two sons doing well at Sydney, New South Wales - single, when last
heard from. One of my sons (James) went wild and for a soldier,
where he was shot in India, living six weeks in hospital with a
musket-ball lodged in his shoulder-blade, which he wrote with his
own hand. He was the best looking. One of my two daughters (Mary)
is comfortable in her circumstances, but water on the chest. The
other (Charlotte), her husband run away from her in the basest
manner, and she and her three children live with us. The youngest,
six year old, has a turn for mechanics.
I am not a Chartist, and I never was. I don't mean to say but what
I see a good many public points to complain of, still I don't think
that's the way to set them right. If I did think so, I should be a
Chartist. But I don't think so, and I am not a Chartist. I read
the paper, and hear discussion, at what we call 'a parlour,' in
Birmingham, and I know many good men and workmen who are Chartists.
Note. Not Physical force.
It won't be took as boastful in me, if I make the remark (for I
can't put down what I have got to say, without putting that down
before going any further), that I have always been of an ingenious
turn. I once got twenty pound by a screw, and it's in use now. I
have been twenty year, off and on, completing an Invention and
perfecting it. I perfected of it, last Christmas Eve at ten
o'clock at night. Me and my wife stood and let some tears fall
over the Model, when it was done and I brought her in to take a
look at it.
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A friend of mine, by the name of William Butcher, is a Chartist.
Moderate. He is a good speaker. He is very animated. I have
often heard him deliver that what is, at every turn, in the way of
us working-men, is, that too many places have been made, in the
course of time, to provide for people that never ought to have been
provided for; and that we have to obey forms and to pay fees to
support those places when we shouldn't ought. 'True,' (delivers
William Butcher), 'all the public has to do this, but it falls
heaviest on the working-man, because he has least to spare; and
likewise because impediments shouldn't be put in his way, when he
wants redress of wrong or furtherance of right.' Note. I have
wrote down those words from William Butcher's own mouth. W. B.
delivering them fresh for the aforesaid purpose.
Now, to my Model again. There it was, perfected of, on Christmas
Eve, gone nigh a year, at ten o'clock at night. All the money I
could spare I had laid out upon the Model; and when times was bad,
or my daughter Charlotte's children sickly, or both, it had stood
still, months at a spell. I had pulled it to pieces, and made it
over again with improvements, I don't know how often. There it
stood, at last, a perfected Model as aforesaid.
William Butcher and me had a long talk, Christmas Day, respecting
of the Model. William is very sensible. But sometimes cranky.
William said, 'What will you do with it, John?' I said, 'Patent
it.' William said, 'How patent it, John?' I said, 'By taking out
a Patent.' William then delivered that the law of Patent was a
cruel wrong. William said, 'John, if you make your invention
public, before you get a Patent, any one may rob you of the fruits
of your hard work. You are put in a cleft stick, John. Either you
must drive a bargain very much against yourself, by getting a party
to come forward beforehand with the great expenses of the Patent;
or, you must be put about, from post to pillar, among so many
parties, trying to make a better bargain for yourself, and showing
your invention, that your invention will be took from you over your
head.' I said, 'William Butcher, are you cranky? You are
sometimes cranky.' William said, 'No, John, I tell you the truth;'
which he then delivered more at length. I said to W. B. I would
Patent the invention myself.
My wife's brother, George Bury of West Bromwich (his wife
unfortunately took to drinking, made away with everything, and
seventeen times committed to Birmingham Jail before happy release
in every point of view), left my wife, his sister, when he died, a
legacy of one hundred and twenty-eight pound ten, Bank of England
Stocks. Me and my wife never broke into that money yet. Note. We
might come to be old and past our work. We now agreed to Patent
the invention. We said we would make a hole in it - I mean in the
aforesaid money - and Patent the invention. William Butcher wrote
me a letter to Thomas Joy, in London. T. J. is a carpenter, six
foot four in height, and plays quoits well. He lives in Chelsea,
London, by the church. I got leave from the shop, to be took on
again when I come back. I am a good workman. Not a Teetotaller;
but never drunk. When the Christmas holidays were over, I went up
to London by the Parliamentary Train, and hired a lodging for a
week with Thomas Joy. He is married. He has one son gone to sea.
