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RALPH THE HEIR
the working men delight to follow. Ontario Moggs, who was
at any rate honest in his philanthropy, and who did in truth
believe that it was better that twenty real bootmakers should
eat beef daily than that one so-called bootmaker should live in
a country residence, — who believed this and acted on his
belief, though he was himself not of the twenty, but rather
the one so-called bootmaker who would suffer by the propagation of such a creed, — was beloved and almost worshipped
by the denizens of the Cheshire Cheese. How far the real philanthropy of the man may have been marred by an uneasy and
fatuous ambition; how far he was carried away by a feeling
that it was better to make speeches at the Cheshire Cheese
than to apply for payment of money due to his father, it would
be very hard for us to decide. That there was an alloy even in
Ontario Moggs is probable; — but of this alloy his hearers
knew nothing. To them he was a perfect specimen of that combination, which is so grateful to them, of the rich man’s position with the poor man’s sympathies. Therefore they clattered
their glasses, and broke their pipes, and swore that the words
he uttered were the kind of stuff they wanted.
“The battle has been fought since man first crawled upon
the earth,” continued Moggs, stretching himself to his full
height and pointing to the farthest confines of the inhabited
globe; — “since man first crawled upon the earth.” There was
a sound in that word “crawl” typical of the abject humility to
which working shoemakers were subjected by their employers, which specially aroused the feelings of the meeting. “And
whence comes the battle?” The orator paused, and the glasses
were jammed upon the table. “Yes, — whence comes the bat-
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
tle, in fighting which hecatombs of honest labourers have
been crushed till the sides of the mountains are white with
their bones, and the rivers run foul with their blood? From
the desire of one man to eat the bread of two?” “That’s it,”
said a lean, wizened, pale-faced little man in a corner, whose
trembling hand was resting on a beaker of gin and water.
“Yes, and to wear two men’s coats and trousers, and to take
two men’s bedses and the wery witals out of two men’s bodies. D — — them!” Ontario, who understood something of
his trade as an orator, stood with his hand still stretched out,
waiting till this ebullition should be over. “No, my friend,”
said he, “we will not damn them. I for one will damn no man.
I will simply rebel. Of all the sacraments given to us, the sacrament of rebellion is the most holy.” Hereupon the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese must have feared for his tables,
so great was the applause and so tremendous the thumping; — but he knew his business, no doubt, and omitted to
interfere. “Of Rebellion, my friends,” continued Ontario, with
his right hand now gracefully laid across his breast, “there are
two kinds, — or perhaps we may say three. There is the rebellion of arms, which can avail us nothing here.” “Perhaps it
might tho’,” said the little wizened man in a corner, whose
gin and water apparently did not comfort him. To this interruption Ontario paid no attention. “And there is the dignified and slow rebellion of moral resistance; — too slow I fear
for us.” This point was lost upon the audience, and though
the speaker paused, no loud cheer was given. “It’s as true as
true,” said one man; but he was a vain fellow, simply desirous of appearing wiser than his comrades. “And then there is
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the rebellion of the Strike;” now the clamour of men’s voices,
and the kicking of men’s feet, and the thumping with men’s
fists became more frantic than ever;” — the legitimate rebellion of Labour against its tyrant. Gentlemen, of all efforts this
is the most noble. It is a sacrifice of self, a martyrdom, a giving up on the part of him who strikes of himself, his little
ones, and his wife, for the sake of others who can only thus be
rescued from the grasp of tyranny. Gentlemen, were it not for
strikes, this would be a country in which no free man could
live. By the aid of strikes we will make it the Paradise of the labourer, an Elysium of industry, an Eden of artizans.” There
was much more of it, — but the reader might be fatigued were
the full flood of Mr. Moggs’s oratory to be let loose upon him.
And through it all there was a germ of truth and a strong
dash of true, noble feeling; — but the speaker had omitted
as yet to learn how much thought must be given to a germ of
truth before it can be made to produce fruit for the multitude. And then, in speaking, grand words come so easily, while
thoughts, — even little thoughts, — flow so slowly!
But the speech, such as it was, sufficed amply for the immediate wants of the denizens of the Cheshire Cheese. There
were men there who for the half-hour believed that Ontario
Moggs had been born to settle all the difficulties between labourers and their employers, and that he would do so in such
a way that the labourers, at least, should have all that they
wanted. It would be, perhaps, too much to say that any man
thought this would come in his own day, — that he so believed
as to put a personal trust in his own belief; but they did think
for a while that the good time was coming, and that Ontario
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Moggs would make it come. “We’ll have ’im in parl’ament any
ways,” said a sturdy, short, dirty-looking artizan, who shook
his head as he spoke to show that, on that matter, his mind was
quite made up. “I dunno no good as is to cum of sending sich as
him to parl’ament,” said another. “Parl’ament ain’t the place.
