Читать книгу Eminent English liberals in and out of Parliament - John Morrison Davidson - Страница 11

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"Like one of the simple great ones,

Gone for ever and ever by."

I SHALL never forget one delightful forenoon I spent with Mr. Cowen since his entrance into Parliament. Previous to his coming to St. Stephen's, he had been well known to me by reputation, but by reputation only.

As the disciple whom Mazzini, the prophet and high priest of modern democracy, loved, I was curious to know what manner of man the great Northumbrian Radical really was. I arrived early, and found him in his library in the act of finishing his morning correspondence. I had just time to glance at his books before engaging with him in conversation. A man may be known by his books as by the company he keeps. They were almost exclusively composed of the most recent productions of the democratic press, such as one would expect to find on the shelves of an intelligent artisan politician rather than on those of the possessor of a residence in Onslow Square. And the appearance of Mr. Cowen himself was exactly in keeping. His features bore no trace whatever of having been imported "at the Conquest." There he sat, a genuine workman from Tyneside, the descendant of ​generations of honest toilers—plain and homely to a degree. Nothing but the lofty dome of brow betrayed the mental superiority of the man; and, when subsequently he put on the never-failing slouched hat, even that not infallible sign of greatness was remorselessly hidden away.

Presently we began to talk as freely as if we had been acquainted for years. The villanous Northumbrian intonation was at first somewhat of an impediment in my way. I have never learned Northumbrian, and, being a fair linguist, did not like to acknowledge my ignorance.

One or two proper names he was good enough to spell for me. As, however, he gradually became more animated, his English became better and better, until at last he was one of the most articulate-speaking of Englishmen I had ever met.

It was a lovely day; and we decided on a stroll in the direction, as it turned out, of the modest house where Mazzini conspired against the crowned heads of Europe for so many years. On the way he spoke of that gifted friend of his youth and manhood—the greatest man, Mr. Cowen thinks, and I am half inclined to accept his estimate, that Europe has produced for centuries; of Garibaldi and Orsini, of Kossuth, of Herzen and Bakounin, of Ledru Rollin and Louis Blanc, but, above all, of the Polish revolutionary leaders, Worcell, Darasz, Mieroslawski, Dombrowski, and Langiewicz.

I inquired why, of all the continental exiles, he appeared to have been most drawn towards the Poles. He replied with profound feeling, "Because they seemed the most forlorn." There was no getting over ​this answer, which throws a flood of light on the deplorable action which Mr. Cowen has seen fit to take with regard to the Eastern question.

For years his house at Blaydon Burn, near Newcastle, had been an asylum for the victims of Russian tyranny. For years he had spent two-thirds of an ample income in keeping alive the patriotism of the Polish insurgents and other enemies of the White Tsar. To him Poland was and is a land of heroes and mart3'rs; Russia every thing that is the reverse. So thoroughly indentified was Mr. Cowen with the anti-Russian sentiments of the Polish and Hungarian exiles, that orders were issued by all the despotic powers of Europe—by Russia, Prussia, France, Spain, and Italy—for his arrest should he venture to set foot on their soil.

Not able to catch the son, the police twice arrested his father, the late Sir Joseph Cowen, in his stead. His home at Blaydon Burn was incessantly watched by the spies of continental governments.

When Cowen and Mazzini met, it was neither in Newcastle nor London, but generally in some quiet midway town or village, where they could not readily be subjected to espionage. The despots of the continent had, in point of fact, very good reason to regard Mr. Cowen as a dangerous personage. He was not merely a wealthy Englishman who gave of his substance freely in order that the axe might be laid by others to the root of the upas-tree of their authority, but one who did not scruple, when occasion offered, to levy war against the oppressors, so to speak, on his own account.

During the last rising in Poland he fitted out, at his ​own charges, a vessel, which it was intended should hoist the Polish flag, and, like another "Alabama," sweep Russian commerce off the seas. She escaped from the Tyne without much difficulty, and reached Barcelona in safety. Her next destination was the coast of the little island of Elba, where a Polish commodore of experience, who had come all the way from the Russian naval station at Kamtchatka—on French leave, of course—was waiting with a full complement of marines to take possession in the name of the Provisional Government at Warsaw. They waited in vain. The drunken ravings and cowardice of the English crew brought about the seizure and confiscation of the vessel by the Spanish authorities almost in spite of themselves. The chief naval authority of the port was at that time a brother of General Prim, himself a revolutionary. He winked hard; and it so happened, curiously enough, that the only Spanish man-of-war available for seizing her was under the command of an Englishman, formerly a Newcastle engineer, who, on being sent to inspect the ship and her papers, winked harder still. With reasonable promptitude she might have got clear off, but did not, to the great grief of Mr. Cowen and the Provisional Government of Poland.

