Kitobni o'qish: «The Paper Cap. A Story of Love and Labor»

TO SAMUEL GOMPERS

THE WORKER’S FRIEND THIS STORY OF LABOR’S FORTY YEARS’ STRUGGLE FOR THE RIGHT OF SUFFRAGE IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

 
This is the Gospel of Labor,
Ring it, ye bells of the Kirk,
The Lord of Love came down from above
To live with the people who work.
 

Henry Van Dyke

The headdress of nationalities, and of public and private societies, has been in all ages a remarkable point of interest. Religion, Poetry, Politics, superstitions, and so forth, have all found expression by the way they dressed or covered their heads. Priests, soldiers, sailors, lawyers, traders, professions of all kinds are known by some peculiar covering of the head which they assume. None of these symbols are without interest, and most of them typify the character or intents of their wearers.

The Paper Cap has added to its evident story a certain amount of mystery, favorable in so far as it permits us to exercise our ingenuity in devising a probable reason for its selection as the symbol of Labor. A very industrious search has not yet positively revealed it. No public or private collection of old prints of the seventeenth century that I have seen or heard from has any representation of an English working man wearing a Paper Cap. There is nothing of the kind in any Hone’s four large volumes of curious matters; nor does Notes and Queries mention it. Not until the agitation and the political disturbance attending the Reform Bill, is it seen or mentioned. Then it may be found in the rude woodcuts and chap books of the time while in every town and village it soon became as familiar as the men who wore it.

Now, if the working man was looking for a symbol, there are many reasons why the Paper Cap would appeal to him. It is square, straight, upright; it has no brim. It permits the wearer to have full sight for whatever he is doing. It adds five inches or more to his height. It is cool, light and clean, and it is made of a small square of brown paper, and costs nothing. Every man makes his own paper cap, generally while he smokes his first morning pipe. It was also capable of assuming all the expressions of more pretentious head coverings – worn straight over the brows, it imparted a steady, business-like appearance. Tilted to one side, it showed the wearer to be interested in his own appearance. If it was pushed backward he was worried or uncertain about his work. On the heads of large masterful men it had a very “hands off” look. Employers readily understood its language.

I do not remember ever seeing anyone but working men wear a Paper Cap and they generally wore it with an “air” no pretender could assume. In the days of the Reform Bill a large company of Paper-Capped men were a company to be respected.

The man whose clever fingers first folded into such admirable shape a piece of brown paper seems to be unknown. I was once told he was a Guiseley man, again he was located at Burnley, or Idle. No one pretended to know his name. It was perhaps some tired weaver or carpenter whose head was throbbing in the sultry room and who feared to expose it to the full draught from some open window near his loom or bench. No other affiliation ever assumed or copied this cap in any way and for a century it has stood bravely out as the symbol of Labor; and has been respected and recognized as the badge of a courageous and intelligent class.

Now, if we do not positively know the facts about a certain matter, we can consider the circumstances surrounding it and deduct from them a likelihood of the truth; and I cannot avoid a strong belief that the Paper Cap was invented early in the agitation for the Reform Bill of A. D. 1832 and very likely directly after the immense public meeting at New Hall, where thousands of English working men took bareheaded and with a Puritan solemnity, a solemn oath to stand by the Reform Bill until it was passed. It was not fully passed until 1884, and during that interval the Paper Cap was everywhere in evidence. Might it not be the symbol of that oath and a quiet recognition of brotherhood and comradeship in the wearing of it?

It is certain that after this date, 1884, its use gradually declined, yet it is very far from being abandoned. In Nova Scotia and Canada it is still common, and we all know how slowly any personal or household habit dies in England. I am very sure that if I went to-morrow to any weaving town in the West Riding, I would see plenty of Paper Caps round the great centers of Industry. Last week only, I received half-a-dozen from a large building firm in Bradford.

As a symbol of a sacred obligation between men, it is fitting and unique. It has never been imitated or copied, and if the habit of making a clean one every day is observed, then whatever it promises will be kept clean and clear in the memory. Long live the Paper Cap!

