Mr Mildmay's speech did not occupy much over an hour, and at half-past seven Mr Turnbull got up to reply. It was presumed that he would do so, and not a member left his place, though that time of the day is an interesting time, and though Mr Turnbull was accustomed to be long. There soon came to be but little ground for doubting what would be the nature of Mr Turnbull's vote on the second reading. ‘How may I dare,’ said he, ‘to accept so small a measure of reform as this with such a message from the country as is now conveyed to me through the presence of fifty thousand of my countrymen, who are at this moment demanding their measure of reform just beyond the frail walls of this chamber? The right honourable gentleman has told us that he will never be intimidated by a concourse of people. I do not know that there was any need that he should speak of intimidation. No one has accused the right honourable gentleman of political cowardice. But, as he has so said, I will follow in his footsteps. Neither will I be intimidated by the large majority which this House presented the other night against the wishes of the people. I will support no great measure of reform which does not include the ballot among its clauses.’ And so Mr Turnbull threw down the gauntlet.
Mr Turnbull spoke for two hours, and then the debate was adjourned till the Monday. The adjournment was moved by an independent member, who, as was known, would support the Government, and at once received Mr Mildmay's assent. There was no great hurry with the bill, and it was felt that it would be well to let the ferment subside. Enough had been done for glory when Mr Mildmay moved the second reading, and quite enough in the way of debate, – with such an audience almost within hearing, – when Mr Turnbull's speech had been made. Then the House emptied itself at once. The elderly, cautious members made their exit through the peers' door. The younger men got out into the crowd through Westminster Hall, and were pushed about among the roughs for an hour or so. Phineas, who made his way through the hall with Laurence Fitzgibbon, found Mr Turnbull's carriage waiting at the entrance with a dozen policemen round it.
‘I hope he won't get home to dinner before midnight,’ said Phineas.
‘He understands all about it,’ said Laurence. ‘He had a good meal at three, before he left home, and you'd find sandwiches and sherry in plenty if you were to search his carriage. He knows how to remedy the costs of mob popularity.’
At that time poor Bunce was being hustled about in the crowd in the vicinity of Mr Turnbull's carriage. Phineas and Fitzgibbon made their way out, and by degrees worked a passage for themselves into Parliament Street. Mr Turnbull had been somewhat behind them in coming down the hall, and had not been without a sense of enjoyment in the ovation which was being given to him. There can be no doubt that he was wrong in what he was doing. That affair of the carriage was altogether wrong, and did Mr Turnbull much harm for many a day afterwards. When he got outside the door, where were the twelve policemen guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers endeavoured to shake hands with him. Among them was the devoted Bunce. But the policemen seemed to think that Mr Turnbull was to be guarded, even from the affection of his friends, and were as careful that he should be ushered into his carriage untouched, as though he had been the favourite object of political aversion for the moment. Mr Turnbull himself, when he began to perceive that men were crowding close upon the gates, and to hear the noise, and to feel, as it were, the breath of the mob, stepped on quickly into his carriage. He said a word or two in a loud voice. ‘Thank you, my friends. I trust you may obtain all your just demands.’ But he did not pause to speak. Indeed, he could hardly have done so, as the policemen were manifestly in a hurry. The carriage was got away at a snail's pace; – but there remained in the spot where the carriage had stood the makings of a very pretty street row.
Bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero, – Bunce and some other reformers as ardent and as decent as himself. The police were very determinate that there should be no such interruption to their programme for getting Mr Turnbull off the scene. Mr Bunce, who had his own ideas as to his right to shake hands with any gentleman at Westminister Hall who might choose to shake hands with him, became uneasy under the impediments that were placed in his way, and expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights. Now, a London policeman in a political row is, I believe, the most forbearing of men. So long as he meets with no special political opposition, ordinary ill-usage does not even put him out of temper. He is paid for rough work among roughs, and takes his rubs gallantly. But he feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of despotic power as opposed to civil rights, and he won't stand what he calls ‘jaw’. Trip up a policeman in such a scramble, and he will take it in good spirit; but mention the words ‘Habeas Corpus’, and he'll lock you up if he can. As a rule, his instincts are right; for the man who talks about ‘Habeas Corpus’ in a political crowd will generally do more harm than can be effected by the tripping up of any constable. But these instincts may be the means of individual injustice. I think they were so when Mr Bunce was arrested and kept a fast prisoner. His wife had shown her knowledge of his character when she declared that he'd be ‘took’ if any one was ‘took.’
