“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 deal 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 or 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 to 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_. 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 of 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 gentleman, 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 gentleman 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, when he left the indignant Bunce to go among his friends,
walked to the House thinking a good deal of what Mr. Slide had said
to him. The potted peas Committee was again on, and he had intended
to be in the Committee Room by twelve punctually: but he had been
unable to leave Mr. Bunce in the lurch, and it was now past one.
Indeed, he had, from one unfortunate circumstance after another,
failed hitherto in giving to the potted peas that resolute attention
which the subject demanded. On the present occasion his mind was full
of Mr. Quintus Slide and the _People’s Banner_. After all, was there
not something in Mr. Slide’s proposition? He, Phineas, had come into
Parliament as it were under the wing of a Government pack, and his
friendships, which had been very successful, had been made with
Ministers, and with the friends of Ministers. He had made up his mind
to be Whig Ministerial, and to look for his profession in that line.
He had been specially fortified in this resolution by his dislike
to the ballot,--which dislike had been the result of Mr. Monk’s
teaching. Had Mr. Turnbull become his friend instead, it may well be
that he would have liked the ballot. On such subjects men must think
long, and be sure that they have thought in earnest, before they are
justified in saying that their opinions are the results of their
own thoughts. But now he began to reflect how far this ministerial
profession would suit him. Would it be much to be a Lord of the
Treasury, subject to the dominion of Mr. Ratler? Such lordship and
such subjection would be the result of success. He told himself
that he was at heart a true Liberal. Would it not be better for him
to abandon the idea of office trammels, and go among them on the
_People’s Banner_? A glow of enthusiasm came over him as he thought
of it. But what would Violet Effingham say to the _People’s Banner_
and Mr. Quintus Slide? And he would have liked the _Banner_ better
had not Mr. Slide talked about the ’Ouse.
From the Committee Room, in which, alas! he took no active part in
reference to the potted peas, he went down to the House, and was
present when the debate was resumed. Not unnaturally, one speaker
after another made some allusion to the row in the streets, and the
work which had fallen to the lot of the magistrates. Mr. Turnbull
had declared that he would vote against the second reading of Mr.
Mildmay’s bill, and had explained that he would do so because he
could consent to no Reform Bill which did not include the ballot as
one of its measures. The debate fashioned itself after this speech of
Mr. Turnbull’s, and turned again very much upon the ballot,--although
it had been thought that the late debate had settled that question.
One or two of Mr. Turnbull’s followers declared that they also would
vote against the bill,--of course, as not going far enough; and one
or two gentlemen from the Conservative benches extended a spoken
welcome to these new colleagues. Then Mr. Palliser got up and
addressed the House for an hour, struggling hard to bring back the
real subject, and to make the House understand that the ballot,
whether good or bad, had been knocked on the head, and that members
had no right at the present moment to consider anything but the
expediency or inexpediency of so much Reform as Mr. Mildmay presented
to them in the present bill.
Phineas was determined to speak, and to speak on this evening if he
could catch the Speaker’s eye. Again the scene before him was going
round before him; again things became dim, and again he felt his
blood beating hard at his heart. But things were not so bad with
him as they had been before, because he had nothing to remember. He
hardly knew, indeed, what he intended to say. He had an idea that he
was desirous of joining in earnest support of the measure, with a
vehement protest against the injustice which had been done to the
people in general, and to Mr. Bunce in particular. He had firmly
resolved that no fear of losing favour with the Government should
induce him to hold his tongue as to the Buncean cruelties. Sooner
than do so he would certainly “go among them” at the _Banner_ office.
He started up, wildly, when Mr. Palliser had completed his speech;
but the Speaker’s eye, not unnaturally, had travelled to the other
side of the House, and there was a Tory of the old school upon his
legs,--Mr. Western, the member for East Barsetshire, one of the
gallant few who dared to vote against Sir Robert Peel’s bill for
repealing the Corn Laws in 1846. Mr. Western spoke with a slow,
ponderous, unimpressive, but very audible voice, for some twenty
minutes, disdaining to make reference to Mr. Turnbull and his
politics, but pleading against any Reform, with all the old
arguments. Phineas did not hear a word that he said;--did not attempt
to hear. He was keen in his resolution to make another attempt at the
Speaker’s eye, and at the present moment was thinking of that, and
of that only. He did not even give himself a moment’s reflection as
to what his own speech should be. He would dash at it and take his
chance, resolved that at least he would not fail in courage. Twice he
was on his legs before Mr. Western had finished his slow harangue,
and twice he was compelled to reseat himself,--thinking that he had
subjected himself to ridicule. At last the member for East Barset sat
down, and Phineas was conscious that he had lost a moment or two in
presenting himself again to the Speaker.