My theory that the Paper Cap is associated with the Reform Bill, may, or may not be correct, but the union seems to be a very natural one – the Bill deserved the friendship and long adherence of the Cap, and the Cap deserved the freedom and strength of the Bill.

CHAPTER I – THE SQUIRE OF ANNIS

 
“The turning point in life arrives for all of us.
A land of just and old renown,
Where Freedom slowly broadens down
From precedent to precedent.”
 

NEARLY ninety years ago, there was among the hills and wolds of the West Riding of Yorkshire a lovely village called Annis. It had grown slowly around the lords of the manor of Annis and consisted at the beginning of the nineteenth century of men and women whose time was employed in spinning and weaving. The looms were among their household treasures. They had a special apartment in every home, and were worthily and cheerfully worked by their owners. There were no mills in Annis then, and no masters, and no Trade Unions. They made their own work-hours and the Leeds Cloth Hall settled the worth of their work.

Squire Antony Annis owned the greater part of the village. The pretty white stone cottages, each in its own finely cared-for garden, were, generally speaking, parts of his estate and he took a fatherly, masterly care of them. It was the squire who bought their work, and who had to settle with the Leeds Cloth Hall. It was the squire who found the wool for the women to spin and who supplied the men with the necessary yarns.

He lived close to them. His own ancient Hall stood on a high hill just outside the village! – a many-gabled building that had existed for nearly three hundred years. On this same hilly plateau was the church of Annis, still more ancient, and also the Rectory, a handsome residence that had once been a monastery. Both were in fine preservation and both were influential in the village life, though the ancient church looked down with grave disapproval on the big plain Wesleyan Chapel that had stolen from it the lawful allegiance it had claimed for nearly five centuries. Yet its melodious chimes still called at all canonical hours to worship, and its grand old clock struck in clarion tones the hours of their labor and their rest.

They were handsome men in this locality, strong and powerful, with a passion for horses and racing that not even Methodism could control. Their women were worthy of them, tall and fine-looking, with splendid coloring, abundant hair, and not unfrequently eyes like their Lancashire neighbors; gray and large, with long dark lashes, and that “look” in them which the English language has not yet been able to find a word for. They were busy wives, they spun the wool for their husbands’ looms and they reared large families of good sons and daughters.

The majority of the people were Methodists – after their kind. The shepherds on the mountains around took as naturally to Methodism as a babe to its mother’s milk. They lived with their flocks of Merino sheep half their lives in the night and its aërial mysteries. The doctrine of “Assurance” was their own spiritual confidence, and John Wesley’s Communion with the other world they certified by their own experience. As to the weavers, they approved of a religion that was between God and themselves only. They had a kind of feudal respect for Squire Annis. He made their pleasant independent lives possible and they would take a word or two of advice or reproof from him; and also the squire knew what it was to take a glass of strong ale when he had been to a race and seen the horse he had backed, win it – but the curate! The curate knew nothing about horses.

If they saw the curate approaching them they got out of his way; if they saw the squire coming they waited for him. He might call them idle lads, but he would walk to their looms with them and frankly admire the excellence of their work, and perhaps say: “I wonder at a fine lad like thee leaving a bit of work like that. If I could do it I would keep at it daylight through.”

And the weaver would look him bravely in the face and answer – “Not thou, squire! It wouldn’t be a bit like thee. I see thee on t’ grandstand, at ivery race I go to. I like a race mysen, it is a varry democratic meeting.”

Then the squire would give the child at the spinning wheel a shilling and go off with a laugh. He knew that in any verbal contest with Jimmy Riggs, he would not be the victor.

Also if the squire met any mother of the village he would touch his hat and listen to what she wished to say. And if one of her lads was in trouble for “catching a rabbit on the common” – though he suspected the animal was far more likely from his own woods – he always promised to help him and he always did so.

“Our women have such compelling eyes,” he would remark in excuse, “and when they would look at you through a mist of tears a man that can say ‘no’ to them isn’t much of a man.”