The above is but one out of scores of daring enterprises with a similar object in which Mr. Cowen has been engaged. Once he had a wonderful box constructed, and well lined with notes suitable for issue by the Secret Committee of Government over which Langiewicz presided. It was given in charge to a faithful messenger, with instructions to seek the headquarters of the insurgents by a somewhat devious route. No sooner did he set foot on the continent, ​however, than he was seized by the police and put in prison. He was never tried, and never told his offence; but the contents of the well-filled purse with which he had started from England were weekly disbursed to pay his board for the space of a whole year. At the end of that time he was put on board a ship bound for London, and landed penniless.

Regarding the adventures, misadventures, and hairbreadth escapes of proscribed Poles, Italians, and Hungarians, Mr. Cowen has many a curious and pathetic tale to tell. He was the chief banker and general agent in this country of the European revolutionaries. Nearly all their more important correspondence passed through his hands on its way to and from the continent; and for long his commanding position as a British manufacturer and shipowner, doing business in all parts of Europe, effectually baffled the most vigilant espionage of the despotic powers.

Having seen the abode of the great Italian, we turned into Hyde Park, and under the shadow of Albert the Gilt conversed of current politics and Radical living politicians. He was very candid, and I remarked with interest how similar were his judgments of men and things to those which I could readily suppose Mazzini would have formed in similar circumstances. One able member of Parliament was an atheist to the backbone; and why such a one should be a Radical rather than a Tory, or why, indeed, being a wealthy man, he should care to trouble himself about politics at all, was a mystery to the member for Newcastle. Another was lacking in any thing like genuine sympathy for the people, and had fallen into the abyss of wire-pulling and political beadledom. All unconsciously he had become as ​earnestly eloquent as if he were addressing a considerable audience, his usually homely features admirably mirroring the thoughts which rose spontaneously to his lips.

Mr. Cowen's abhorrence of atheistic or unbelieving politicians was to me all the more impressive, that his own mind was evidently not untinged by sadness—had not altogether escaped the influence of that great despair with respect to the supernatural which has in our day overtaken the bravest and the best.

On taking leave of Mr. Cowen, I had no hesitation in concluding that I had never met a more singular combination of simplicity of manner, business-like shrewdness, intellectual vigor, comprehensive sympathy, and powerful imagination. These qualities appear to me to mingle in disproportionate measure; but their co-existence in his mind affords a clew to the surprising splendor of his imagery, which, if the House had had a few more samples of it, might almost justify me in ranking him next to Bright as a master of senatorial eloquence.

If great poets are born, not made, so likewise are great orators; and sure enough Mr. Cowen is one of the few really great orators in the House. His style is neither that of Bright, Gladstone, nor Beaconsfield. His best periods have an antique, Roman-like stateliness, which is to me peculiarly attractive. In their majestic roll they are more like those of the late Ledru Rollin than of any modern speaker.

Mr. Cowen was born at Blaydon Burn, near Newcastle, in the month of July, 1831. His father, Sir Joseph Cowen, knight, who preceded him in the representation of Newcastle, was originally a working blacksmith. He was of an inventive turn of mind; and, when ​the discovery of gas began to be utilized, he hit on several ingenious contrivances for facilitating its manufacture. Before long he was a wealthy man, and one of the most respected and public-spirited citizens of Newcastle. It is to his untiring exertions and foresight that Newcastle in a great measure owes its mercantile prosperity. He found the Tyne a shallow stream, up which vessels of the smallest draught could with difficulty sail. He left it so deepened that it is now one of the most navigable of rivers. The merit of this great achievement was publicly recognized by Mr. Gladstone, who, in consequence, had him dubbed knight—a distinction, however, to which he was indifferent. From the beginning to the end of his career he was a Radical reformer.

