The tea things had been cleared away, and Marshall was smoking. Both
he and Dennis were Chartists, and Baruch had interrupted a debate
upon a speech delivered at a Chartist meeting that morning by Henry
Vincent.
Frederick Dennis was about thirty, tall and rather loose-limbed. He
wore loose clothes, his neck-cloth was tied in a big, loose knot, his
feet were large and his boots were heavy. His face was quite smooth,
and his hair, which was very thick and light brown, fell across his
forehead in a heavy wave with just two complete undulations in it
from the parting at the side to the opposite ear. It had a trick of
tumbling over his eyes, so that his fingers were continually passed
through it to brush it away. He was a wood engraver, or, as he
preferred to call himself, an artist, but he also wrote for the
newspapers, and had been a contributor to the Northern Star. He was
well brought up and was intended for the University, but he did not
stick to his Latin and Greek, and as he showed some talent for
drawing he was permitted to follow his bent. His work, however, was
not of first-rate quality, and consequently orders were not abundant.
This was the reason why he had turned to literature. When he had any
books to illustrate he lived upon what they brought him, and when
there were no books he renewed his acquaintance with politics. If
books and newspapers both failed, he subsisted on a little money
which had been left him, stayed with friends as long as he could, and
amused himself by writing verses which showed much command over
rhyme.
'I cannot stand Vincent,' said Marshall, 'he is too flowery for me,
and he does not belong to the people. He is middle-class to the
backbone.' 'He is deficient in ideas,' said Dennis.
'It is odd,' continued Marshall, turning to Cohen, 'that your race
never takes any interest in politics.'
'My race is not a nation, or, if a nation, has no national home. It
took an interest in politics when it was in its own country, and
produced some rather remarkable political writing.'
'But why do you care so little for what is going on now?'
'I do care, but all people are not born to be agitators, and,
furthermore, I have doubts if the Charter will accomplish all you
expect.' 'I know what is coming'--Marshall took the pipe out of his mouth and
spoke with perceptible sarcasm--'the inefficiency of merely external
remedies, the folly of any attempt at improvement which does not
begin with the improvement of individual character, and that those to
whom we intend to give power are no better than those from whom we
intend to take it away. All very well, Mr Cohen. My answer is that
at the present moment the stockingers in Leicester are earning four
shillings and sixpence a week. It is not a question whether they are
better or worse than their rulers. They want something to eat, they
have nothing, and their masters have more than they can eat.'