Naturally proud, the squire was nevertheless broadly affable. He could not resist the lifted paper cap of the humblest man and his lofty stature and dignified carriage won everyone’s notice. His face was handsome, and generally wore a kind thoughtful expression, constantly breaking into broad smiles. And all these advantages were seconded and emphasized by his scrupulous dress, always fit and proper for every occasion.

He was riding slowly through the village one morning when he met a neighbor with whom he had once been on intimate friendly terms. It was John Thomas Bradley, who had just built a large mill within three miles of Annis village and under the protecting power of the government had filled it with the latest power-looms and spinning jennies.

“Good morning, Annis!” he said cheerfully. “How dost tha do?”

“I do none the better for thy late doings. I can tell thee that!”

“Is tha meaning my new building?”

“Is tha ashamed to speak its proper name? It’s a factory, call it that. And I wouldn’t wonder, if tha hes been all through Annis, trying to get some o’ my men to help thee run it.”

“Nay, then. I wouldn’t hev a man that hes been in thy employ, unless it were maybe Jonathan Hartley. They are all petted and spoiled to death.”

“Ask Jonathan to come to thy machine shop. He wouldn’t listen to thee.”

“Well, then, I wouldn’t listen to his Chartist talk. I would want to cut the tongue out o’ his head. I would that! O Annis, we two hev been friends for forty years, and our fathers were hand and glove before us.”

“I know, Bradley, I know! But now thou art putting bricks and iron before old friendship and before all humanity; for our workers are men, first-rate men, too – and thou knows it.”

“Suppose they are, what by that?”

“Just this; thou can’t drive men by machines of iron tethered to steam! It is an awful mastership, that it is! It is the drive of the devil. The slaves we are going to set free in the West Indies are better off, far better off than factory slaves. They hed at any rate human masters, that like as not, hev a heart somewhere about them. Machines hev no heart, and no sympathy and no weakness of any make. They are regular, untiring, inexorable, and – ”

“They do more work and better work than men can do.”

“Mebbe they do, and so men to keep up wi’ them, hev to work longer, and harder, and wi’ constantly increasing peril o’ their lives. Yes, for the iron master, the man must work, work, work, till he falls dead at its iron feet. It is a cruel bad do! A bad do! Bradley, how can thou fashion to do such things? Oh, it isn’t fair and right, and thou knows it!”

“Well, Annis, thou may come to see things a good deal different and tha knows well I can’t quarrel wi’ thee. Does ta think I can iver forget March 21, 1823, when thou saved me and mine, from ruin?”

“Let that pass, Bradley. It went into God’s memory – into God’s memory only. Good morning to thee!” And the men parted with a feeling of kindness between them, though neither were able to put it into words.

Still the interview made the squire unhappy and he instantly thought of going home and telling his wife about it. “I can talk the fret away with Annie,” he thought, and he turned Annisward.

At this time Madam Annis was sitting in the morning sunshine, with her finest set of English laces in her hand. She was going carefully over them, lifting a stitch here and there, but frequently letting them fall to her lap while she rested her eyes upon the wealth of spring flowers in the garden which at this point came close up to the windows.

Madam Annis was fifty years old but still a beautiful woman, full of life, and of all life’s sweetest and bravest sympathies. She wore an Indian calico – for Manchester’s printed calicoes were then far from the perfection they have since arrived at – and its bizarre pattern, and wonderfully brilliant colors, suited well her fine proportions and regal manner. A small black silk apron with lace pockets and trimmings of lace, and black silk bows of ribbon – a silver chatelaine, and a little lace cap with scarlet ribbons on it, were the most noticeable items of her dress though it would hardly do to omit the scarlet morocco slippers, sandaled and trimmed with scarlet ribbon and a small silver buckle on the instep.

Suddenly she heard rapid footsteps descending the great stairway, and in the same moment she erected her position, and looked with kind but steady eyes at the door. It opened with a swift noiseless motion and a girl of eighteen years entered; a girl tall and slender, with masses of bright brown hair, a beautiful mouth and star-like eyes.

