As Soon as this Pub Closes
(the Revolution starts)
Ernst Jones (1819-69) was born and educated in Germany, the son of a British Army Major who was equerry to the Duke of Cumberland, afterwards King of Hanover. When his family returned to England in 1838 Jones became (in the following order) a barrister, poet, novelist, Chartist leader and socialist. The ruling order was unforgiving of Jones’ betrayal of his own class. In 1848 he was sentenced to two years imprisonment for making a ‘seditious’ speech at a Chartist rally in London. Marx and Engels befriended Jones as the only person in English radical politics, who having been educated in Germany, really understood their ideas. Marx described Jones as “the most talented, consistent and energetic representative of Chartism.”
On his release from prison Jones published the journal, Notes to the People. In this he serialised De Brassier: The Journey of Democrat, the Confessions of a Demagogue and the Minutes of a Spy, a semi-satirical novel about a popular Chartist uprising that is manipulated by corrupt leadership towards defeat..
One chapter in particular caught my attention enough to transcribe and digitalise the text from the Merlin Press facsimile of Notes to the People, Volume 1, (London 1851). Only as an outsider could Jones capture the English tragi-comedy of machos arguing over high ideals whilst trying to drink their ideological opponents under the table. The tale also recalls Hegel’s metaphor:
“The true is thus the bacchanalian whirl in which no member is not drunken; and because each, as soon as it detaches itself, dissolves immediately — the whirl is just as much transparent and simple repose.”
Today, with the fractious British left in Your Party making the latest attempt to regroup and unify its forces, Ernst Jones’ satire of a drunken evening serves as a sobering reminder: plus ça change.
The Alembic
Ernst Jones
From a chapter in De Brassiere (1851)
The fearful din of voices was swelling high, when “Orders! Gents! Orders!“ cried the full-faced, loose-fleshed waiter, and an emulative concert of a hundred voices calling for a hundred things at the same time, interrupted for a moment the philosophic and political discussions.
However, the conversation resumed its course. It dwelt on the iniquities of the then existing system, political and social. There were one or two principal talkers at each table— they were the regular orators, and the rest seemed somewhat to defer to them ; but, instead of offering an argument, they made a speech. Passion and eloquence are near allied; therefore in excited times, and from excited minds, converse on exciting topics in either rhetoric or exclamation.
There was one who especially denounced the idea of bowing to the great, rich, and titled. Why should one man, he said, he the slave of another? Why should not each man exercise his private judgement, and express it freely:
“1 tell you, Bobens is a rascal! He’s behind the age! His advice is ruinous! If we follow it, we play into the hands of government “ — screamed someone from another table.
“What’s that,” suddenly cried the advocate of independence. “Who’s abusing Bobens?”
The accuser came up to the challenge. “I tell you, I’ll stick by Bobens. I’m a Bobens-man. He’s a villain who says a word against Bobens,” roared the independent. “
“Well, I do then!”
“ Do you ? What right have you got to set up your judgement against Bobens’s?”
“ But Bobens is leading us wrong.”
“ And if he is, what then? I dare say Bobens knows best. He’s got his reasons for it. I say, I’ll stick by Bobens! You’re a mean, .sneaking, envious villain “
“But it’s merely a difference of opinion,” said a third party. “ He thinks Bobens wrong in his views, and——”
“I’ll knock any man down who says so I” roared the defender of freedom of opinion and expression, and a strong party of Bobens’ men rallied around him in an instant.
A fight was about to ensue, when a diversion was made by — “Three cheers for Brassier” from another part of the room.
“Brassier be --- !” exclaimed some other voices.
“It’s only your envy and jealousy that has made you try to set up other body, instead of following the best man of the age. Devantrix alone can help us through the difficulty. His 217 propositions embrace all the fundamental principles of society, and since you drove him from the movement, you’ve all been going to the d--- as fast as you can.”
“ To the d----- with Devantrix and yourself. Its Besandine.”--- “It’s Brassier.”--- “Devantrix.”-- “Bobens”—” Bulgrudeur”--- arose the cross-fire of the various followings, and the assembly separated, as far as space would allow into separate and hostile groups, howling ineffable hatred and and defiance at one another.
“What can we do to strengthen ourselves” said the young mechanic who had been so roughly handled at the meeting. “The rich are paralysed and we have the game in our own hands. Let us form some plan with which we can all work together.”
“I’ll never work together with a mean slave of Bobens!” cried one.
“I’ll never sit in the same room with a dastardly Bulgrudeurite,” roared another.
“I’d sooner swear brotherhood to the police and the detectives than shake hands with a friend of that scoundrel Devantrix.”
A fat but active man, with eyes widely slit, but never widely opened, cast his side-long glance round the room, rubbing his plump hands, occasionally sipping his brandy aud water, and nodding head as much as to say, “All safe! All safe! Let them go on like this.”
“Orders, gents, orders!” roared the waiter and the magic words turned the anger of the combatants.
“Measures, not men!” resumed the young mechanic, profiting by the lull.
The exhortation had its effect and gradually the hostile parties transferred their operation to the new field of action.
For a time all was chaos, till a few leading thoughts struck out some channels which were soon filled by the torrents of a few loading lungs.
“I’m for the nationalisation of the land!‘’ cried one.
“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed another. “Let’s restore the yeomanry — let’s buy freeholds.”
“What? Landlordism!” cried a third. That’s making bad worse!”
“How’ll you get it ,” said a fourth. “Buy it,” replied a fifth.”