Bunce was taken into custody with some three or four others like himself, – decent men, who meant no harm, but who thought that as men they were bound to show their political opinions, perhaps at the expense of a little martyrdom, – and was carried into a temporary stronghold, which had been provided for the necessities of the police, under the clock-tower.
‘Keep me, at your peril!’ said Bunce, indignantly.
‘We means it,’ said the sergeant who had him in custody.
‘I've done no ha'porth to break the law,’ said Bunce.
‘You was breaking the law when you was upsetting my men, as I saw you,’ said the sergeant.
‘I've upset nobody,’ said Bunce.
‘Very well,’ rejoined the sergeant; ‘you can say it all before the magistrate, to-morrow.’
‘And am I to be locked up all night?’ said Bunce.
‘I'm afraid you will,’ replied the sergeant.
Bunce, who was not by nature a very talkative man, said no more; but he swore in his heart that there should be vengeance. Between eleven and twelve he was taken to the regular police-station, and from thence he was enabled to send word to his wife.
‘Bunce has been taken,’ said she, with something of the tragic queen, and something also of the injured wife in the tone of her voice, as soon as Phineas let himself in with the latch-key between twelve and one. And then, mingled with, and at last dominant over, those severer tones, came the voice of the loving woman whose beloved one was in trouble. ‘I knew how it'd be, Mr Finn. Didn't I? And what must we do? I don't suppose he'd had a bit to eat from the moment he went out; – and as for a drop of beer, he never thinks of it, except what I puts down for him at his meals. Them nasty police always take the best. That's why I was so afeard.’
Phineas said all that he could to comfort her, and promised to go to the police-office early in the morning, and look after Bunce. No serious evil would, he thought, probably come of it; but still Bunce had been wrong to go.
‘But you might have been took yourself,’ argued Mrs Bunce, ‘just as well as he.’ Then Phineas explained that he had gone forth in the execution of a public duty. ‘You might have been took, all the same,’ said Mrs Bunce, ‘for I'm sure Bunce didn't do nothing amiss.’
CHAPTER 26
‘The First Speech’
ON the following morning, which was Saturday, Phineas was early at the police-office at Westminster looking after the interests of his landlord; but there had been a considerable number of men taken up during the row, and our friend could hardly procure that attention for Mr Bunce's case to which he thought the decency of his client and his own position as a member of Parliament were entitled. The men who had been taken up were taken in batches before the magistrates; but as the soldiers in the park had been maltreated, and a considerable injury had been done in the neighbourhood of Downing Street, there was a good dea
l of strong feeling against the mob, and the magistrates were disposed to be severe. If decent men chose to go out among such companions, and thereby get into trouble, decent men must take the consequences. During the Saturday and Sunday a very strong feeling grew up against Mr Turnbull. The story of the carriage was told, and he was declared to be a turbulent demagogue, only desirous of getting popularity. And together with this feeling there arose a general verdict of ‘Serve them right’ against all who had come into contact with the police in the great Turnbull row; and thus it came to pass that Mr Bunce had not been liberated up to the Monday morning. On the Sunday Mrs Bunce was in hysterics, and declared her conviction that Mr Bunce would be imprisoned for life. Poor Phineas had an unquiet time with her on the morning of that day. In every ecstasy of her grief she threw herself into his arms, either metaphorically or materially, according to the excess of her agony at the moment, and expressed repeatedly an assured conviction that all her children would die of starvation, and that she herself would be picked up under the arches of one of the bridges. Phineas, who was soft hearted, did what he could to comfort her, and allowed himself to be worked up to strong parliamentary anger against the magistrates and police. ‘When they think that they have public opinion on their side, there is nothing in the way of arbitrary excess which is too great for them.’ This he said to Barrington Erle, who angered him and increased the warmth of his feeling by declaring that a little close confinement would be good for the Bunces of the day. ‘If we don't keep the mob down, the mob will keep us down,’ said the Whig private secretary. Phineas had no opportunity of answering this, but declared to himself that Barrington Erle was no more a Liberal at heart than was Mr Daubeny. ‘He was born on that side of the question, and has been receiving Whig wages all his life. That is the history of his politics!’