“Mother,” she said, “how am I to go to London this spring?”

“I am not yet in thy father’s intentions about the journey, Katherine. He promised to take thee when he went up to the House. If he forswears his promise, why then, child, I know not. Ask him when he is going.”

“I did so this morning and he said I must excuse him at present.”

“Then he will take thee, later.”

“That’s a bit different, mother; and it isn’t what he promised me. It is my wish to go now.”

“There is no way for thee to go now. Let London wait for its proper time.”

“Alura Percival, and Lady Capel, and Agatha Wickham, are already on their way there. Captain Chandos told me so an hour ago.”

“Indeed! Has he learned how to speak the truth?”

“Like other people, he speaks as much of it as is profitable to him. If father is not going just yet cannot you go, dear mother? You know Jane will expect us to keep our promise.”

“Jane knows enough of the times to understand why people are now often prevented from keeping their promises. Is Jane going much out?”

“A great deal and she says Lord Leyland wishes her to keep open house for the rest of the season. Of course, I ought to be with her.”

“I see no ‘ought’ in the matter.”

“She is my sister and can introduce me to noblemen and distinguished people. She desires me to come at once. I have just had a letter from her. And what about my frocks, mother? If father is not ready to go you could go with me, dear mother! That would be just as well, perhaps better!” And she said these flattering words from the very summit of her splendid eyes.

“There are people here in Annis who are wanting bread and – ”

“It is their own fault, mother, and you know it. The Annis weavers are a lot of stubborn old fogies.”

“They have only taken this world as they found it. Isn’t that right?”

“No. It is all wrong. Every generation ought to make it better. You said that to father last night, I heard you.”

“I doan’t always talk to thy father as I do to thee. It wouldn’t be a bit suitable. Whatever were thou talking to Captain Chandos for – if he is a captain – I doubt it.”

“His uncle bought him a commission in The Scotch Greys. His mother is Scotch. I suppose he has as much right there, as the rest of the Hanover fools.”

“And if thou are going to indulge thyself in describing people in the army and the court thou wilt get thy father into trouble.”

“I saw father talking to Squire Bradley for a long time this morning.”

“In what mood? I hope they were not – quarreling.”

“They were disputing rather earnestly, father looked troubled, and so did Bradley.”

“They were talking of the perishing poor and the dreadful state of. England no doubt. It’s enough to trouble anybody, I’m sure of that.”

“So it is, but then father has a bad way of making things look worse than they are. And he isn’t friendly with Bradley now. That seems wrong, mother, after being friends all their live-long lives.”

“It is wrong. It is a bit of silent treason to each other. It is that! And how did thou happen to see them talking this morning?”

“They met on the village green. I think Bradley spoke first.”

“I’ll warrant it. Bradley is varry good-natured, and he thought a deal o’ thy father. How did thou happen to be on the green so early in the day?”

“I was sitting with Faith Foster, and her parlor window faces the Green.”

“Faith Foster! And pray what took thee to her house?”

“I was helping her to sew for a lot of Annis babies that are nearly naked, and perishing with cold.”

“That was a varry queer thing for thee to do.”

“I thought so myself even while I was doing it – but Faith works as she likes with everyone. You can’t say ‘No’ to anything she wants.”

“Such nonsense! I’m fairly astonished at thee.”

“Have you ever seen Faith, mother?”

“Not I! It is none o’ my place to visit a Methodist preacher’s daughter.”

“Everybody visits her – rich and poor. If you once meet her she can bring you back to her as often as she wishes.”

“Such women are very dangerous people to know. I’d give her a wide border. Keep thyself to thyself.”

“I am going to London. Maybe, mother, I ought to tell you that our Dick is in love with Faith Foster. I am sure he is. I do not see how he can help it.”