When it comes to the p’int they won’t ‘ave ’em. There was
Odgers, and Mr. Beale. I don’t b’lieve in parl’ament no more.”
“Kennington Oval’s about the place,” said a third. “Or Primrose ‘ill,” said a fourth. “Hyde Park!” screamed the little wizen
man with the gin and water. “That’s the ticket; — and down
with them gold railings. We’ll let’ em see!” Nevertheless they
all went away home in the quietest way in the world, and, — as
there was no strike in hand, — got to their work punctually
on the next morning. Of all those who had been loudest at
the Cheshire Cheese there was not one who was not faithful,
and, in a certain way, loyal to his employer.
As soon as his speech was over and he was able to extricate
himself from the crowd, Ontario Moggs escaped from the public-house and strutted off through certain narrow, dark
streets in the neighbourhood, leaning on the arm of a faithful
friend. “Mr. Moggs, you did pitch it rayther strong, to-night,”
said the faithful friend.
“Pitch it rather strong; — yes. What good do you think can
ever come from pitching any thing weak? Pitch it as strong as
you will, find it don’t amount to much.”
“But about rebellion, now, Mr. Moggs? Rebellion ain’t
a good thing, surely, Mr. Moggs.”
“Isn’t it? What was Washington, what was Cromwell,
what was Rienzi, what was, — was, — ; but never mind,” said
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Ontario, who could not at the moment think of the name of
his favourite Pole.
“And you think as the men should be rebels again’
the masters?”
“That depends on who the masters are, Waddle.”
“What good ‘d cum of it if I rebelled again’ Mr. Neefit,
and told him up to his face as I wouldn’t make up the books?
He’d only sack me. I find thirty-five bob a week, with two
kids and their mother to keep on it, tight enough, Mr. Moggs.
If I ‘ad the fixing on it, I should say forty bob wasn’t over
the mark; — I should indeed. But I don’t see as I should get it.”
“Yes you would; — if you earned it, and stuck to your purpose. But you’re a single stick, and it requires a faggot to do
this work.”
“I never could see it, Mr. Moggs. All the same I do like to
hear you talk. It stirs one up, even though one don’t just go
along with it. You won’t let on, you know, to Mr. Neefit as
I was there.”
“And why not?” said Ontario, turning sharp upon his companion.
“The old gen’leman hates the very name of a strike. He’s
a’most as bad as your own father, Mr. Moggs.”
“You have done his work to-day. You have earned your
bread. You owe him nothing.”
“That I don’t, Mr. Moggs. He’ll take care of that.”
“And yet you are to stay away from this place, or go to
that, to suit his pleasure. Are you Neefit’s slave?”
“I’m just the young man in his shop, — that’s all.”
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“As long as that is all, Waddle, you are not worthy to be
called a man.”
“Mr. Moggs, you’re too hard. As for being a man, I am a man.
I’ve a wife and two kids. I don’t think more of my governor
than another; — but if he sacked me, where ‘d I get thirty-five
bob a-week?”
“I beg your pardon, Waddle; — it’s true. I should not have
said it. Perhaps you do not quite understand me, but your position is one of a single stick, rather than of the faggot. Ah me!
She hasn’t been at the shop lately?”
“She do come sometimes. She was there the day before yesterday.”
“And alone?”
“She come alone, and she went home with the governor.”
“And he?”
“Mr. Newton, you mean?”
“Has he been there?”
“Well; — yes; he was there once last week.”
“Well?”
“There was words; — that’s what there was. It ain’t going
smooth, and he ain’t been out there no more, — not as I knows
on. I did say a word once or twice as to the precious long figure
as he stands for on our books. Over two hundred for breeches
is something quite stupendous. Isn’t it, Mr. Moggs?”
“And what did Neefit say?”
“Just snarled at me. He can show his teeth, you know, and
look as bitter as you like. It ain’t off, because when I just named
the very heavy figure in such a business as ours, — he only
snarled. But it ain’t on, Mr. Moggs. It ain’t what I call, — on.”
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RALPH THE HEIR
After this they walked on in silence for a short way, when Mr.
Waddle made a little proposition. “He’s on your books, too, Mr.
Moggs, pretty tight, as I’m told. Why ain’t you down on him?”
“Down on him?” said Moggs.
“I wouldn’t leave him an hour, if I was you.”