On the Sunday afternoon Phineas went to Lord Brentford's in Portman Square, intending to say a word or two about Lord Chiltern, and meaning also to induce, if possible, the Cabinet Minister to take part with him against the magistrates, – having a hope also, in which he was not disappointed, that he might find Lady Laura Kennedy with her father. He had come to understand that Lady Laura was not to be visited at her own house on Sundays. So much indeed she had told him in so many words. But he had come to understand also, without any plain telling, that she rebelled in heart against this Sabbath tyranny, – and that she would escape from it when escape was possible. She had now come to talk to her father about her brother, and had brought Violet Effingham with her. They had walked together across the park after church, and intended to walk back again. Mr Kennedy did not like to have any carriage out on a Sunday, and to this arrangement his wife made no objection.
Phineas had received a letter from the Stamford surgeon, and was able to report favourably of Lord Chiltern. ‘The man says that he had better not be moved for a month,’ said Phineas. ‘But that means nothing. They always say that.’
‘Will it not be best for him to remain where he is?’ said the Earl.
‘He has not a soul to speak to,’ said Phineas.
‘I wish I were with him,’ said his sister.
‘That is, of course, out of the question,’ said the Earl. ‘They know him at that inn, and it really seems to me best that he should stay there. I do not think he would be so much at his ease here.’
‘It must be dreadful for a man to be confined to his room without a creature near him, except the servants,’ said Violet. The Earl frowned, but said nothing further. They all perceived that as soon as he had learned that there was no real danger as to his son's life, he was determined that this accident should not work him up to any show of tenderness. ‘I do so hope he will come up to London,’ continued Violet, who was not afraid of the Earl, and was determined not to be put down.
‘You don't know what you are talking about, my dear,’ said Lord Brentford.
After this Phineas found it very difficult to extract any sympathy from the Earl on behalf of the men who had been locked up. He was moody and cross, and could not be induced to talk on the great subject of the day. Violet Effingham declared that she did not care how many Bunces were locked up; nor for how long, – adding, however, a wish that Mr Turnbull himself had been among the number of the prisoners. Lady Laura was somewhat softer than this, and consented to express pity in the case of Mr Bunce himself; but Phineas perceived that the pity was awarded to him and not to the sufferer. The feeling against Mr Turnbull was at the present moment so strong among all the upper classes, that Mr Bunce and his brethren might have been kept in durance for a week without commiseration from them.
‘It is very hard certainly on a man like Mr Bunce,’ said Lady Laura.
‘Why did not Mr Bunce stay at home and mind his business?’ said the Earl.
Phineas spent the remainder of that day alone, and came to a resolution that on the coming occasion he certainly would speak in the House. The debate would be resumed on the Monday, and he would rise to his legs on the very first moment that it became possible for him to do so. And he would do nothing towards preparing a speech; – nothing whatever. On this occasion he would trust entirely to such words as might come to him at the moment; – ay, and to such thoughts. He had before burdened his memory with preparations, and the very weight of the burden had been too much for his mind. He had feared to trust himself to speak, because he had felt that he was not capable of performing the double labour of saying his lesson by heart, and of facing the House for the first time. There should be nothing now for him to remember. His thoughts were full of his subject. He would support Mr Mildmay's bill with all his eloquence, but he would implore Mr Mildmay, and the Home Secretary, and the Government generally, to abstain from animosity against the populace of London, because they desired one special boon which Mr Mildmay did not think that it was his duty to give them. He hoped that ideas and words would come to him. Ideas and words had been free enough with him in the old days of the Dublin debating society. If they failed him now, he must give the thing up, and go back to Mr Low.
On the Monday morning Phineas was for two hours at the police-court in Westminster, and at about one on that day Mr Bunce was liberated. When he was brought up before the magistrate, Mr Bunce spoke his mind very freely as to the usage he had received, and declared his intention of bringing an action against the sergeant who had detained him. The magistrate, of course, took the part of the police, and declared that, from the evidence of two men who were examined, Bunce had certainly used such violence in the crowd as had justified his arrest.
