Part 3

Coming towards the town, from Hockley Bridge to the corner of Livery Street, many of the houses had a pretty bit of garden in front, and the houses were mostly inhabited by jewellers. It was in this street that I first noticed a peculiarity in tradesmen's signboards, which then was general through the town, and had a very curious appearance to a stranger. Few of the occupiers' names were painted on the faciae of the shop windows, but in almost every case a bordered wooden frame, following the outline of the window, was fixed above it. Each of these frames stood upon three or four wooden spheres, generally about the size of a cricket ball, and they were surmounted by wooden acorns or ornaments. The boards were all black, and the lettering invariably gilt, as were also the balls and the acorns. This, however strange, was not inconsistent; but there were hundreds of frames in the town stretched across the fronts of houses, and fixed to the walls by iron spikes. Every one of these signboards, although altogether unnecessary for its support, had three gilt balls underneath. There was another peculiarity: the capital letter C was invariably made with two "serifs"--thus, C--and for a long time I invariably read them as G's.

Coming up Livery Street, which then was filled on both sides of its entire length by buildings, it was pointed out to me that the warehouse now occupied by Messrs. T. Barnes and Co. was built for a show-room and warehouse by Boulton and Watt, and here their smaller wares had been on view. Where Messrs. Billing's extensive buildings now stand, was an old chapel, built, I believe, by a congregation which ultimately removed to the large chapel in Steelhouse Lane. It was used as a place of worship until about 1848, when Mr. Billing bought it, pulled it down, and utilised its site for his business. The whole area of the Great Western Railway Station was then covered with buildings, and one, if not more, small streets ran through to Snow Hill. Monmouth Street was very narrow. Where the Arcade now is, was the Quakers' burial ground. Opposite was the warehouse of Mr. Thornley, the druggist, who had a small and mean-looking shop at the corner, fronting Snow Hill. At the opposite corner was a shaky-looking stuccoed house, used as a draper's shop, the entrance being up three or four steps from Steelhouse Lane.

Mr. George Richmond Collis had recently succeeded to the business, at the top of Church Street, of Sir Edward Thomason, who was dead. It was then the show manufactory of Birmingham. The buildings--pulled down seven or eight years ago--were at that time a smart-looking affair; the parapet was adorned with a number of large statues. Atlas was there, bending under the weight of two or three hundred pounds of Portland cement. Hercules brandished a heavy club, on which pigeons often settled. A copy of the celebrated group of the "Horses of St. Mark" was over the entrance. Several branches of Birmingham work were exhibited to visitors, and it was here I first saw stamping, cutting-out, press-work, and coining.

There were then I think only ten churches in Birmingham. Bishop Ryder's was being built. The Rev. I.C. Barrett had just come from Hull to assume the incumbency of St. Mary's; the announcement of his presentation to the living appeared in Aris's Gazette, October 8th, 1837. I was one of his first hearers. The church had been comparatively deserted until he came, but it was soon filled to overflowing with an attentive congregation. There was an earnest tone and a poetical grace in his sermons which were fresh to Birmingham in those days. His voice was good, and his pale, thoughtful, intelligent face was very striking. He was a fascinating preacher, and he became the most popular minister in the town. The church was soon found to be too small for the crowds who wished to hear, and alterations of an extensive nature were made to give greater accommodation. Mr. Barrett had then the peculiarity in his manner of sounding certain vowels, which he still retains--always pronouncing the word "turn," for instance, as if it were written "tarn." I remember hearing him once preach from the text, 1 Cor., iii., 23, which he announced as follows: "The farst book of Corinthians, the thard chaptar, and the twenty-thard varse." Although still hale, active, and comparatively young-looking, he is by far the oldest incumbent in Birmingham, having held the living nearly forty years.