“D’you think that’s the way I would be down on, — a rival?”
and Moggs, as he walked along, worked both his fists closely in
his energy. “If I can’t be down on him other gait than that, I’ll
leave him alone. But, Waddle, by my sacred honour as a man,
I’ll not leave him alone!” Waddle started, and stood with his
mouth open, looking up at his friend. “Base, mercenary, falsehearted loon! What is it that he wants?”
“Old Neefit’s money. That’s it, you know.”
“He doesn’t know what love means, and he’d take that fair
creature, and drag her through the dirt, and subject her to
the scorn of hardened aristocrats, and crush her spirits, and
break her heart, — just because her father has scraped together a mass of gold. But I, — I wouldn’t let the wind blow
on her too harshly. I despise her father’s money. I love her.
Yes; — I’ll be down upon him somehow. Good-night, Waddle.
To come between me and the pride of my heart for a little
dirt! Yes; I’ll be down upon him.” Waddle stood and admired.
He had read of such things in books, but here it was brought
home to him in absolute life. He had a young wife whom he
loved, but there had been no poetry about his marriage. One
didn’t often come across real poetry in the world, — Waddle
felt; — but when one did, the treat was great. Now Ontario
Moggs was full of poetry. When he preached rebellion it was
very grand, — though at such moments Waddle was apt to
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
tell himself that he was precluded by his two kids from taking
an active share in such poetry as that. But when Moggs was
roused to speak of his love, poetry couldn’t go beyond that.
“He’ll drop into that customer of ours,” said Waddle to himself, “and he’ll mean it when he’s a doing of it. But Polly’ll
never ‘ave ’im.” And then there came across Waddle’s mind
an idea which he could not express, — that of course no girl
would put up with a bootmaker who could have a real gentleman. Real gentlemen think a good deal of themselves, but
not half so much as is thought of them by men who know
that they themselves are of a different order.
Ontario Moggs, as he went homewards by himself, was
disturbed by various thoughts. If it really was to be the case
that Polly Neefit wouldn’t have him, why should he stay in
a country so ill-adapted to his manner of thinking as this?
Why remain in a paltry island while all the starry west, with its
brilliant promises, was open to him? Here he could only quarrel with his father, and become a rebel, and perhaps live to
find himself in a jail. And then what could he do of good?
He preached and preached, but nothing came of it. Would not
the land of the starry west suit better such a heart and such
a mind as his? But he wouldn’t stir while his fate was as yet
unfixed in reference to Polly Neefit. Strikes were dear to him,
and oratory, and the noisy applauses of the Cheshire Cheese;
but nothing was so dear to him as Polly Neefit. He went about
the world with a great burden lying on his chest, and that burden was his love for Polly Neefit. In regard to strikes and
the ballot he did in a certain way reason within himself and
teach himself to believe that he had thought out those mat-
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RALPH THE HEIR
ters; but as to Polly he thought not at all. He simply loved her,
and felt himself to be a wild, frantic man, quarrelling with his
father, hurrying towards jails and penal settlements, rushing
about the streets half disposed to suicide, because Polly Neefit
would have none of him. He had been jealous, too, of the gasfitter, when he had seen his Polly whirling round the room in
the gasfitter’s arms; — but the gasfitter was no gentleman, and
the battle had been even. In spite of the whirling he still had
a chance against the gasfitter. But the introduction of the purple and fine linen element into his affairs was maddening to
him. With all his scorn for gentry, Ontario Moggs in his heart
feared a gentleman. He thought that he could make an effort to punch Ralph Newton’s head if they two were ever to
be brought together in a spot convenient for such an operation; but of the man’s standing in the world, he was afraid. It
seemed to him to be impossible that Polly should prefer him, or
any one of his class, to a suitor whose hands were always clean,
whose shirt was always white, whose words were soft and wellchosen, who carried with him none of the stain of work. Moggs
was as true as steel in his genuine love of Labour, — of Labour
with a great L, — of the People with a great P, — of Trade
with a great T, — of Commerce with a great C; but of himself
individually, — of himself, who was a man of the people, and
a tradesman, he thought very little when he compared himself to a gentleman. He could not speak as they spoke; he could
not walk as they walked; he could not eat as they ate. There
was a divinity about a gentleman which he envied and hated.
Now Polly Neefit was not subject to this idolatry. Could
Moggs have read her mind, he might have known that suc-
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
cess, as from the bootmaker against the gentleman, was by no
means so hopeless an affair. What Polly liked was a nice young
man, who would hold up his head and be true to her, — and
who would not make a fool of himself. If he could waltz into
the bargain, that also would Polly like.
On that night Ontario walked all the way out to Alexandria Cottage, and spent an hour leaning upon the gate, looking up at the window of the breeches-maker’s bedroom; — for
the chamber of Polly herself opened backwards. When he had
stood there an hour, he walked home to Bond Street.
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