One of the giant police-constables on duty outside the Cotton Hall, Smutchester, upon the occasion of the Conference of the National union for the Emancipation of Women Workers, was seized with the spirit of prophecy when he saw Sal o’ Peg’s borne in, gesticulating, declaiming, carried head and shoulders above an insurging wave of beshawled and rampant factory-girls. “Theeaw goes th’ Stormy Pettrill, Tum!” he roared to a fellow guardian of the public peace. “Neeaw us be sewer to ha’ trooble wi’ theeay——” He did not add “tykes.”
“Thee mun be misteeawken, mon,” urged Tum, who had newly joined the Smutchester City Division. “’Tis boh a lil’ feer-feaced gell aw cud braak between ma finger an’ thoomb lig a staalk o’ celery.” The great blue eyes of the “lil’ feer-feaced gell” had done execution, it was plain, and the first speaker, who was a married man, snorted contemptuously. Sal o’ Peg’s had completely earned the disturbing nickname bestowed on her. The courts and alleys of the roaring black city would vomit angry, white-gilled, heavy-shod men and women at one shrill, summoning screech of hers. The police-constable upon whose features she had more recently executed a clog war-dance was not yet discharged from the Infirmary, though the seventeen years and fragile proportions of his assailant had, for the twentieth time, softened “th’ Beawk” into letting Sal o’ Peg’s off with the option of a fortnight or a fine, and the threat of being 144bound over to keep the peace next time, if she insisted in being “so naughty.”
With these blushing honors thick upon her, Sal o’ Peg’s attended the Conference, and became, before the close of the presidential address, an ardent convert to the cause of Female Suffrage. During the debate she climbed a pillar and addressed the meeting, and when, with immense difficulty, dislodged from her post of vantage, she took the platform by storm.
“Why, it’s a child!” chorused the delegates from the different branches of the union, whose ramifications extend over the civilized globe, as the small, slim, light-haired young person in the inevitable shawl, print gown, and clogs climbed over the brass platform-rail, and, folding cotton-blouse-clad arms upon a flat, girlish bosom, stood motionless, composed, even cheerful, in the full glare of the electric chandelier, and under the full play of a battery of some two thousand feminine eyes.
“Do let the little darling speak,” begged the Honorary Secretary of the Chairwoman, who, as a native of Smutchester, had her doubts. But Sal o’ Peg’s had not the faintest intention of waiting for permission.
“Ah’m not bit o’ good at long words, gells,” said Sal o’ Peg’s. “Mappen ah’ll be better ondersteawd wi’oot ’em.”
The thunder of clogs in the body of the hall said “Yes!” She went on: “Wimmin sheawd ha’ th’ Vote. ’Tis theear roight.” (Tremendous clogging, mingled with shrieks of “Weel seayd, lass! Gie us th’ Vote!”) She hitched her shawl about her with the factory-girl’s movement of the shoulders, and went on. “Yo’ll noan fleg me wi’ yo’re din. Ah’m boh a lil’ un, boh af ha’ got spunk. If you doubt thot——” A hundred strident voices from the body of the hall sent back the refrain, “Ask a pleeceman!” A roar of laughter shook the roof.
145“Ought we to interfere?” whispered the Honorary Secretary.
“My dear, why should we?” said a London delegate, leaning forward to answer. “The girl has got them in the hollow of her hand. A born leader of women—a born leader. She voices in her untaught speech the heart-cry of thousands of her dumb and helpless sisters. She——”
The born leader of women continued:
“Ah dunno whoy ah niver thout o’ it before, but ’tis a beawrfeaced robbery neawt to gie us th’ Vote. Oor feythers has it, an’ sells it fur braass.” (Screams, shrieks, and clogging.) “Oor heawsbands has it, an’ sells it fur braass.” (Tempestuous applause.) “Oor lads, theay has it, an’ sells it fur braass. Whoy shouldna’ we ha’ it, an’ sell it for braass tew?”