St. George's Church then looked comparatively clean and new. A curious incident occurred here in May, 1833, an account of which I had from the lips of a son of the then churchwarden. Birmingham was visited by a very severe epidemic of influenza, which was so general that few households escaped. Nor was the epidemic confined to mankind; horses were attacked, and the proprietor of "The Hen and Chickens" lost by death sixteen horses in one day. So many of the clergy and ministers were ill, that some of the places of worship had to be closed for a time. St. George's, which had a rector and two curates, was kept open, although all its clergy were on the sick list. It was feared, however, that on one particular Sunday it would have to be closed. Application had been made to clergymen at a distance, but all, dreading infection, were afraid to come to the town, so that aid from outside could not be had. A consultation was held, and one of the curates, although weak and ill, undertook to conduct the devotional part of the service, but felt unable to preach. An announcement to be read by the "clerk" was written out by the rector, and was, no doubt, properly punctuated. At the close of the prayers, the next morning, the clerk arose, paper in hand, and proceeded to read as follows, without break, pause, or change of tone: "I am desired to give notice that in consequence of the illness of the whole of the clergymen attached to this church there will be no sermon here this morning 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow.'"

John Angell James was then at the head of the Nonconformists of the town, and was in the prime of his intellectual powers. He was very popular as a preacher, and the chapel in Carrs Lane was always well filled. Mr. Wm. Beaumont, the bank manager, acted as precentor, reading aloud the words of the hymns to be sung and the notices of coming religious events. Mr. James had a powerful voice and an impressive manner, and occasionally was very eloquent. I remember a passage, which struck me at the time as being very forcible. He was deprecating the influence which the works of Byron had upon the youthful mind, and, speaking of the poet, said: "He wrote as with the pen of an archangel, dipped in the lava which issues from the bottomless pit." Mr. James was not a classical scholar; indeed, he had only received a very moderate amount of instruction. He was intended by his parents for a tradesman, and in fact was apprenticed to a draper at Poole. I believe, however, that the indentures were cancelled, for he became a preacher before he was twenty years of age. For myself, I always thought him an over-rated man. There was a narrowness of mind; there was a want of sympathy with the works of great poets and artists; and there was an intense hatred of the drama. There was, too, a dogmatic, egotistic manner, which led him always to enunciate his own thoughts as if they were absolutely true and incontrovertible. He was not a man to doubt or hesitate; he did not say "It may be," or "It is probable," but always "It is." He was a good pastor, however. During his long and useful ministerial career of more than half a century, he had but one fold and one flock. He was a firm disciplinarian; was somewhat of a clerical martinet; but his people liked him, and were cheerfully obedient; and he descended to the grave full of abundant honour.

Timothy East, of Steelhouse Lane Chapel, was a man of far greater mental capacity and culture. His sermons were clear, logical, conclusive, and earnest. It is not generally known that he was a voluminous writer. He was a frequent contributor to some of the best periodicals of his time. He wrote and published, under the titles, first of "The Evangelical Rambler," and afterwards of "The Evangelical Spectator," a series of exceedingly well-written essays, the style of which will compare favourably with that of the great standard works of a century before, whose titles he had appropriated. His son, the present Mr. Alfred Baldwin East, inherits a large share of his father's literary ability. Those who had the pleasure, a few years ago, to hear him read his manuscript of "The Life and Times of Oliver Cromwell," had a rare intellectual treat. Some of its passages are worthy of Macaulay. I wish he would publish it.

Of the newspapers of that time, only two survive, at least in name--Aris's Gazette and The Midland Counties Herald. The latter had just been started. For a short time it was called The Birmingham Herald, but this was soon altered to its present title. It was published on the premises now occupied as Nock's refreshment bar, in Union Passage. It had four pages then, as now, but the paper altogether was not much larger than the coloured cover of The Graphic. The Journal, although its name is lost, still lives and thrives as The Weekly Post. The two others are defunct long ago. One, The Philanthropist, was published in Bull Street by Mr. Hudson; the other was The Birmingham Advertiser, which, on the purchase of The Journal by the Liberals, had been started in 1833 by Mr. Hodgetts, in the Tory interest. It was edited by Mr. Thomas Ragg. It ceased to be published in 1846.