“Dick and his father will hev that matter to settle, and there is enough on hand at present – what with mills, and steam, and working men, not to speak of rebellion, and hunger, and sore poverty. Dick’s love affairs can wait awhile. He hes been in love with one and twenty perfect beauties already. Some of them were suitable fine girls, of good family, and Lucy Todd and Amy Schofield hed a bit of money of their awn. Father and I would hev been satisfied with either o’ them, but Dick shied off from both and went silly about that French governess that was teaching the Saville girls.”

“I do not think Dick will shy off from Faith Foster. I am sure that he has never yet dared to say a word of love to her.”

“Dared! What nonsense! Dick wasn’t born in Yorkshire to take a dare from any man or woman living.”

“Well, mother, I have made you wise about Faith Foster. A word is all you want.”

“I the girl pretty?”

“Pretty She is adorable.”

“You mean that she is a fine looking girl?”

“I mean that she is a little angel. You think of violets if she comes where you are. Her presence is above a charm and every door flies open to her. She is very small. Mary Saville, speaking after her French governess, calls her petite. She is, however, beautifully fashioned and has heavenly blue, deep eyes.”

“Tell me nothing more about her. I should never get along with such a daughter-in-law. How could thou imagine it?”

“Now, mother, I have told you all my news, what have you to say to me about London?”

“I will speak to thy father some time to-day. I shall hev to choose both a proper way and a proper time; thou knows that. Get thy frocks ready and I will see what can be done.”

“If father will not take me, I shall write to Aunt Josepha.”

“Thou will do nothing of that kind. Thy Aunt Josepha is a very peculiar woman. We heard from the Wilsons that she hed fairly joined the radicals and was heart and soul with the Cobden set. In her rough, broad way she said to Mrs. Wilson, that steam and iron and red brick had come to take possession of England and that men and women who could not see that were blind fools and that a pinch of hunger would do them good. She even scolded father in her letter two weeks ago, and father her eldest brother. Think of that! I was shocked, and father felt it far more than I can tell thee. Why!– he wouldn’t hev a mouthful of lunch, and that day we were heving hare soup; and him so fond of hare soup.”

“I remember. Did father answer that letter?”

“I should think he did. He told Josepha Temple a little of her duty; he reminded her, in clear strong words, that he stood in the place of her father, and the head of the Annis family, and that he had a right to her respect and sympathy.”

“What did Aunt Josepha say to that?”

“She wrote a laughable, foolish letter back and said: ‘As she was two years older than Antony Annis she could not frame her mouth to ‘father’ him, but that she was, and always would be, his loving sister.’ You see Josepha Temple was the eldest child of the late squire, your father came two years after her.”

“Did you know that Dick had been staying with her for a week?”

“Yes. Dick wrote us while there. Father is troubled about it. He says Dick will come home with a factory on his brain.”

“You must stand by Dick, mother. We are getting so pinched for money you know, and Lydia Wilson told me that everyone was saying: ‘Father was paying the men’s shortage out of his estate.’ They were sorry for father, and I don’t like people being sorry for him.”

“And pray what has Lydia Wilson to do with thy father’s money and business? Thou ought to have asked her that question. Whether thou understands thy father or not, whatever he does ought to be right in thy eyes. Men don’t like explaining their affairs to anyone; especially to women, and I doan’t believe they iver tell the bottom facts, even to themselves.”

“Mother, if things come to the worst, would it do for me to ask Jane for money?”

“I wonder at thee. Jane niver gives or lends anything to anybody, but to Jane.”

“She says she is going to entertain many great people this winter and she wishes me to meet them so I think she might help me to make a good appearance.”

“I wouldn’t wonder if she asked thy father to pay her for introducing thee into the titled set. She writes about them and talks about them and I dare warrant dreams about them.”

“Oh, mother!”

“Does she ever forget that she has managed to become Lady Leyland? She thinks that two syllables before her name makes her better than her own family. Chut! Katherine! Leyland is only the third of the line. It was an official favor, too – what merit there is in it has not yet been discovered. We have lived in this old house three hundred years, and three hundred before that in old Britain.”

