WENTWORTH RETIRES.
Just as the Irish ‘praste’ walked out, a gentleman rushed in, breathless
and unannounced.
‘Ah, my dear boy,’ said he, ‘in the language of Scripture I ask, What
doest thou here, Elijah?’
‘Ask as much as you like,’ said Wentworth; ‘but I do not know that I am
bound to answer.’
‘Wentworth, you are making an ass of yourself. You may think the
language rather strong, but it is true, nevertheless. You know I am a
candid friend, and I tell you this is not your place.’
‘I am almost of the same opinion.’
‘Let us look at the thing seriously. What is Parliamentary life but the
dreariest drudgery going?—worse than that of the treadmill. The House
meets at four, and rises God knows when. In any civilized community the
House would meet in the day, and the business would be got through in a
creditable manner. In that House you must remain night after night,
never out of the sound of the division-bell or the call of the whip.
There is a nice smoking-room, I own, but as it is, I believe you smoke
too much. There is a fine library, but it is not so convenient for you
as your own in Clifford’s Inn. I believe the dinners are not bad; but
you are a philosopher, and prefer your roast potato and your mutton-bone—
‘“A hollow tree,
A crust of bread and liberty.”
—to the dainties of the gourmand. On a hot night you can have a
moonlight walk, to breathe the odours of the silvery Thames, and the
chances are you will go home to be laid up with rheumatism.’
This latter aspect of the question was always a serious thing to the
speaker. He was a medical man, and had constituted himself the guardian
of Wentworth’s health. The two were warmly-attached friends. Buxton,
for such was his name, had not made much way in his profession; in fact,
he was not a lady’s man. He was rough in voice, blunt in manner,
somewhat uncouth in appearance. He might have done for the army or navy;
but as a general practitioner he had no chance.
Any respectable lady who had injured her health by tight-lacing or late
hours, or her figure by high-heeled boots, or her complexion by
cosmetics; any decent tradesman or substantial British merchant who had
ruined his liver by a too generous diet and want of fresh air and
exercise; any devoted parson who had induced—as he may well have
done—softening of the brain, considering what he has to say, and to whom,
not once a week, but all the year round, would have deemed Buxton, with
his absence of all _finesse_, with his straightforward habit of talking,
with his rude and, to them, impertinent and unfeeling questions, a brute;
and thus Buxton spread out his net and displayed his head full of strange
wares in vain. But he was honest to the core, and a genuine friend, with
a love of science nothing could quench, and with a desire to benefit his
neighbours, which in his case was its own reward.
His wants were not many, for he was a bachelor; and independently of his
profession, he had a comfortable little property of his own. England
owes much to her medical men. In the priesthood of the future they will
not occupy the lowest scale. Already they rank amongst our greatest
theological reformers. Undoubtedly one of the healthiest signs of the
times is the attention paid by the modern Christian to that wonderful
temple of ours, the human body, fashioned, as we would fain believe, in
the Divine image by an Almighty power.
It is lamentable to see how at one time all trace of that elevating idea
was lost sight of, and how widely it was accepted as a matter of course
that this poor carcase, this earthly tabernacle, this vile body of sin
and death, was, if the Divine life was to be kept alive, to be subjected
to treatment which would have brought the wrong-doer within the four
corners of any decent Act for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, had
such an Act been in existence. A good many of the sighs and groans
accepted as evidences of exalted piety in past days, were more the result
of earthly than of celestial influences—more due to the fact that the
digestion was weak than that the spirit was strong; that it was ill with
the body rather than it was well with the soul.
It was a common error not many years since—it may be that it exists more
or less now—for pious people to assume that a dislike of this world, a
shutting of the mental eye to all the wonders and glory of it as revealed
by the sun that walks by day, and the moon that rules by night, was a
sure sign of fitness for another; that maudlin sentimentalism was
religion in its purest form, that to be unhealthy and miserable was to be
a saint. We have got rid of that folly, at any rate, and a good deal of
the credit of it is due to Dr. Andrew Combe, brother of the phrenologist,
George Combe, whose popular phrenology and other works did much to arouse
and enlighten the public mind.