“You fool! What? Buy back that which was stolen from us! No. Take! take it!”
“They wont let you!”
“Then fight for it. “
“Suppose we’re beat!”
That was a poser for the moment. But a fresh hubbub saved the necessity for a reply.
“I tell you co-operation will do it. You have the power in your own hands--- if you club your pence.”
“Stuff! We must have power first !”
“I tell you co-operation is the only way to get political power! Wealth is power, get rich and you get powerful.”
“But how are we to get rich under the present system?””
Here was another poser. “Traffickers!” screamed the on. “Peddlars” roared another. But a third storm rolled over the vocal deluge.
“Knowledge is power. You don’t want pikes, you merely want knowledge, that will give you your rights.”
“How?”
“Knowledge is almighty. Truth always conquers of herself. Truth silences the lion’s roar.”
“How is it, she has not silenced it yet then if for she ha« been preached far and near for many thousand years.”
“We must fight for our rights!” cried one. “We must suffer for them!” responded another. “Physical force!” “Non-resistance and obedience” ranged the crowd in new parties — “blood thirsty demagogues! sneaking cowards!” — were the hostile watchwords — when a new element arose.
“You’re all wrong! With your beastly vices. Look at you, it’s your drunkenness. You give countless millions to the government in spirits and tobacco!” ostentatiously waving a cup of water over his head. “You’Il cripple the government revenue, they can’t make ends meet already. What will they do when deprived of the duty on spirituous licquer and poisonous weeds?”
“Tax something else!” roared a puffy-looking votary of Bacchus
“But a sober people are a thinking people and a thinking people is always free.”
“It’s acting we want, to my mind,” said another. “We’ve had no end of talking and thinking, when shall we begin to act? Leave the thinking alone and let’s get power and then we’ll see and set to work.”
“What? without knowing what you mean to do?”
Here was another poser — but the thread of argument was broken again.
“You’re all of you wrong still. It’s your superstitions that keep you slaves. Its the infernal priesthood.”
Cheers hailed the words, but the priest got the least share of the attack. “All religions are folly,” shouted one. “I believe in neither God nor devil!” cried another. “I’m a deist.” “I’m a materialist.” ‘’I go back to first causes!” “I take things as I find them.”
“I don’t trouble my head about it — we’ve enough to do in this world without troubling ourselves about the next.’‘ “You’re an infidel.” “ You’re a bigot.” “I’m a Christian!” “I’m a deist” “You’re an atheist.” “You’re a villain”— and shortly the attack on the priesthood changed to an attack on religion — and thence to an attack on each other. When the fat-faced man alluded to before heard the religious question was mooted he gave a grin of perfect satisfaction and stole away as though there was no longer any need for him.
The night was closing rapidly — the torrents of minor discussion and difference (for much had been going on in corners — some swearing that the currency question was all that was needed for salvation — some going for gold, some for paper, others espousing land, others credit, others trades-unions, and endless varieties of opinion) — the inferior topics all merged beneath the overwhelming deluge of religious and anti-religious animosity. Here, nothing could restrain them. Half the company were drunk, all were excited. Blows were exchanged, wounds received and given and the revilers of police brutality, the opponents of the vitiated class system, hating each other more than they hated their mutual tyrants, called in the police to enforce and satisfy their mutual animosities.
The police sheets of next day teemed with cases. Of course the press made the most. of their atheism, drunkenness, everything that could damage the people in the eyes of the middle class of the world, was ostentatiously paraded — and each section helped the privileged orders well as if they’d been paid for it, for every thing that the Bobensite could bring forward against the Balgrudeurite, the man of each party, against the man and leader of the other was had recourse to with most suicidal eagerness.
The majestic impulse that despair had given to the popular movement was frittered away — the imposing impression that the day’s meeting had made upon the wealthy class was totally nullified. Democracy was desecrated in the eyes of those who were wavering in their views — privilege won recruits by thousands, and the great power that had really been called forth broke into fragments by its own want of cohesion.
The rich few looked on and smiled, they had troops and police ready although utterly insufficient certainly, had the people been united — nay! the troops themselves were half-inclined to sympathise with the masses, but they dared not support a party that would not support itself. Ridicule and obloquy were cast upon the popular cause, and bayonets rattled as obediently as ever. The rich, therefore, left the rich man’s cause in the poor man’s hands, sure that none could help it more effectually, and cleverly stood forward with their force merely as vindicators of order, and the defenders of the people from the people.They had renewed their lease of power. Such was the scene in the Wild Bull after the meeting; such were the scenes that once desecrated democracy, and of which – alas! - some vestiges are still existing.
Yet, sneer at it as they may, the rough germs of truth were there. They rise out of chaos, the clear conviction mounts out of the chaotic mist of error. Thoughts struggle upward with difficulty. Creation is a time of ferment— passions, vices, follies, all combine and heave - but the purifying leaven clears the dross off more and more, the movement sobers as it gather its real strength — the conflict ceases - and, modelled first in lowness and obscurity, perhaps in the haunts of vice, almost ever in the abode of misery, the grand truth soars and spreads, and seizes on the masses— it calms them — it lifts them to the pure heavens of intelligence — through scenes like these recorded, as the gold through fire, democracy must pass — but it bears no stain upon its mighty wings — as the brilliant flower shoots up from the brown soil, so freedom and enlightenment rise clear of the vices that surrounded their first hours.
Such is the rough alembic that refines the ore of nations.