The Cowens are a somewhat numerous family, and have been settled in and around Blaydon Burn for about three centuries. They came originally from Lindisfarne, or Holy Isle, of which the stock had been denizens from a remote antiquity. The Cowens were among the first genuine English co-operators on record—co-operators in production as well as in distribution. They were for generations members of a singular society, instituted about the middle of the seventeenth century by an enterprising manufacturer, Crowley—the "Sir John Anvil" of Addison's "Spectator,"—whose members worshipped in common, fed in common, and shared equally in the common profits of their industry. This society was not disrupted till 1814, in the lifetime of Mr. Cowen's grandfather. Since then, it may be worth remarking, co-operation has again, under Mr. Cowen's fostering care, taken a firm hold on Blaydon-on-Tyne. Though Blaydon is a mere village, Mr. Holyoake, in his "History of Co-operation," declares ​that next to Rochdale it has the most remarkable store in England. It has grown from a house to a street. The library contains upwards of fifteen hundred volumes of new books. The profits for 1876 amounted to eighty-five thousand dollars. The society has an education fund of two thousand dollars per annum. When the Co-operative Congress met at Newcastle in 1873, Mr. Cowen, not then M.P., was elected president, and delivered an address the remembrance of which still lives in co-operative circles.

Mr. Cowen's early education was received at a good local school, whence he proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, which then, by reason of the renown of its professors, enjoyed something like European fame. Russell, Palmerston, Lansdowne, had been there before him. Christopher North still lectured, and Lord Macaulay represented the city in Parliament. With no professional object in view, young Cowen sought simply culture; and that he found to more purpose, perhaps, than it would have been possible for him to do elsewhere. He studied what subjects he pleased, preferring the time-honored classics; became president of the University Debating Society; and entered heartily into the political and social life of the citizens. His chief extra-mural instructor was the Rev. Dr. John Ritchie—a really great man in a small community. Though a preacher, and a Scottish preacher too, he was above sophistry, an intrepid Radical, and a firstrate platform speaker.

About this time, also, Mr. Cowen, while yet an Edinburgh student, made the acquaintance of Mazzini, who subsequently exercised over him an influence so remarkable. Young as he was, Mr. Cowen had entered an ​indignant public protest against the infamous and, till it was proved, incredible violation of the illustrious exile's letters by Sir James Graham and the post-office officials. Mazzini was interested in his youthful defender, thanked him by letter, and to Mr. Cowen were addressed the dying patriot's last written words.

On returning to Blaydon, Mr. Cowen engaged actively in his father's business of fire-proof brick and retort manufacture, the firm normally employing as many as a thousand hands. At the Blaydon works there have been no strikes, for the very good reason that Mr. Cowen, though an employer of labor, has always been regarded as an intelligent exponent of trades-union views—in short, as a trusted trades-union leader. His support of the nine-hours movement was from first to last of a most decided character, and such as every where to evoke the warmest feelings of gratitude among workmen. His persistent efforts, too, to found, improve, and federate mechanics' institutes all over the populous Tyneside district ought not to be forgotten. For many years he personally discharged the duties of a teacher in one of these institutions, which owe so much of their success to his enthusiasm and talent as organizing secretary.

Nor has Mr. Cowen been less active in the domain of pure politics, whether local or imperial. He is now president of the Northern Reform League—an organization which has been in existence in one form or another for more than twenty years. He was present at its inception, and acted as its first treasurer. In the Reform demonstrations of 18G7 the league played an important part, calling out an array of supporters which the metropolis itself could hardly match.

​To add to all these manifold activities, Mr. Cowen has for twenty years been the proprietor and political director of "The Newcastle Chronicle," one of the most influential journals in provincial England. It has writers, who, for range of political knowledge and absolute fidelity to principle, have no superiors in or out of London. The result was seen at the general election of 1874. "When the Conservative re-action ran high everywhere else, the Northumbrian Liberals smote their Tory opponents hip and thigh all along the line. Twelve Liberals to one Tory were the Durham district returns.

In 1852 appeared "The English Republic" and "The Northern Tribune," republican prints, pitched in a very lofty key; and to these Mr. Cowen contributed largely in prose, verse, and, what was even more essential, money. In those days Mr. Cowen was in fact, I presume, what he now is only in theory, a stanch republican.

