Mr. Monk upon Reform
Phineas Finn went to Ireland immediately after his return from
Saulsby, having said nothing further to Violet Effingham, and having
heard nothing further from her than what is recorded in the last
chapter. He felt very keenly that his position was unsatisfactory,
and brooded over it all the autumn and early winter; but he could
form no plan for improving it. A dozen times he thought of writing
to Miss Effingham, and asking for an explicit answer. He could not,
however, bring himself to write the letter, thinking that written
expressions of love are always weak and vapid,--and deterred also
by a conviction that Violet, if driven to reply in writing, would
undoubtedly reply by a refusal. Fifty times he rode again in his
imagination his ride in Saulsby Wood, and he told himself as often
that the syren’s answer to him,--her no, no, no,--had been, of all
possible answers, the most indefinite and provoking. The tone of her
voice as she galloped away from him, the bearing of her countenance
when he rejoined her, her manner to him when he saw her start from
the Castle in the morning, all forbade him to believe that his words
to her had been taken as an offence. She had replied to him with a
direct negative, simply with the word “no;” but she had so said it
that there had hardly been any sting in the no; and he had known at
the moment that whatever might be the result of his suit, he need not
regard Violet Effingham as his enemy.
But the doubt made his sojourn in Ireland very wearisome to him.
And there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort,
though he was not left even at this period of his life without a
continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful. And,
first, I will say a word of his discomfort. He heard not a line from
Lord Chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his
lordship. From Lady Laura he did hear frequently. Lady Laura wrote to
him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Loughlinter,
and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. She sent
him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of
the guests at Loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word
or two here and there of her husband. The letters were very good
letters, and he preserved them carefully. It was manifest to him that
they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved.
In one of these, which he received about the end of November,
she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the
Willingford Bull, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all
property of his own that had been left there. But there was no word
in that letter of Violet Effingham; and though Lady Laura did speak
more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were
simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. There
was no allusion to the existence of any special regard on his part
for Miss Effingham. He had thought that Violet might probably tell
her friend what had occurred at Saulsby;--but if she did so, Lady
Laura was happy in her powers of reticence. Our hero was disturbed
also when he reached home by finding that Mrs. Flood Jones and Miss
Flood Jones had retired from Killaloe for the winter. I do not know
whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the
young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit
towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of
manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. But
he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away
from Killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the
lady, and the accusation made him unhappy. In the middle of the heat
of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in
which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing
feeling about poor Mary. This he had answered petulantly. Nothing
more had been written to him about Miss Jones, and nothing was said
to him when he reached home. He could not, however, but ask after
Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that
quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made
acquainted at some period of our lives. “I think, Phineas,” said his
sister, “we had better say nothing about dear Mary. She is not here
at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with
us.” “What’s all that about?” Phineas had demanded,--understanding
the whole matter thoroughly. Then his sister had demurely refused to
say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said
about Miss Mary Flood Jones. They were at Floodborough, living, he
did not doubt, in a very desolate way,--and quite willing, he did not
doubt also, to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in
the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two
occasions between him and the young lady. But how was he to do this
with such work on his hands as he had undertaken? Now that he was in
Ireland, he thought that he did love dear Mary very dearly. He felt
that he had two identities,--that he was, as it were, two separate
persons,--and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very
much in love with Violet Effingham in his position of man of fashion
and member of Parliament in England, and also warmly attached to dear
little Mary Flood Jones as an Irishman of Killaloe. He was aware,
however, that there was a prejudice against such fulness of heart,
and, therefore, resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant
to Miss Effingham. How was it possible that he should marry dear
Mary,--he, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands! It was not
possible. He must abandon all thought of making dear Mary his own. No
doubt they had been right to remove her. But, still, as he took his
solitary walks along the Shannon, and up on the hills that overhung
the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and
dreamed of giving up Parliament, of leaving Violet to some noble
suitor,--to Lord Chiltern, if she would take him,--and of going to
Floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to
press Mary to his heart. Miss Effingham would probably reject him
at last; whereas Mary, dear Mary, would come to his heart without
a scruple of doubt. Dear Mary! In these days of dreaming, he told
himself that, after all, dear Mary was his real love. But, of course,
such days were days of dreaming only. He had letters in his pocket
from Lady Laura Kennedy which made it impossible for him to think in
earnest of giving up Parliament.