Thomas Joy delivered (from a book he had) that the first step to be
took, in Patenting the invention, was to prepare a petition unto
Queen Victoria. William Butcher had delivered similar, and drawn
it up. Note. William is a ready writer. A declaration before a
Master in Chancery was to be added to it. That, we likewise drew
up. After a deal of trouble I found out a Master, in Southampton
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Buildings, Chancery Lane, nigh Temple Bar, where I made the
declaration, and paid eighteen-pence. I was told to take the
declaration and petition to the Home Office, in Whitehall, where I
left it to be signed by the Home Secretary (after I had found the
office out), and where I paid two pound, two, and sixpence. In six
days he signed it, and I was told to take it to the Attorney-
General's chambers, and leave it there for a report. I did so, and
paid four pound, four. Note. Nobody all through, ever thankful
for their money, but all uncivil.
My lodging at Thomas Joy's was now hired for another week, whereof
five days were gone. The Attorney-General made what they called a
Report-of-course (my invention being, as William Butcher had
delivered before starting, unopposed), and I was sent back with it
to the Home Office. They made a Copy of it, which was called a
Warrant. For this warrant, I paid seven pound, thirteen, and six.
It was sent to the Queen, to sign. The Queen sent it back, signed.
The Home Secretary signed it again. The gentleman throwed it at me
when I called, and said, 'Now take it to the Patent Office in
Lincoln's Inn.' I was then in my third week at Thomas Joy's living
very sparing, on account of fees. I found myself losing heart.
At the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn, they made 'a draft of the
Queen's bill,' of my invention, and a 'docket of the bill.' I paid
five pound, ten, and six, for this. They 'engrossed two copies of
the bill; one for the Signet Office, and one for the Privy-Seal
Office.' I paid one pound, seven, and six, for this. Stamp duty
over and above, three pound. The Engrossing Clerk of the same
office engrossed the Queen's bill for signature. I paid him one
pound, one. Stamp-duty, again, one pound, ten. I was next to take
the Queen's bill to the Attorney-General again, and get it signed
again. I took it, and paid five pound more. I fetched it away,
and took it to the Home Secretary again. He sent it to the Queen
again. She signed it again. I paid seven pound, thirteen, and
six, more, for this. I had been over a month at Thomas Joy's. I
was quite wore out, patience and pocket.
Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it went on, to William Butcher.
William Butcher delivered it again to three Birmingham Parlours,
from which it got to all the other Parlours, and was took, as I
have been told since, right through all the shops in the North of
England. Note. William Butcher delivered, at his Parlour, in a
speech, that it was a Patent way of making Chartists.
But I hadn't nigh done yet. The Queen's bill was to be took to the
Signet Office in Somerset House, Strand - where the stamp shop is.
The Clerk of the Signet made 'a Signet bill for the Lord Keeper of
the Privy Seal.' I paid him four pound, seven. The Clerk of the
Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal made 'a Privy-Seal bill for the Lord
Chancellor.' I paid him, four pound, two. The Privy-Seal bill was
handed over to the Clerk of the Patents, who engrossed the
aforesaid. I paid him five pound, seventeen, and eight; at the
same time, I paid Stamp-duty for the Patent, in one lump, thirty
pound. I next paid for 'boxes for the Patent,' nine and sixpence.
Note. Thomas Joy would have made the same at a profit for
eighteen-pence. I next paid 'fees to the Deputy, the Lord
Chancellor's Purse-bearer,' two pound, two. I next paid 'fees to
the Clerk of the Hanapar,' seven pound, thirteen. I next paid
'fees to the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper,' ten shillings. I next
paid, to the Lord Chancellor again, one pound, eleven, and six.
Last of all, I paid 'fees to the Deputy Sealer, and Deputy Chaffwax,'
ten shillings and sixpence. I had lodged at Thomas Joy's
over six weeks, and the unopposed Patent for my invention, for
England only, had cost me ninety-six pound, seven, and eightpence.
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If I had taken it out for the United Kingdom, it would have cost me
more than three hundred pound.
Now, teaching had not come up but very limited when I was young.
So much the worse for me you'll say. I say the same. William
Butcher is twenty year younger than me. He knows a hundred year
more. If William Butcher had wanted to Patent an invention, he
might have been sharper than myself when hustled backwards and
forwards among all those offices, though I doubt if so patient.
Note. William being sometimes cranky, and consider porters,
messengers, and clerks.
Thereby I say nothing of my being tired of my life, while I was
Patenting my invention. But I put this: Is it reasonable to make a
man feel as if, in inventing an ingenious improvement meant to do
good, he had done something wrong? How else can a man feel, when
he is met by such difficulties at every turn? All inventors taking
out a Patent MUST feel so. And look at the expense. How hard on
me, and how hard on the country if there's any merit in me (and my
invention is took up now, I am thankful to say, and doing well), to
put me to all that expense before I can move a finger! Make the
addition yourself, and it'll come to ninety-six pound, seven, and
eightpence. No more, and no less.