It is not now that to treat the body decently is considered a sign of a
low state of spirituality—that we hear it urged as an excuse for
neglecting to take care of one’s health, the most precious talent given
by God to man, that it is wrong to take any trouble about the flesh in a
state of sin and under bondage, and in a few short years to be food for
worms. Such talk was pitilessly flouted, if ever Buxton chanced to come
within ear-shot of it, and good people, accordingly, in their abounding
charity, fancied he was a sceptic, that he denied the faith, and was
worse than an infidel. Buxton continued:
‘What can you do, what can anyone do in the House of Commons, but
register the people’s will. It is outside the House, not within, that
the battle of public opinion is fought. To you or me a Parliamentary
struggle is neither more nor less than a trial of the outs to get into
office, or of the ins to retain place and power; for, let them call
themselves what they will—Tories or Radicals, Advanced Reformers or
Obstructionists—no Government can exist in this country that does not
represent public opinion, and does not do honest work for its living. It
was so in the days of rotten boroughs, of Sir Robert Walpole, of Pitt and
Fox, of Castlereagh and Canning and Sidmouth, and is still so now.’
‘I have said as much to you a thousand times,’ said Wentworth, smiling.
‘Of course you have. Like myself, you are a man of sense. If you were a
barrister, I would say, Get into Parliament by all means. If you did not
do any good for your country, you might get a good place for yourself.
If you were a parson you could get a living.’
‘Ah,’ said Wentworth, ‘that reminds me of a good story; you recollect
Thompson, who edited the _Political Pioneer_?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, he wrote, as you may remember, very violently and ridiculously in
favour of the late Government. He took his articles to the right
quarter, and asked for a reward. “If you were a barrister,” said the
Government manager, “we could give you a berth; if you were a parson, we
could give you a living. As it is, I fear we can’t help you.” Somehow
or other Thompson managed to get ordained, and was given a living in the
North, which he has been obliged to leave on account of drunkenness, and
he is now back in town working at odds and ends on his old paper.’
‘Well,’ said Buxton, ‘I am not surprised at that. He never was a man for
whom I had any respect, but I don’t want to see you shelved in that way.
If you want office, of course you must get into Parliament, but I don’t
think you care much about that sort of thing.’
‘No, I should think not.’
‘Then, what do you want to get into Parliament for? Think of the
hypocrisy of public life. An independent M.P. is a nuisance to all
parties, and can do no good. You dislike to hear the cry of the Church
in danger, because you know the man who raises it means that he is afraid
of losing his tithes. You laugh at the man who talks about preserving
our glorious Constitution of Church and State, because you and I well
know what he means is the preservation of caste and injustice. But is
the Liberal politician much better, who, to keep his party in power, goes
ranting about the country in the sacred name of Liberty and Freedom and
Progress, and the Rights of Man? Depend upon it, there is little to
choose between one set of men and the other. Both are equally selfish,
equally thinking of number one, when they are most frantic for their
revered leader, as they call him, or most eager to champion the masses;
their care is the triumph of their party, mostly, too, with an eye to
office themselves.’
‘Upon my word, I believe I have heard all this before.’
‘I believe you have, old boy, and as long as you keep such good company
as you are in at the present time I believe you stand an uncommon good
chance of hearing it again. There is nothing like line upon line, and
precept upon precept. You can speak well, but you won’t have a chance of
being heard in the House of Commons, where you will be muzzled in order
that the officials may have their say. Besides, in the House speeches
are mere make-believe. They never influence the voting. All that you
can do is to vote black is white in the interests of your party, and is
it worth while going into the House for that? Certainly not.’
‘Go on,’ said Wentworth sarcastically.
‘Thank you, I will. Then think of what you have to go through to into
the House—the trouble you must take; the time you must waste; the money
you must spend; the speeches you must make; the lies you must utter. You
will have to tell the voters they are intelligent—you know the mass of
them are nothing of the kind. You must make them believe that, if they
do not strain every nerve to get you into Parliament, the sun will refuse
to shine and the earth to yield her fruit. At any rate, if you do not say
that, you will have to say something very much like it. You have got to
make the voter feel that his vote will do away with the wrongs of ages,
when you and I well know that in this land of ours nothing is done in a
hurry if it is done well, and that, as Tennyson writes,
‘“Freedom broadens slowly down
From precedent to precedent.”
The time is coming when the only chance for anyone to get into Parliament
will be either that he is a working man and can secure the votes of his
class, or that he shall be some large employer of labour with a certain
number of votes under his thumb, and Parliament will be little better
than a parish vestry.’