The Grand Junction Railway, from Birmingham to Liverpool and Manchester, was opened July 4th, in the year I am writing of (1837), and on this line, in October of that year, I had my first railway trip. The "Birmingham terminus" of those days is now the goods station at Vauxhall, and it was here that I went to "book my place" for Wolverhampton. I entered a moderate-sized room, shabbily fitted with a few shelves and a deal counter, like a shop. Upon this counter, spread out, were a number of large open books, the pages of each being of different colour to the others. Each page contained a number of printed forms, with blank spaces to be filled up in writing. On applying to the clerk in attendance, I had to give my name and address, which he wrote in two places on the blue page of one of the books; he then took the money, tore out a ticket, some four inches by three, and left a counterpart in the book. I was then shown to my seat in the train, and on inspecting at my leisure the document I was favoured with, I found that in consideration of a sum of money therein mentioned, and in consideration further of my having impliedly undertaken to comply with certain rules and regulations, the company granted me a pass in a first-class carriage to Wolverhampton. I returned to Birmingham by omnibus after dark the same evening, and passing through the heart of the Black Country, made my first acquaintance with that dingy region--its lurid light, its flashing tongues of intercessant flame, and its clouds of stifling, sulphurous smoke.

Such, rapidly sketched, were my impressions of the place which was destined to become my future home. It is very different now. From the large and populous, but ugly town of those days, it is rapidly becoming as handsome as any town in England. Situated as it is, locally, almost in the centre of the country, it is also a great centre commercially, artistically, politically, and intellectually. From the primitive town of that time, governed by constables and bailiffs, it has become a vast metropolis, and may fairly boast of having the most energetic, far-seeing, and intelligent Municipal Council in the kingdom. Its voice is listened to respectfully in the Senate. Its merchants are known and honoured in every country in the world. Its manufactured products are necessities to nearly every member of the vast human race; and it seems destined, at its present rate of progress, to become, before many years, the second city of the Empire.

THE BULL RING RIOTS, 1839.

On Sunday, the 14th of July, in the year 1839, I left Euston Square by the night mail train. I had taken a ticket for Coventry, where I intended to commence a business journey of a month's duration. It was a hot and sultry night, and I was very glad when we arrived at Wolverton, where we had to wait ten minutes while the engine was changed. An enterprising person who owned a small plot of land adjoining the station, had erected thereon a small wooden hut, where, in winter time, he dispensed to shivering passengers hot elderberry wine and slips of toast, and in summer, tea, coffee, and genuine old-fashioned fermented ginger-beer. It was the only "refreshment room" upon the line, and people used to crowd his little shanty, clamouring loudly for supplies. He soon became the most popular man between London and Birmingham.

Railway travelling then was in a very primitive condition. Except at the termini there were no platforms. Passengers had to clamber from the level of the rails by means of iron steps, to their seats. The roof of each of the coaches, as they were then called, was surrounded by an iron fence or parapet, to prevent luggage from slipping off. Each passenger's personal effects travelled on the roof of the coach in which he sat, and the guard occupied an outside seat at one end. First-class carriages were built upon the model of the "inside" of the old stage coaches. They were so low that even a short man could not stand upright. The seats were divided by arms, as now, and the floor was covered afresh for each journey with clean straw. The second-class coaches were simply execrable. They were roofed over, certainly; but, except a half-door and a low fencing, to prevent passengers from falling out, the sides were utterly unprotected from the weather. As the trains swept rapidly through the country--particularly in cuttings or on high embankments--the wind, even in the finest weather, drove through, "enough to cut your ear off." When the weather was wet, or it was snowing, it was truly horrible, and, according to the testimony of medical men, was the primary cause of many deaths. There were no "buffers" to break the force of the concussion of two carriages in contact. When the train was about to start, the guard used to cry out along the train, "Hold hard! we're going to start," and 'twas well he did, for sometimes, if unprepared, you might find your nose brought into collision with that of your opposite neighbour, accompanied by some painful sensations in that important part of your profile.

I arrived at Coventry station at midnight. A solitary porter with a lantern was in attendance. There was no lamp about the place. The guard clambered to the roof of the carriage in which I had travelled, and the porter brought a long board, having raised edges, down which my luggage came sliding to the ground. The train passed on, and I made inquiry for some vehicle to convey me to "The Craven Arms," half a mile away. None were in attendance, nor was there any one who would carry my "traps." I had about a hundred-weight of patterns, besides my portmanteau. I "might leave my patterns in his room," the porter said, and I "had better carry my 'things' myself." There was no help for it, so, shouldering the portmanteau, I carried it up a narrow brick stair to the roadway. The "station" then consisted of the small house by the side of the bridge which crosses the railway, and the only means of entrance or exit to the line was by this steep stair, which was about three feet wide. The "booking office" was on the level of the road, by the side of the bridge, where Tennyson

"Hung with grooms and porters,"

while he

"Waited for the train at Coventry."