And then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way. There
lived, or had lived, in the town of Galway a very eccentric old lady,
one Miss Marian Persse, who was the aunt of Mrs. Finn, the mother
of our hero. With this lady Dr. Finn had quarrelled persistently
ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to
interfere in the management of his family,--offering to purchase such
right by favourable arrangements in reference to her will. This the
doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels. Miss Persse was not
a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money.
And now she died, leaving £3,000 to her nephew Phineas Finn. Another
sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a Roman Catholic
seminary; and thus was her worldly wealth divided. “She couldn’t
have done better with it,” said the old doctor; “and as far as we
are concerned, the windfall is the more pleasant as being wholly
unexpected.” In these days the doctor was undoubtedly gratified by
his son’s success in life, and never said much about the law. Phineas
in truth did do some work during the autumn, reading blue-books,
reading law books, reading perhaps a novel or two at the same
time,--but shutting himself up very carefully as he studied, so that
his sisters were made to understand that for a certain four hours in
the day not a sound was to be allowed to disturb him.
On the receipt of his legacy he at once offered to repay his father
all money that had been advanced him over and above his original
allowance; but this the doctor refused to take. “It comes to the same
thing, Phineas,” he said. “What you have of your share now you can’t
have hereafter. As regards my present income, it has only made me
work a little longer than I had intended; and I believe that the
later in life a man works, the more likely he is to live.” Phineas,
therefore, when he returned to London, had his £3,000 in his pocket.
He owed some £500; and the remainder he would, of course, invest.
There had been some talk of an autumnal session, but Mr. Mildmay’s
decision had at last been against it. Who cannot understand that such
would be the decision of any Minister to whom was left the slightest
fraction of free will in the matter? Why should any Minister court
the danger of unnecessary attack, submit himself to unnecessary work,
and incur the odium of summoning all his friends from their rest?
In the midst of the doubts as to the new and old Ministry, when
the political needle was vacillating so tremulously on its pivot,
pointing now to one set of men as the coming Government and then to
another, vague suggestions as to an autumn session might be useful.
And they were thrown out in all good faith. Mr. Mildmay, when he
spoke on the subject to the Duke, was earnest in thinking that the
question of Reform should not be postponed even for six months.
“Don’t pledge yourself,” said the Duke;--and Mr. Mildmay did not
pledge himself. Afterwards, when Mr. Mildmay found that he was
once more assuredly Prime Minister, he changed his mind, and felt
himself to be under a fresh obligation to the Duke. Lord de Terrier
had altogether failed, and the country might very well wait till
February. The country did wait till February, somewhat to the
disappointment of Phineas Finn, who had become tired of blue-books
at Killaloe. The difference between his English life and his life at
home was so great, that it was hardly possible that he should not
become weary of the latter. He did become weary of it, but strove
gallantly to hide his weariness from his father and mother.
At this time the world was talking much about Reform, though Mr.
Mildmay had become placidly patient. The feeling was growing, and
Mr. Turnbull, with his friends, was doing all he could to make it
grow fast. There was a certain amount of excitement on the subject;
but the excitement had grown downwards, from the leaders to the
people,--from the self-instituted leaders of popular politics down,
by means of the press, to the ranks of working men, instead of
growing upwards, from the dissatisfaction of the masses, till it
expressed itself by this mouthpiece and that, chosen by the people
themselves. There was no strong throb through the country, making
men feel that safety was to be had by Reform, and could not be had
without Reform. But there was an understanding that the press and the
orators were too strong to be ignored, and that some new measure of
Reform must be conceded to them. The sooner the concession was made,
the less it might be necessary to concede. And all men of all parties
were agreed on this point. That Reform was in itself odious to many
of those who spoke of it freely, who offered themselves willingly to
be its promoters, was acknowledged. It was not only odious to Lord de
Terrier and to most of those who worked with him, but was equally so
to many of Mr. Mildmay’s most constant supporters. The Duke had no
wish for Reform. Indeed it is hard to suppose that such a Duke can
wish for any change in a state of things that must seem to him to be
so salutary. Workmen were getting full wages. Farmers were paying
their rent. Capitalists by the dozen were creating capitalists by the
hundreds. Nothing was wrong in the country, but the over-dominant
spirit of speculative commerce;--and there was nothing in Reform to
check that. Why should the Duke want Reform? As for such men as Lord
Brentford, Sir Harry Coldfoot, Lord Plinlimmon, and Mr. Legge Wilson,
it was known to all men that they advocated Reform as we all of us
advocate doctors. Some amount of doctoring is necessary for us. We
may hardly hope to avoid it. But let us have as little of the doctor
as possible. Mr. Turnbull, and the cheap press, and the rising spirit
of the loudest among the people, made it manifest that something must
be conceded. Let us be generous in our concession. That was now the
doctrine of many,--perhaps of most of the leading politicians of the
day. Let us be generous. Let us at any rate seem to be generous. Let
us give with an open hand,--but still with a hand which, though open,
shall not bestow too much. The coach must be allowed to run down the
hill. Indeed, unless the coach goes on running no journey will be
made. But let us have the drag on both the hind wheels. And we must
remember that coaches running down hill without drags are apt to come
to serious misfortune.