‘I used no violence,’ said Bunce.
‘According to your own showing, you endeavoured to make your way up to Mr Turnbull's carriage,’ said the magistrate.
‘I was close to the carriage before the police even saw me,’ said Bunce.
‘But you tried to force your way round the door.’
‘I used no force till a man had me by the collar to push me back; and I wasn't violent, not then. I told him I was doing what I had a right to do, – and it was that as made him hang on to me.’
‘You were not doing what you had a right to do. You were assisting to create a riot,’ said the magistrate, with that indignation which a London magistrate should always know how to affect.
Phineas, however, was allowed to give evidence as to his landlord's character, and then Bunce was liberated. But before he went he again swore that that should not be the last of it, and he told the magistrate that he had been ill-used. When liberated, he was joined by a dozen sympathising friends, who escorted him home, and among them were one or two literary gentlemen, employed on those excellent penny papers, the People's Banner and the Ballot-box.44 It was their intention that Mr Bunce's case should not be allowed to sleep. One of these gentlemen made a distinct offer to Phineas Finn of unbounded popularity during life and immortality afterwards, if he, as a member of Parliament, would take up Bunce's case with vigour. Phineas, not quite understanding the nature of the offer, and not as yet knowing the profession of the g
entlemen, gave some general reply.
‘You come out strong, Mr Finn, and we'll see that you are properly reported. I'm on the Banner, sir, and I'll answer for that.’
Phineas, who had been somewhat eager in expressing his sympathy with Bunce, and had not given very close attention to the gentleman who was addressing him, was still in the dark. The nature of the Banner, which the gentleman was on, did not at once come home to him.
‘Something ought to be done, certainly,’ said Phineas.
‘We shall take it up strong,’ said the gentleman, ‘and we shall be happy to have you among us. You'll find, Mr Finn, that in public life there's nothing like having a horgan to back you. What is the most you can do in the 'Ouse? Nothing, if you're not reported. You're speaking to the country; – ain't you? And you can't do that without a horgan, Mr Finn. You come among us on the Banner, Mr Finn. You can't do better.’
Then Phineas understood the nature of the offer made to him. As they parted, the literary gentlemen gave our hero his card. ‘Mr Quintus Slide.’ So much was printed. Then, on the corner of the card was written, ‘Banner Office, 137 Fetter Lane.’ Mr Quintus Slide was a young man, under thirty, not remarkable for clean linen, and who always talked of the ‘’Ouse.’ But he was a well-known and not undistinguished member of a powerful class of men. He had been a reporter, and as such knew the ‘’Ouse’ well, and was a writer for the press. And, though he talked of ‘Ouses’ and ‘horgans,’ he wrote good English with great rapidity, and was possessed of that special sort of political fervour which shows itself in a man's work rather than in his conduct. It was Mr Slide's taste to be an advanced reformer, and in all his operations on behalf of the People's Banner he was a reformer very much advanced. No man could do an article on the people's indefeasible rights with more pronounced vigour than Mr Slide. But it had never occurred to him as yet that he ought to care for anything else than the fight, – than the advantage of having a good subject on which to write slashing articles. Mr Slide was an energetic but not a thoughtful man; but in his thoughts on politics, as far as they went with him, he regarded the wrongs of the people as being of infinitely greater value than their rights. It was not that he was insincere in all that he was daily saying; – but simply that he never thought about it. Very early in life he had fallen among ‘people's friends,’ and an opening on the liberal press had come in his way. To be a ‘people's friend’ suited the turn of his ambition, and he was a ‘people's friend.’ It was his business to abuse Government, and to express on all occasions an opinion that as a matter of course the ruling powers were the ‘people's enemies,’ Had the ruling powers ceased to be the ‘people's enemies,’ Mr Slide's ground would have been taken from under his feet. But such a catastrophe was out of the question. That excellent old arrangement that had gone on since demagogues were first invented was in full vigour. There were the ruling powers and there were the people, – devils on one side and angels on the other, – and as long as a people's friend had a pen in his hand all was right.
Phineas Finn, the Irish Member Page 29