What can I say against William Butcher, about places? Look at the
Home Secretary, the Attorney-General, the Patent Office, the
Engrossing Clerk, the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal, the Clerk of
the Patents, the Lord Chancellor's Purse-bearer, the Clerk of the
Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputy Sealer, and
the Deputy Chaff-wax. No man in England could get a Patent for an
Indian-rubber band, or an iron-hoop, without feeing all of them.
Some of them, over and over again. I went through thirty-five
stages. I began with the Queen upon the Throne. I ended with the
Deputy Chaff-wax. Note. I should like to see the Deputy Chaffwax.
Is it a man, or what is it?
What I had to tell, I have told. I have wrote it down. I hope
it's plain. Not so much in the handwriting (though nothing to
boast of there), as in the sense of it. I will now conclude with
Thomas Joy. Thomas said to me, when we parted, 'John, if the laws
of this country were as honest as they ought to be, you would have
come to London - registered an exact description and drawing of
your invention - paid half-a-crown or so for doing of it - and
therein and thereby have got your Patent.'
My opinion is the same as Thomas Joy. Further. In William
Butcher's delivering 'that the whole gang of Hanapers and Chaffwaxes
must be done away with, and that England has been chaffed and
waxed sufficient,' I agree.
THE NOBLE SAVAGE
TO come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the
least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a prodigious
nuisance, and an enormous superstition. His calling rum firewater,
and me a pale face, wholly fail to reconcile me to him. I
savage a something highly desirable to be civilised off the face of
the earth. I think a mere gent (which I take to be the lowest form
of civilisation) better than a howling, whistling, clucking,
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stamping, jumping, tearing savage. It is all one to me, whether he
sticks a fish-bone through his visage, or bits of trees through the
lobes of his ears, or bird's feathers in his head; whether he
flattens his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the
breadth of his face, or drags his lower lip down by great weights,
or blackens his teeth, or knocks them out, or paints one cheek red
and the other blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself, or rubs
his body with fat, or crimps it with knives. Yielding to
whichsoever of these agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage -
cruel, false, thievish, murderous; addicted more or less to grease,
entrails, and beastly customs; a wild animal with the questionable
gift of boasting; a conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, monotonous
humbug.
Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some people will talk about
him, as they talk about the good old times; how they will regret
his disappearance, in the course of this world's development, from
such and such lands where his absence is a blessed relief and an
indispensable preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds of
any influence that can exalt humanity; how, even with the evidence
of himself before them, they will either be determined to believe,
or will suffer themselves to be persuaded into bel
ieving, that he
is something which their five senses tell them he is not.
There was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with his Ojibbeway
Indians. Mr. Catlin was an energetic, earnest man, who had lived
among more tribes of Indians than I need reckon up here, and who
had written a picturesque and glowing book about them. With his
party of Indians squatting and spitting on the table before him, or
dancing their miserable jigs after their own dreary manner, he
called, in all good faith, upon his civilised audience to take
notice of their symmetry and grace, their perfect limbs, and the
exquisite expression of their pantomime; and his civilised
audience, in all good faith, complied and admired. Whereas, as
mere animals, they were wretched creatures, very low in the scale
and very poorly formed; and as men and women possessing any power
of truthful dramatic expression by means of action, they were no
better than the chorus at an Italian Opera in England - and would
have been worse if such a thing were possible.
Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The greatest writers on
natural history found him out long ago. BUFFON knew what he was,
and showed why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to his women, and
how it happens (Heaven be praised!) that his race is spare in
numbers. For evidence of the quality of his moral nature, pass
himself for a moment and refer to his 'faithful dog.' Has he ever
improved a dog, or attached a dog, since his nobility first ran
wild in woods, and was brought down (at a very long shot) by POPE?
Or does the animal that is the friend of man, always degenerate in
his low society?
It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage that is the new
thing; it is the whimpering over him with maudlin admiration, and
the affecting to regret him, and the drawing of any comparison of
advantage between the blemishes of civilisation and the tenor of
his swinish life. There may have been a change now and then in
those diseased absurdities, but there is none in him.
Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men and the two women who
have been exhibited about England for some years. Are the majority
of persons - who remember the horrid little leader of that party in
his festering bundle of hides, with his filth and his antipathy to
water, and his straddled legs, and his odious eyes shaded by his