But there were men, even in the Cabinet, who had other ideas of
public service than that of dragging the wheels of the coach. Mr.
Gresham was in earnest. Plantagenet Palliser was in earnest. That
exceedingly intelligent young nobleman Lord Cantrip was in earnest.
Mr. Mildmay threw, perhaps, as much of earnestness into the matter
as was compatible with his age and his full appreciation of the
manner in which the present cry for Reform had been aroused. He was
thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic, and thoroughly ambitious
that he should be written of hereafter as one who to the end of a
long life had worked sedulously for the welfare of the people;--but
he disbelieved in Mr. Turnbull, and in the bottom of his heart
indulged an aristocratic contempt for the penny press. And there was
no man in England more in earnest, more truly desirous of Reform,
than Mr. Monk. It was his great political idea that political
advantages should be extended to the people, whether the people
clamoured for them or did not clamour for them,--even whether they
desired them or did not desire them. “You do not ask a child whether
he would like to learn his lesson,” he would say. “At any rate, you
do not wait till he cries for his book.” When, therefore, men said to
him that there was no earnestness in the cry for Reform, that the cry
was a false cry, got up for factious purposes by interested persons,
he would reply that the thing to be done should not be done in
obedience to any cry, but because it was demanded by justice, and was
a debt due to the people.
Our hero in the autumn had written to Mr. Monk on the politics of the
moment, and the following had been Mr. Monk’s reply:--
Longroyston, October 12, 186--.
MY DEAR FINN,
I am staying here with the Duke and Duchess of St.
Bungay. The house is very full, and Mr. Mildmay was
here last week; but as I don’t shoot, and can’t play
billiards, and have no taste for charades, I am becoming
tired of the gaieties, and shall leave them to-morrow.
Of course you know that we are not to have the autumn
session. I think that Mr. Mildmay is right. Could we have
been sure of passing our measure, it would have been very
well; but we could not have been sure, and failure with
our bill in a session convened for the express purpose of
passing it would have injured the cause greatly. We could
hardly have gone on with it again in the spring. Indeed,
we must have resigned. And though I may truly say that I
would as lief have a good measure from Lord de Terrier
as from Mr. Mildmay, and that I am indifferent to my own
present personal position, still I think that we should
endeavour to keep our seats as long as we honestly
believe ourselves to be more capable of passing a good
measure than are our opponents.
I am astonished by the difference of opinion which
exists about Reform,--not only as to the difference in
the extent and exact tendency of the measure that is
needed,--but that there should be such a divergence of
ideas as to the grand thing to be done and the grand
reason for doing it. We are all agreed that we want
Reform in order that the House of Commons may be returned
by a larger proportion of the people than is at present
employed upon that work, and that each member when
returned should represent a somewhat more equal section
of the whole constituencies of the country than our
members generally do at present. All men confess that a
£50 county franchise must be too high, and that a borough
with less than two hundred registered voters must be
wrong. But it seems to me that but few among us perceive,
or at any rate acknowledge, the real reasons for changing
these things and reforming what is wrong without delay.
One great authority told us the other day that the sole
object of legislation on this subject should be to get
together the best possible 658 members of Parliament.
That to me would be a most repulsive idea if it were
not that by its very vagueness it becomes inoperative.
Who shall say what is best; or what characteristic
constitutes excellence in a member of Parliament? If
the gentleman means excellence in general wisdom, or
in statecraft, or in skill in talking, or in private
character, or even excellence in patriotism, then I say
that he is utterly wrong, and has never touched with
his intellect the true theory of representation. One
only excellence may be acknowledged, and that is the
excellence of likeness. As a portrait should be like the
person portrayed, so should a representative House be
like the people whom it represents. Nor in arranging
a franchise does it seem to me that we have a right
to regard any other view. If a country be unfit for
representative government,--and it may be that there are
still peoples unable to use properly that greatest of
all blessings,--the question as to what state policy may
be best for them is a different question. But if we do
have representation, let the representative assembly be
like the people, whatever else may be its virtues,--and
whatever else its vices.