With regard to Mr. Cowen's parliamentary career, it is hard to speak with impartiality. His fervid Jingoism has affected with profound regret his warmest admirers, myself among the rest. There have not even been wanting some base enough to attribute his support of the wicked and disastrous foreign policy of the Beaconsfield government to motives other than disinterested. The true explanation of his aberration is quite otherwise. He is still a Hungarian, a Polish insurgent. Nothing is changed. Russia is his mortal foe. Like a true Bourbon, he has neither learned nor forgotten. Any stick is good enough to beat the Muscovite dog with. He advocated the Crimean war in the hope that something might "turn up" for his exiled ​clients. Nothing came of it; but a fig for experience! Mr. Cowen is, lilie the great author and finisher of his faith, Mazzini, essentially an idealist, a poet with intense sympathy and vivid imagination. His sympathy and imagination have temporarily overwhelmed his reason: that is all—nothing better, nothing worse. If I were to have the making of two perfect Radical politicians, I should mix Dilke and Cowen together. The one is two-thirds reason and one-third imagination; the other, two-thirds imagination and one-third reason. Give C. one-third of D.'s reason, and D. one-third of C.'s sympathetic fancy, and then you would have a correct balance of powers.

Bright's is the only powerful intellect in the House in which reason and imagination are blended ia just and equal proportions, the imagination acting as a stimulus to the reason, but never as a controlling power. I will illustrate what I mean by a passage from Mr. Cowen's magnificently unwise Jingo speech in the House on the occasion of the supposed Russian advance on Constantinople: "I ask English Liberals if they have ever seriously considered the political consequences of an imperial despotism bestriding Europe—reaching, indeed, from the waters of the Neva to those of the Amoor—of the head of the Greek Church, the Eastern Pope, the master of many legions, having one foot on the Baltic, planting another on the Bosphorus. When icebergs float into southern latitudes, they freeze the air for miles around. Will not this political iceberg, when it descends upon the genial shores of the Mediterranean, wither the young shoots of liberty that are springing up between the crevices of the worn-out fabrics of despotism?" Now, all this is very ​striking—nay, appalling; but John Bright, I am sure, knowing that icebergs have a habit of melting long before they reach the shores of the Mediterranean, would never have been guilty of bringing any berg of his so far south. As it is, the political iceberg from the north has liberated Bulgaria, while that from the south, pushed on by English Jingoes, has ineffectually striven to roll its icy mass over the young shoots of Roumelian liberty.

Apart, however, from this deplorable Jingo infatuation, Mr. Cowen's parliamentary achievements have in no way belied the high hopes that his friends reposed in his great abilities and immense experience. His speeches on the Friendly Societies Bill, on the County Suffrage Bill, on Mr. Plimsoll's bill, on the County Courts Bill, the Licensing Boards Bill, and, above all, on the Royal Titles Bill, have given evidence of a varied capacity for legislative work which has not been equalled by any member of his own standing in the House.

During the parliamentary contest in Newcastle, occasioned by the death of his father, Mr. Cowen delivered a series of speeches on political questions and public policy which justly arrested national attention. They have been collected, and will abundantly repay perusal. They are, without exception, as fine electioneering speeches as I ever read, and, if he had never opened his lips again, would have entitled him to no mean place among English orators and statesmen. On one point only did he show a disposition to lower the Radical flag—to be unfaithful to himself and his glorious antecedents. He was repeatedly taxed with being a republican; and his explanation was, that he ​held the republican form of government to be in theory the highest known to man, but that in practice he was devoted to the British monarchy. Now, to my mind, this is wholly illogical, and not altogether honest. Having discovered a true or best theory, it is the duty of every honest man to act on it, whether it be in the domain of politics or mathematics. If there is a better way, we have no right to fold our hands and content ourselves with the worse. "Ye cannot serve God and Mammon." To the sincere mind all compromise in such circumstances is impossible. It will not do to say, "Well, no doubt in theory the worship of God is the correct thing; but for all practical purposes the service of Mammon is preferable." Least of all living English politicians could I have conceived of Mr. Joseph Cowen appearing on a public platform with such an impotent formula in his mouth. In the case of others "thrift might follow fawning;" but with Mr. Cowen it was not, and is not so. That he should not have been able to say to this contemptible spirit of subterfuge, "Get thee behind me, Satan," is to me a mystery even unto this day.