Carrying a heavy portmanteau half a mile on a hot night, when you are tired, is not a pleasant job. When I arrived, hot and thirsty, at the inn, I looked upon the night porter as my best friend, when, after a little parley, he was able to get me a little something, "out of a bottle o' my own, you know, sir," with which I endeavoured, successfully, to repair the waste of tissue.

The next day, having finished my work in Coventry, I started in a hired conveyance for Coleshill, and a pleasant drive of an hour and a half brought me to the door of "The Swan" in that quaint and quiet little town. The people of the house were very busy preparing for a public dinner that was to come off on the following day, and as the house was noisy, from the preparations, I took a quiet walk in the churchyard, little recking then, as I strolled in the solemn silence of the golden-tinted twilight, that, only ten miles from where I stood, at that moment, a crowd of furious men, with passions unbridled, and blood hot with diabolic hate, held at their mercy, undisturbed, the lives and property of the citizens of an important town; that several houses, fired by incendiary hands, were roaring like furnaces, and lighting with a lurid glare the overhanging sky; that women by hundreds were shrieking with terror, and brave men were standing aghast and appalled; that two of my own brothers and some valued friends were in deadly peril, and that one at that very instant was fighting for very life. It was the night of the great Bull Ring riots of 1839.

When I arose the next morning I saw a man on horseback come rapidly to the house, his features wild with excitement, and his face pale with terror. His horse was covered with foam, and trembled violently. From the man's quivering lips I learned, by degrees, an incoherent story, which accounted for His strange demeanour. He was a servant at the inn, and had been to Birmingham that morning, early, to fetch from Mr. Keirle's shop, in Bull Street, a salmon for the coming dinner. On arriving at the town, he had been stopped at a barrier by some dragoons, who told him that he could go no further. Upon the poor fellow telling how urgent was his errand, and what a heavy blow it would be to society if the dinner at "The Swan" should be short of fish, he was allowed to pass, but was escorted by a dragoon, with drawn sword, to the shop. Here having obtained what he sought, he was duly marched back to the barrier and set at liberty, upon which he started off in mortal terror, and galloped all the way home, to tell us with tremulous tongue that Birmingham was all on fire, and that hundreds of people had been killed by the soldiers.

A small group had gathered round him in the yard to listen to his incoherent, and, happily, exaggerated story. In a minute or two the landlady, who had in some remote part of the premises heard a word or two of the news the man had brought, came rushing out in a state of frantic terror, prepared evidently for the worst; but when she heard that James had brought the salmon, her face assumed an air of satisfaction, and with a pious "Thank God! that's all right," she turned away; her mind tranquil, contented, and at perfect ease.