“Old Britain?”

“To be sure – in Glamorganshire, I believe. Ask thy father. He knows his genealogy by heart. I see him coming. Go and meet him.”

“Yes, mother, but I think I will write a short note to Aunt Josepha. I will not name business, nor money, nor even my desire to make a visit to London.”

“Write such a letter if thou wishes but take the result – whatever it is – in a good humor. Remember that thy aunt’s temper, and her words also, are entirely without frill.”

“That, of course. It is the Annis temper.”

“It is the English temper.”

“Well, mother, things seem to be ordered in a very unhappy fashion but I suppose we might as well take to them at once. Indeed, we shall be compelled to do it, if so be, it pleases them above.”

“Just so,” answered Madam. “But, Katherine, The Hands of Compulsion generally turn out to be The Hands of Compassion.”

Katherine smiled happily, the door opened, and the next moment she gave the smile in a kiss to her father, as he clasped her fondly in his arms, crying, “Eh, my joy! I am glad to see thee!” Then the two women made that charming fuss over his “tired look,” which is so consoling to men fresh from the slings and arrows of an outrageous world that will not do as they want it to do.

In his family life the squire still retained many old-fashioned customs, and his dinner at one o’clock was a settled ceremony. This day, in the very middle of it, Katherine said, “I saw you, father, this morning when you were talking to Mr. Bradley on the Green – about ten o’clock.”

“And I saw thee trailing through the low meadows with Bradley’s son.”

“Yes, he came home last night.”

“And went out t’ varry next morning, to meet thee in t’ low meadow.”

“If you say, he happened to meet me in the low meadow, it would be better.”

“Whativer hed the lad to do in my meadow so early in the morning?”

“Do you call half-past ten early, dad?”

“I call it too early for thee to be traipsing through t’ wet grass with Henry Bradley.”

“Let us keep to facts, dear father. The grass was quite dry – too dry. Joel was wishing for rain; he said, ‘Master so pampered his cattle, that they perfectly thought scorn of half-cured grass.’”

“Thou art trying to slip by my question and I’m not going to let thee do it. What was John Henry Bradley doing wi’ thee in the low meadow this morning?”

“He brought me a letter from my brother Dick. Dick and Harry have been in London together, and they stayed four days with Aunt Josepha. They liked her very much. They took her to the opera and the play and she snubbed O’Connell and some other famous men and told them to let her alone, that she had two innocent lads in her care – and so on. You know.”

“Was he making love to thee?”

“You should not ask me a question of that kind, dad.”

“Thou need not tell me, what I should, or should not do. I hed learned all that, before thou wer born. And I’ll tell thee plainly that I will not hev any lovemaking between thee and Harry Bradley.”

“Very well, father. If you are going to the stable will you tell someone to have my saddle horse at the door in half-an-hour?”

“To be sure, I will. If tha wants a ride and will go to Yoden Bridge, I’ll go with thee.”

“I would like that but I promised to help Faith Foster, who is making clothing for the naked, shivering babies in Annis village. When Oddy’s little girl died a week ago, there wasn’t a night-gown in the house to bury it in. Its mother tore a breadth out of her one petticoat and folded her baby in it.”

“Oh, Katherine Annis! Surely that tale is not true!” cried Madam.

“Alas, it is too true! The baby’s one little gown was not fit even for the grave.”

The Squire sat down and covered his face with his hands and when Katherine left the room he looked up pitifully at his wife. And she stooped and kissed him and as she did so comforted him with broken words of affection and assurances that it was not his fault – “thou hast pinched us all a bit to keep the cottage looms busy,” she said, “thou couldn’t do more than that, could thou, Antony?”

“I thought I was doing right. Is there any other way?”

“Thou could build – like the rest.”

He did not answer the remark but stood up hurriedly, saying, “I must go and order Katherine’s mount and she will expect me to put her up. After that I may go to Yoden Bridge.”

Madam sighed and turned hopelessly away. “When will he listen to reason?” she whispered, but there was no answer.