Another great authority has told us that our House of
Commons should be the mirror of the people. I say, not
its mirror, but its miniature. And let the artist be
careful to put in every line of the expression of that
ever-moving face. To do this is a great work, and the
artist must know his trade well. In America the work has
been done with so coarse a hand that nothing is shown
in the picture but the broad, plain, unspeaking outline
of the face. As you look from the represented to the
representation you cannot but acknowledge the likeness;
--but there is in that portrait more of the body than of
the mind. The true portrait should represent more than
the body. With us, hitherto, there have been snatches
of the countenance of the nation which have been
inimitable,--a turn of the eye here and a curl of the lip
there, which have seemed to denote a power almost divine.
There have been marvels on the canvas so beautiful that
one approaches the work of remodelling it with awe.
But not only is the picture imperfect,--a thing of
snatches,--but with years it becomes less and still less
like its original.
The necessity for remodelling it is imperative, and we
shall be cowards if we decline the work. But let us be
specially careful to retain as much as possible of those
lines which we all acknowledge to be so faithfully
representative of our nation. To give to a bare numerical
majority of the people that power which the numerical
majority has in the United States, would not be to
achieve representation. The nation as it now exists would
not be known by such a portrait;--but neither can it
now be known by that which exists. It seems to me that
they who are adverse to change, looking back with an
unmeasured respect on what our old Parliaments have done
for us, ignore the majestic growth of the English people,
and forget the present in their worship of the past. They
think that we must be what we were,--at any rate, what
we were thirty years since. They have not, perhaps, gone
into the houses of artisans, or, if there, they have not
looked into the breasts of the men. With population vice
has increased, and these politicians, with ears but
no eyes, hear of drunkenness and sin and ignorance.
And then they declare to themselves that this wicked,
half-barbarous, idle people should be controlled and not
represented. A wicked, half-barbarous, idle people may be
controlled;--but not a people thoughtful, educated, and
industrious. We must look to it that we do not endeavour
to carry our control beyond the wickedness and the
barbarity, and that we be ready to submit to control from
thoughtfulness and industry.
I hope we shall find you helping at the good work early
in the spring.
Yours, always faithfully,
JOSHUA MONK.
Phineas was up in London before the end of January, but did not find
there many of those whom he wished to see. Mr. Low was there, and to
him he showed Mr. Monk’s letter, thinking that it must be convincing
even to Mr. Low. This he did in Mrs. Low’s drawing-room, knowing that
Mrs. Low would also condescend to discuss politics on an occasion.
He had dined with them, and they had been glad to see him, and Mrs.
Low had been less severe than hitherto against the great sin of her
husband’s late pupil. She had condescended to congratulate him on
becoming member for an English borough instead of an Irish one, and
had asked him questions about Saulsby Castle. But, nevertheless, Mr.
Monk’s letter was not received with that respectful admiration which
Phineas thought that it deserved. Phineas, foolishly, had read it
out loud, so that the attack came upon him simultaneously from the
husband and from the wife.
“It is just the usual claptrap,” said Mr. Low, “only put into
language somewhat more grandiloquent than usual.”
“Claptrap!” said Phineas.
“It’s what I call downright Radical nonsense,” said Mrs. Low, nodding
her head energetically. “Portrait indeed! Why should we want to have
a portrait of ignorance and ugliness? What we all want is to have
things quiet and orderly.”
“Then you’d better have a paternal government at once,” said Phineas.
“Just so,” said Mr. Low,--“only that what you call a paternal
government is not always quiet and orderly. National order I take to
be submission to the law. I should not think it quiet and orderly if
I were sent to Cayenne without being brought before a jury.”
“But such a man as you would not be sent to Cayenne,” said Phineas.
“My next-door neighbour might be,--which would be almost as bad. Let
him be sent to Cayenne if he deserves it, but let a jury say that
he has deserved it. My idea of government is this,--that we want
to be governed by law and not by caprice, and that we must have a
legislature to make our laws. If I thought that Parliament as at
present established made the laws badly, I would desire a change;
but I doubt whether we shall have them better from any change in
Parliament which Reform will give us.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Low. “But we shall have a lot of beggars
put on horseback, and we all know where they ride to.”
Then Phineas became aware that it is not easy to convince any man or
any woman on a point of politics,--not even though he who argues may
have an eloquent letter from a philosophical Cabinet Minister in his
pocket to assist him.