After the passing of the Reform Bill in 1832, there was a political lull in England for a few years. The middle classes, being satisfied with the success they had achieved for themselves, did not trouble themselves very much for the extension of the franchise to the working classes. So long as trade remained good, and wages were easily earned, the masses remained quiet; but the disastrous panic of 1837 altered the aspect of affairs. Trade was very much depressed. A series of bad harvests having occurred, and the Corn Laws not having been repealed, bread became dear, and so aggravated the sufferings of the people. Wages fell; manufactories in many places were entirely closed, and work became scarce. Naturally enough, the working men attributed their sufferings to their want of direct political influence, and began to clamour for the franchise. Feargus O'Connor, a violent demagogue, fanned the flame, and the excitement became general. In the year 1838 some half-dozen Members of Parliament united with an equal number of working men in conference, and drew up a document, known afterwards as "The People's Charter," which embodied what they considered the rightful demands of the working class. It had six distinct claims, which were called the "points" of the charter, and were as follows: 1. Universal suffrage. 2. Vote by ballot. 3. Equal electoral districts. 4. Annual Parliaments. 5. Abolition of property qualification for Members of Parliament. 6. Payment of Members. This programme, when promulgated, was enthusiastically received throughout the country, immense meetings being held in various places in its support. In Birmingham, meetings were held every Monday evening on Holloway Head, then an open space. On the 13th of August, 1838, there was a "monster demonstration" here, and it was computed that 100,000 persons were present. A petition in favour of the charter was adopted, and in a few days received nearly 95,000 signatures. The former political leaders--G.F. Muntz, George Edmonds, and Clutton Salt--became all at once exceedingly unpopular, as they declined to join in the agitation. Torchlight meetings were held almost nightly in various parts of the country, and a Government proclamation was issued prohibiting them. Some of the leaders of the movement were arrested. There was evidently some central organisation at work, for a curious system of annoyance was simultaneously adopted. In all parts of the country the Chartists, in large and well-organised bodies, went, Sunday after Sunday, as soon as the doors were opened, and took possession of all the seats in the churches, thus shutting out the regular congregations. I was present at a proceeding of this kind at Cheltenham. I was staying at "The Fleece," and on a Saturday evening was told by the landlord that if I wished to go to church the following morning, I had better be early, as the Chartists were expected there, and the hotel pew might be full. Dr. Close, the present Dean of Carlisle, was then the rector, and was a very popular preacher. I had long wished to hear him, and accordingly went to the church, with some other hotel guests. Soon after the bells had begun to chime, several hundreds of men filed in and took possession of every vacant seat and space. The aisles were so occupied that no one could pass, and there were probably not thirty of the regular worshippers there. There was not a female in the church. The men were very quiet, orderly, and well-behaved, and joined in the responses in a proper manner. The prayers over, Mr. Close ascended the pulpit, and took for a text, 1 Sam. xii., 23: "God forbid that I should sin against the Lord in ceasing to pray for you; but I will teach you the good and the right way." The eloquent rector was quite equal to the occasion; he gave them a thoroughly good dressing, and his extempore sermon lasted for two hours and a half! I watched, during the sermon, the impatient glances of some of the men; but they stayed the sermon out, and went away, hungrier certainly, if not wiser, than when they came.

All through the winter of 1838 there was much excitement in the country. Many meetings were held, at which Feargus O'Connor distinctly advised his hearers that they had a legitimate right to resort to force to obtain their demands. Birmingham, however, remained tolerably quiet until the beginning of April, 1839. On the 1st of that month, and again on the 3rd, large meetings were held, at which Feargus O'Connor, a Dr. John Taylor, "delegates" named Bassey, Donaldson, and Brown, made violent and inflammatory speeches. Meetings more or less numerously attended were held almost nightly. Upon the representation of the shopkeepers that their business was greatly hindered, the Mayor and magistrates, on the 10th of May, issued a notice forbidding the holding of the meetings. Of the twelve gentlemen whose signatures were attached to this notice, only two survive--Dr. Birt Davies and Mr. P.H. Muntz.