The enthusiasm with which this brilliant peroration was received nearly wrecked the Cotton Hall. No more speeches were heard that night, though several were delivered in dumb show, and Sal o’ Peg’s awakened upon the morrow to find her utterances reported in the newspapers. To the sarcasm of the leader-writer Sal o’ Peg’s was impervious. She “mun goo t’ Lunnon neixt,” she said, “an’ leawt them tykes at the Hoose o’ Commeawns knaw a bit” of her mind. She wasn’t afraid of Prime Ministers—not she. She called at the branch office of the union twice a day, imperatively requesting to be forwarded as a delegate to the Metropolis. When her services were declined with thanks, she harangued the populace from the doorstep. When politely requested to move on, she broke a window with one clog, and patted the office-boy violently upon the head with the other. Then she burst into tears and retired, supported by a dozen or so of sympathizing comrades of the factory.
“’Tis a beeawrnin’ sheame!” they said, as they fastened up their chosen representative’s loosened flaxen 146coils with hairpins of the patent explosive kind, contributed from their own solid braids. “But donnot thee fret, Sal o’ Peg’s, us’ll ha’ nah dollygeat but thee, sitha lass!” And they sent the hat round among themselves with right goodwill. They were not quite sure what a “dollygeat” was, but thought it was something that could walk into the House of Commons, defy a Minister to his nose, dance a clog-dance in the gangway of the Upper House, and receive in chests and bagsful all the good money that women had been defrauded of since the masculine voter first plumped for a consideration; of that they were “as sure as deeawth.”
So Sal o’ Peg’s gave notice at the factory that, being thenceforth called to figure upon the arena of political life, she could not tend frames any longer. She bought a black sailor straw hat with a portion of the subscribed fund, and tied up the most cherished articles of her wardrobe in a blue-spotted handkerchief bundle. She traveled express to London, choosing a “smoking third,” as affording atmospherical and social conditions less remote from her lifelong experience.... The journey was purely uneventful: a young man of unrestrained amorous proclivities receiving a black eye, and a young woman who sneered too openly at the blue-spotted handkerchief bundle suffering the wreck of a bandbox and sustaining a few scratches. The guard—alas! for the frailty of man—being all upon the side of the blue eyes and flaxen coils of hair....
I suppose the reader knows Pelham’s Inn, W. C., where are the headquarters of the National union for the Emancipation of Working Women? There is no padding to the armchairs, cocoanut matting of a severe and rasping character covers the Committee-room boards; the Committee inkstand is of the zinc office description (the Committee are not there to be comfortable—just the reverse). They are busy women of small 147spare time and narrow spare means; but when they found Sal o’ Peg’s sitting on the doorstep, they found leisure to be kind. They looked at the clogs with pity, unaware of the pas seul they had performed upon the countenance of a policeman still in bandages, and the great blue eyes yearning out of the small pale face, and the ropes of fair hair tumbling over the shabby shawl that enfolded the childish figure of the little factory-girl who had traveled up to London for the sake of the Cause, won them to practical expression of the sympathy they felt.
“So different a type to the brawling, violent creature,” they said, “who nearly caused a riot at the Smutchester Conference. Her one dream is to see the House of Commons and speak a word in public for her toiling sisters of the factories.” And those of them who wore glasses found them dimmed with the dews of sympathetic emotion. It was such a touching story, they said, of faith and enthusiasm and courage.
It is upon the Records of the Nation that the events I have to relate took place in the Central Hall of the sacred fane of Westminster between four and five o’clock in the afternoon, when twenty or thirty ladies, well-known adherents of the Cause, appeared upon the scene and asked for Suffrage. It was an act of presumption, almost of treason, bordering on blasphemy. Still, the arguments that were not drowned were sound. They were all householders, taxpayers, earners, and owners of independent incomes one daring female said, and as the drunken husband of her charwoman possessed a vote, she thought she had a right to have one also. The Sergeant-at-Arms instantly directed a constable to quell her. Another audacious creature asked for the Vote Qualified. She demanded that the Suffrage should indeed be given to women, but only to those women who should, by passing a viva voce examination on the duties of citizenship, 148prove themselves fit to discharge them.... She was listened to with some attention until she suggested that male voters should be subjected to a similar weeding-out process; upon which a portly inspector bore down upon her, clasped her in a blue embrace, and carried her, protesting loudly, down the hall, amidst demonstrations of intense excitement. Members cried, &ldq............