Zachariah, however, did not give way to despair, for he was not a man to despair. His religion was a part of himself. He had immortality before him, in which he thanked God there was no marrying nor giving in marriage. This doctrine, however, did not live in him as the other dogmas of his creed, for it was not one in which his intellect had such a share. On the other hand, predestination was dear to him. God knew him as closely as He knew the angel next His throne, and had marked out his course with as much concern as that of the seraph. What God’s purposes were he did not know. He took a sort of sullen pride in not knowing, and he marched along, footsore and wounded, in obedience to the orders of his great Chief. Only thirty years old, and only three months a husband, he had already learned renunciation. There was to be no joy in life? Then he would be satisfied if it were tolerable, and he strove to dismiss all his dreams and do his best with what lay before him. Oh my hero! Perhaps somewhere or other—let us hope it is true—a book is kept in which human worth is duly appraised, and in that book, if such a volume there be, we shall find that the divinest heroism is not that of the man who, holding life cheap, puts his back against a wall, and is shot by Government soldiers, assured that he will live ever afterwards as a martyr and saint: a diviner heroism is that of the poor printer, who, in dingy, smoky Rosoman Street, Clerkenwell, with forty years before him, determined to live through them, as far as he could, without a murmur, although there was to be no pleasure in them. A diviner heroism is this, but divinest of all, is that of him who can in these days do what Zachariah did, and without Zachariah’s faith.
The next evening, just as Zachariah and his wife were sitting down to tea, there was a tap at the door, and in walked Major Maitland. He was now in full afternoon costume, and, if not dandyish, was undeniably well dressed. Making a profound bow to Mrs. Coleman, he advanced to the fireplace and instantly shook hands with Zachariah.
“Well, my republican, you are better, although the beery loyalist has left his mark upon you.”
“Certainly, much better; but where I should have been, sir, if it had not been for you, I don’t know.”
“Ah, well; it was an absolute pleasure to me to teach the blackguard that cheering a Bourbon costs something. My God, though, a man must be a fool who has to be taught that! I wonder what it has cost us. Why, I see you’ve got my friend, Major Cartwright, up there.”
Zachariah and his wife started a moment at what they considered the profane introduction of God’s name; but it was not exactly swearing, and Major Maitland’s relationship to them was remarkable. They were therefore silent.
“A true friend of the people,” continued Maitland, “is Major Cartwright; but he does not go quite far enough to please me.”
“As for the people so-called,” quoth Zachariah, “I doubt whether they are worth saving. Look at the mob we saw the day before yesterday. I think not of the people. But there is a people, even in these days of Ahab, whose feet may yet be on the necks of their enemies.”
“Why, you are an aristocrat,” said Maitland, smiling; “only you want to abolish the present aristocracy and give us another. You must not judge us by what you saw in Piccadilly, and while you are still smarting from that smasher on your eye. London, I grant you, is not, and never was, a fair specimen. But, even in London, you must not be deceived. You don’t know its real temper; and then, as to not being worth saving—why, the worse men are the more they want saving. However, we are both agreed about this—crew, Liverpool, the Prince Regent, and his friends.” A strong word was about to escape before “crew,” but the Major saw that he was in a house where it would be out of place. “I wish you’d join our Friends of the People. We want two or three determined fellows like you. We are all safe.”
“What are the ‘Friends of the People’?”
“Oh, it’s a club of—a—good fellows who meet twice a week for a little talk about affairs. Come with me next Friday and see.”
Zachariah hesitated a moment, and then consented.
“All right; I’ll fetch you.” He was going away, and picked up from the table a book he had brought with him.
“By the way, you will not be at work till tomorrow. I’ll leave you this to amuse you. It has not been out long. Thirteen thousand copies were sold the first day. It is the Corsair—Byron’s Corsair. My God, it is poetry and no mistake! Not exactly, perhaps, in your line; but you are a man of sense, and if that doesn’t make your heart leap in you I’m much mistaken. Lord Byron is a neighbour of mine in the Albany. I know him by sight. I’ve waited a whole livelong morning at my window to see him go out. So much the more fool you, you’ll say. Ah, well, wait till you have read the Corsair.”
The Major shook hands. Mrs. Coleman, who had been totally silent during the interview,
