelled to pay; cheated the customs by prescription, and the excise by cunning; and thought themselves pure and immaculate if they only defrauded the state and escaped the law. How often is it with men, that punishment rather than crime is considered disgraceful! But I must not moralize upon the little community of Barhampton. Things went on increasing and prospering with the reformers. At first they were moved apparently by nothing but the pure spirit of innovation; but there were some men of more mind amongst them than the rest; and having all agreed upon the necessity of great and sweeping changes in church, state, and municipality, they proceeded to inquire what sort of changes were desirable. They instructed themselves in what other people demanded, and thus the reforming part of the population divided itself into three distinct portions, consisting of Whigs, Radicals, and Chartists. Amongst the former were some of the most respectable and dullest men of the town: the Radicals comprised the great body of the mob-ocracy. The Chartists were men of enthusiastic temperaments, sincere and eager characters, and in many instances, of considerable powers of mind. They saw great social evils, magnified their extent by the force of imagination, and, unaccustomed to any of the details of public business, perceived but one remedy for the sickness of the state, and imagined that remedy to be a panacea for all ills. Moral force was a good thing in their eyes, but physical force they thought a better. They believed themselves prepared for all contingencies; they imagined themselves ready to shed their blood in support of that which they never doubted to be good; they dreamed of the crown of martyrdom in their country's service; and, in short, they were political fanatics, though not a small portion of true patriotism lay at the bottom of their yearnings for revolution. On most occasions the Radicals would join with them, and therefore the Chartists looked upon them for the time as brothers; but the union was not solid, and in more important matters still, the Radicals were disposed to support the Whigs. This fact began to be felt a little before the period at which my tale opens. The Chartists imagined that they perceived a greater sympathy in many points between themselves and the Tories, than between themselves and the Whigs; that there was more real philanthropy, a greater wish to see the condition of the lower classes materially improved, amongst persons of Tory principle, than in any other class. But there were also fundamental differences, which rendered perfect assimilation with them impossible, and though they regarded the Tories with a kindly feeling, they could not unite with them for any great object. Such was briefly the state of the town, physical and moral, when the carriage of Sir Arthur Adelon rolled through the gates, which had not been closed for half a century; and a drag having been put on, it began to descend slowly the principal street of the place. In that principal street was situated the small inn called the Rose, which, though there were numerous public-houses, was the only place which kept post-horses, and honoured itself by the name of hotel. The streets were miserably dark, and nearly deserted, and Sir Arthur Adelon felt a little nervous and uneasy at the thought of what was before him. In the heat of blood and party strife, men will go boldly and straight-forwardly towards objects pointed out by principles in their own mind, and will seek those objects and assert those principles at the risk of life and fortune, and all that makes life and fortune desirable. But they proceed upon the same course with very different feelings when, in calmness and tranquillity, after a long cessation of turmoil and contest, they return to the same paths, even though their general views may remain unchanged, and they may think their purposes as laudable as ever. Such was the case with Sir Arthur Adelon. Perhaps, if one looked closely into his heart, and could see, not only what was in it at the present moment, but what I may call the history of his sensations, we should find that his having embraced the extreme views which he entertained had originated in mortified vanity and an embittered spirit. An early disappointment, acting upon a haughty and somewhat vindictive temper, had soured his feelings towards society in general; and when, shortly afterwards, he had met a check, by the refusal of a peerage which he thought he had well merited, a bitter disgust succeeded towards institutions in which he was excluded from the high position he had coveted, and he became anxious to throw down other men from a position which he could not attain. It was by no regular process of reasoning from these premises that he arrived at the extremely democratical opinions which he often loudly proclaimed; but the events of his early life gave a general bias to his thoughts, which led him step by step to the violent views which he announced in two contested elections in Yorkshire; and at the present time, though he had sunk into temporary apathy, his notions were not at all moderated even by years and experience. He was not inclined, indeed, to risk so much, or to engage in such rash enterprises, as he might have done in the hasty days of youth; but the long-buried seeds were still in his mind, and it only required warmth and cultivation to make them spring up as green and fresh as ever. Nevertheless, he approached discussions in which he felt he might be carried beyond the point where prudence counselled him to stop, with a great degree of nervous anxiety; and he almost hoped, as his carriage stopped at the inn door, and no signs of waking life appeared but the solitary lamp over the little portico, that some accident might have prevented the meeting. The next instant, however, a light shone through the glass door, and a waiter appearing, approached the step of the carriage, saying, "The gentleman told me to tell you, Sir Arthur, that he would be back in a few minutes." The baronet bit his lip--there was now no escaping; and following the waiter to a sitting-room, he ordered some sherry, and took two or three glasses, but they did not raise his spirits. All was silent in the town; not a sound was heard but the sighing of the breeze from the bay, and a faint sort of roar, which might be the wind in the chimney, or the breaking of the sea upon the shore. Solemn and slow, vibrating in the air long after each stroke, the great clock of the old church struck twelve, and Sir Arthur Adelon muttered to himself, "I will not wait, at all events; they cannot expect me to wait." One, two, three minutes passed by, and the baronet rose, and was approaching