He held his ground, however, though he saw that he had various rivals
for the right of speech. He held his ground, and was instantly aware
that he had gained his point. There was a slight pause, and as
some other urgent member did not reseat himself, Phineas heard the
president of that august assembly call upon himself to address the
House. The thing was now to be done. There he was with the House of
Commons at his feet,--a crowded House, bound to be his auditors as
long as he should think fit to address them, and reporters by tens
and twenties in the gallery ready and eager to let the country know
what the young member for Loughshane would say in this his maiden
speech.
Phineas Finn had sundry gifts, a powerful and pleasant voice, which
he had learned to modulate, a handsome presence, and a certain
natural mixture of modesty and self-reliance, which would certainly
protect him from the faults of arrogance and pomposity, and which,
perhaps, might carry him through the perils of his new position. And
he had also the great advantage of friends in the House who were
anxious that he should do well. But he had not that gift of slow
blood which on the former occasion would have enabled him to remember
his prepared speech, and which would now have placed all his own
resources within his own reach. He began with the expression of an
opinion that every true reformer ought to accept Mr. Mildmay’s bill,
even if it were accepted only as an instalment,--but before he had
got through these sentences, he became painfully conscious that he
was repeating his own words.
He was cheered almost from the outset, and yet he knew as he went
on that he was failing. He had certain arguments at his fingers’
ends,--points with which he was, in truth, so familiar that he need
hardly have troubled himself to arrange them for special use,--and he
forgot even these. He found that he was going on with one platitude
after another as to the benefit of reform, in a manner that would
have shamed him six or seven years ago at a debating club. He pressed
on, fearing that words would fail him altogether if he paused;--but
he did in truth speak very much too fast, knocking his words together
so that no reporter could properly catch them. But he had nothing to
say for the bill except what hundreds had said before, and hundreds
would say again. Still he was cheered, and still he went on; and as
he became more and more conscious of his failure there grew upon him
the idea,--the dangerous hope, that he might still save himself from
ignominy by the eloquence of his invective against the police.
He tried it, and succeeded thoroughly in making the House understand
that he was very angry,--but he succeeded in nothing else. He could
not catch the words to express the thoughts of his mind. He could not
explain his idea that the people out of the House had as much right
to express their opinion in favour of the ballot as members in the
House had to express theirs against it; and that animosity had been
shown to the people by the authorities because they had so expressed
their opinion. Then he attempted to tell the story of Mr. Bunce in a
light and airy way, failed, and sat down in the middle of it. Again
he was cheered by all around him,--cheered as a new member is usually
cheered,--and in the midst of the cheer would have blown out his
brains had there been a pistol there ready for such an operation.
That hour with him was very bad. He did not know how to get up and
go away, or how to keep his place. For some time he sat with his
hat off, forgetful of his privilege of wearing it; and then put it
on hurriedly, as though the fact of his not wearing it must have
been observed by everybody. At last, at about two, the debate was
adjourned, and then as he was slowly leaving the House, thinking how
he might creep away without companionship, Mr. Monk took him by the
arm.
“Are you going to walk?” said Mr. Monk.
“Yes”, said Phineas; “I shall walk.”
“Then we may go together as far as Pall Mall. Come along.” Phineas
had no means of escape, and left the House hanging on Mr. Monk’s arm,
without a word. Nor did Mr. Monk speak till they were out in Palace
Yard. “It was not much amiss,” said Mr. Monk; “but you’ll do better
than that yet.”
“Mr. Monk,” said Phineas, “I have made an ass of myself so
thoroughly, that there will at any rate be this good result, that I
shall never make an ass of myself again after the same fashion.”
“Ah!--I thought you had some such feeling as that, and therefore I
was determined to speak to you. You may be sure, Finn, that I do not
care to flatter you, and I think you ought to know that, as far as I
am able, I will tell you the truth. Your speech, which was certainly
nothing great, was about on a par with other maiden speeches in the
House of Commons. You have done yourself neither good nor harm. Nor
was it desirable that you should. My advice to you now is, never to
avoid speaking on any subject that interests you, but never to speak
for above three minutes till you find yourself as much at home on
your legs as you are when sitting. But do not suppose that you have
made an ass of yourself,--that is, in any special degree. Now,
good-night.”