‘Well, we have not come to that yet, and a man may do a great deal of
good even in Parliament.’
‘Yes, he may, but he can do it better outside. It was an outside
organization that carried the repeal of the Corn Laws, that carried
reform in Parliament, that repealed the taxes on knowledge, that
abolished West Indian slavery.’
‘Of course you mean the press.’
‘Of course I do, my boy. I repeat daily to myself the words of old
Marvell, “Oh, printing, printing, how hast thou disturbed the peace of
mankind! That lead, when moulded into bullets, is not so mortal as when
formed into letters. There was a mistake, sure, in the story of Cadmus,
and the serpent’s teeth which he sowed were nothing but the letters he
invented.” Stick to the press, my boy, and don’t lower yourself by
descending into the Parliamentary arena. It is long since the House of
Commons was the best club in London, which conferred on a man _prestige_.
It is now a place where the work is mostly dull, and always hard and
unsatisfactory, and the company rather queer. Shall we give up to party
what is meant for mankind?” Shall the blessed sun of day prove a Micker
and eat blackberries?” Shall we harness Pegasus or Bucephalus to a
common dray? Never, my boy, never!’
‘I hear you, Buxton, and the worst of it is that what you say is true.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so. Come back with me to town. Leave the
borough to those who have nursed it. The ox knoweth his owner, and the
ass his master’s crib. An election is a matter of £ s. d. It is all
very well to talk bunkum on the platform, but the wire-pullers want cash
for themselves and to work with. When the masses are better educated,
they will be proud to return a man like you.’
‘Well,’ said Wentworth, ‘I am of your opinion, and we’ll go back to town
together.’
The mob, however, was determined not to let Wentworth depart in peace.
They followed him with stones and mud until he found shelter in the
station waiting-room.
‘Good heavens!’ said the station-master. ‘Mr. Wentworth, what a state
you are in! What have you been up to? Who would have thought of seeing
you in such a mess?’
‘Ah, Mr. Johnson, you remember me!’
‘I should think so, sir. We all missed you when you left Bethesda
Chapel. But what have you been doing?’
‘Only speaking the truth to the free and independent electors of this
enlightened borough.’
‘You mean casting pearls before swine.’
‘Well, I fear that is the proper way of putting it; but neither you nor I
may say that in this place, and especially at this time.’
‘No, the people are half crazy, and most of them tipsy. They always are
so at election time. I can’t say who are the worst, Liberals or Tories,
rich or poor—they all seem to me bad alike. The fact is, parties are
very fairly divided here, that the election is really in the hands of a
few, who only want a debauch, and don’t care a rap for politics of any
kind. The only question with them is, Who will spend the most money?
But what are you going to do?’
‘Why, get out of the place as soon as possible.’
‘Well, perhaps that is the best thing you can do; but first let me see if
I can’t help to make you look a little more respectable.’
The attempt was partly successful; and having washed and covered his rags
with a great-coat, and exchanged his battered hat for a travelling cap,
Wentworth took his seat in a first-class carriage, and, lighting his
cigar, mused on the dangers he had run, and the disgusting scene of which
he had been a witness.
‘Good heavens!’ said he to himself, ‘what a farce! And yet there are
those who say, _Vox populi_, _vox dei_! Happily, as a rule, we get
gentlemen in Parliament, and the result of an election is not bad on the
whole. Shall we be able to say as much when a lower class of candidates
are returned?’
The Liberal press were angry, and Wentworth came in for his share of
abuse. He laughed as he read of his wickedness. Still more did he laugh
as he thought of the people who had interviewed him—the needy Scotchman
who sympathized with his manly struggle, had read his speeches with
undying interest, who fervently prayed that he might win, and who, though
he was not an elector, felt sure that Wentworth was a Scotchman, and
would lend a brother Scot a small loan; the ladies who had endeavoured to
capture him by storm; the collectors of various great societies who felt
sure that Wentworth would not refuse to subscribe to their funds, as all
the Liberal candidates had done the same; the stupid questions he had to
answer; the slanders of which he had been the victim; the enthusiasm he
had evoked; the temporary importance he had achieved. It was an
experience which he would not have missed, and so far he was quite
satisfied with the result.