On the 13th of May, a number of delegates from various parts of the country, calling themselves "The National Convention," assembled in Birmingham. Their avowed object was to frighten Parliament into submission to their demands. They recommended a run for gold upon the savings banks, an entire abstinence from excisable articles, and universal cessation from work. Their proceedings at this conference added fuel to the fire, and the people became more audacious. Threats were now openly uttered nightly, and people began to be alarmed, particularly as it was rumoured that a general rising in the Black Country had been arranged for a certain day. Hundreds of pikes, it was said, were already forged, and specimens were freely exhibited of formidable weapons known to military men by the name of "Caltrop" or "Calthorp," intended to impede the passage of cavalry. They consisted of four spikes of pointed iron, about four inches long, radiating from a common centre in such a manner that, however thrown, one spike would be uppermost. Like the three-legged symbol of the Isle of Man, their motto might be "Quoqunque jeceris stabit." There was a perfect reign of terror, and people were afraid to venture out after nightfall. On Friday, the 29th of June, the Mayor, Mr. William Scholefield, met the mob, and in a short and friendly speech tried to induce them to disperse, promising them, if they would refrain from meeting in the streets, they should have the use of the Town Hall once a week for their meetings. This proposal was received with shouts of derision, and the mob, by this time greatly increased in numbers, marched noisily through New Street, Colmore Bow, Bull Street, and High Street, to the Bull Ring. On the following Monday, July 1st, there was a large crowd in the Bull Ring, where Mr. Feargus O'Connor addressed them, and advised an adjournment to Gosta Green, to which place they accordingly marched, and O'Connor made a violent speech. In the meantime the troops were ordered out, and a large body of pensioners, fully armed, were marched into the Bull Ring. Finding no one there, the Mayor ordered the troops back to the barracks, and the pensioners were dismissed. After the meeting at Gosta Green was over, the people marched with tremendous cheering back to the Bull Ring. They met again on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, but no mischief, beyond a few broken windows, was done. On Thursday evening, about eight o'clock, the mob was in great force in the accustomed spot, with flags, banners, and other insignia freely displayed. Suddenly, without a word of notice, a large body of London police, which had just arrived by train, came out of Moor Street and rushed directly at the mob. They were met by groans and threats, and a terrible fight at once commenced. The police with their staves fought their way to the standard bearers and demolished the flags; others laid on, right and left, with great fury. In a short time the Bull Ring was nearly cleared, but the people rallied, and, arming themselves with various improvised weapons, returned to the attack. The police were outnumbered, surrounded, and rendered powerless. Some were stoned, others knocked down and frightfully kicked; some were beaten badly about the head, and some were stabbed. No doubt many of them would have been killed, but just at this time Dr. Booth, a magistrate, arrived on the spot, accompanied by a troop of the 4th Dragoons, and a company of the Rifle Brigade. The Riot Act was read, and the military occupied the Bull Ring. The wounded police were rescued and carried to the Public Office, where Mr. Richards and some other surgeons were soon in attendance, and dressed their wounds. Seven had to be taken to the hospital. One was found to have been stabbed in the abdomen, and another in the groin, in a most dangerous manner. The troops, and such of the police as were able, continued to patrol the Bull Ring, and they succeeded in arresting about a dozen of the rioters, who were found to be armed with deadly weapons, and their pockets filled with large stones. The mob continued to increase until about eleven o'clock, when they suddenly started off for Holloway Head, where they pulled down about twenty yards of the railing of St. Thomas's Church, arming themselves with the iron bars. They then proceeded to "The Golden Lion," in Aston Street, where the "convention" held its meetings. Dr. Taylor addressed them, and upon his advice they separated and went home. Taylor was arrested at his lodgings the same night, and was brought before the magistrates about one o'clock in the morning, when he was ordered to find bail, himself in L500, and two sureties of L250 each.

On the following morning, by nine o'clock, the rioters again met at Holloway Head. Mr. Alston, with a body of Dragoons, immediately went there, and the Riot Act was again read. The mob did not disperse; the soldiers charged them, and one fellow was felled to the ground by a sabre cut on the head from one of the soldiers. During the whole of this day the shops in High Street and the Bull Ring remained entirely closed. The magistrates and military patrolled the town, and were pelted with stones, but nothing very serious occurred, and for a few days afterwards the town was comparatively quiet.

On Friday, the 12th of July, the House of Commons was asked by Mr. Thomas Attwood to take into consideration the prayer of a monster petition, which, on behalf of the Chartists, he had presented on June 14th. This petition asked the House, in not very respectful terms, to pass an Act, whereby the six points of the Charter might become law. It was signed by 1,280,000 persons. A long debate ensued, and Mr. Attwood's proposition was negatived.

When the news arrived, on Saturday, the Chartists were furious, and a large and noisy meeting was held at Holloway Head in the evening, but no active disturbance took place either on that or the following day.

On Monday, the 15th, some of the leaders who had been arrested were brought before the magistrates at the Public Office. A Carlisle man, named Harvey, and two others named Lovett and Collins, were committed for trial by a very full Bench, there having been present the Mayor, Messrs. Thomas Clark, W. Chance, C. Shaw, P.H. Muntz, S. Beale, and J. Walker. The crowd, which had assembled in Moor Street and the Bull Ring, upon hearing the result, quietly dispersed, and for a few hours the town appeared to be in a perfectly tranquil condition. The soldiers retired to the barracks; the police remained at the Public Office, with instructions from the magistrates not to act without direct magisterial orders. The Mayor went to dinner, and the magistrates, without exception, left the Public Office, and went home.