the bell, when the foot of the waiter was heard running up the stairs, and the door was opened. "The gentleman, sir," said the waiter; and entering more slowly, a stout, hard-featured, red-haired man appeared, well dressed, and though clumsily made, not of an ungentlemanly appearance. Sir Arthur had never seen his face before, and gazed on him with some surprise; but the stranger waited till the door was closed again, and then advancing, with a slight bow, he said, "Sir Arthur Adelon, I believe?" "The same, sir," replied the baronet. "I expected to find another gentleman here. May I ask whom I have the honour of addressing?" "My name, sir, is Mac Dermot," replied the stranger; "and my friend, Mr. Norries, who is probably the person you allude to, would have been here to receive you, but being detained with some preliminary business, he requested me to come hither, and be your guide a little farther in the town." The name given was information sufficient to Sir Arthur Adelon regarding the person before him. He saw one of the chief leaders of the great, though somewhat wild and ill-directed movement, in which he himself had taken, as yet, a very inconsiderable part. He felt that his very communication with such a man compromised him in a high degree; and he was anxious to ascertain how much Mac Dermot really knew of his affairs before he proceeded farther. He therefore slowly drew on his gloves, and took up his hat, saying, "I am very happy to see you, Mr. Mac Dermot. I suppose my old acquaintance, Mr. Norries, has made you acquainted with the various circumstances in which he has been connected with me?" "Not particularly," replied his companion. "He has informed us that he acted for some time as your solicitor, when you were residing in Yorkshire; and he has laid before us the report of several speeches which you made at that time, with which, I may add, I was myself well acquainted before; but which has given great satisfaction to every one present, from the prospect of seeing a gentleman of such rank and influence, and one who can so eloquently express our own exact sentiments, likely to be united with us once more in advocating the cause of the people against those who oppress them. Will you permit me to lead the way?" Sir Arthur Adelon had marked every word that was spoken with peculiar attention, and Mac Dermot's reply was a great relief to him. Norries had not mentioned the power he had over him, and moreover the words 'advocating the cause of the people' seemed to him to imply that nothing of a violent or physical nature was intended; and that all the leaders of the movement had in view was to endeavour to strengthen themselves in public opinion by argument and by moral force. He therefore followed with a lighter step, and was conducted through several narrow and tortuous streets and back lanes, to a house which presented no very imposing appearance, as far as it could be discovered in the darkness of the night. The door was low and narrow, and stood ajar; and when Mac Dermot pushed it open, and Sir Arthur saw the passage by a light which was at the other end, he said to himself, "There can be no very formidable meeting here, for there does not seem to be room for a dozen men in the whole house." He was conducted through the passage to a staircase as narrow, which led to a long sort of gallery, running round what seemed a stable-yard, at the end of which was a door, which Mac Dermot held open for his companion to pass. When Sir Arthur had gone through, his guide closed the door and locked it, and then saying, "This way, sir," led him to another door, at which a man was standing immoveable, with a lamp in his hand. There Mac Dermot knocked, and the door was unlocked and opened from within. The next moment Sir Arthur Adelon found himself in a very large, low-ceilinged, ill-shaped room, with a long table in the midst. There were several tallow candles round about, emitting a most disagreeable odour, and casting a red, glaring, unsatisfactory light upon the faces of between thirty and forty men, seated at the board in various attitudes. At the head of the table, in an armchair, appeared Norries, such as I have described him before; but any attempt to paint the other groups in the room would be vain, for every sort of face, form, and dress which England can display, was there assembled, from the sharp, shrewd face of long-experienced age, to the delicate features of the beardless lad; from the stout and stalwart form of the hardy yeoman, to the sickly and feeble frame of the over-tasked artisan of the city. Here appeared one in the black coat and white neck-cloth usually worn by the ministers of religion; there a man in the garb of a mechanic: in one place a very spruce blue satin handkerchiefed gentleman, with yellow gloves, and close by him another who was apparently a labouring blacksmith, with his hands brown and sooty from the forge. An elderly man, in a well-worn flaxen wig, and large eyes like black cherries, might have passed by his dress for a very small country attorney, and opposite to him sat a broad-shouldered man of six foot two, in a blue coat, leather breeches, and top-boots, probably some large farmer in the neighbourhood of the town. Two seats were reserved on each side of the chairman; and while Mac Dermot locked the door again, and every person present rose, Sir Arthur Adelon, with his stately step and aristocratic air, but, if the truth must be told, with a good deal of disgust and some anxiety at heart, walked up to the head of the table, shook hands with Norries, and took one of the vacant chairs. The other was immediately occupied by Mac Dermot, and then rising, the chairman said, "Gentlemen, I have the honour of introducing to you Sir Arthur Adelon, whose station and fortune afford the lowest title to your esteem. Far higher in mind than in rank, far richer in generous qualities and in mental endowments than in wealth, he has ever shown himself the friend of that great and majestic body, the people of this country; he has always professed and undauntedly maintained the same opinions which we conscientiously entertain; and he is ready, I am sure, to go heart and hand with us in all just and reasonable measures for the defence of our rights and liberties." The whole party assembled gave the baronet a cheer, and the sensations with which Sir Arthur had entered began already to wane, even in the first excitement of the moment. Here, however, I must drop the curtain over a scene of which the reader has probably had enough, and proceed to other events of no less importance in this tale. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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