CHAPTER CCIII.

THE BENGAL ARMS.--RENEWED WANDERINGS.

The parlour at the Bengal Arms is--or at least was at the time whereof

we are writing--a long, low, dingy room, very dark in the day-time and

indifferently lighted in the evening. It is always filled with a motley

assembly of guests; and ale is the beverage most in request--while to

one who indulges in a cigar, at least ten patronise the unaffected

enjoyment of the clay-pipe.

On the present occasion the company was numerous: the tobacco-smoke

hung like a dense mist in the place, the gas-burners showing dimly

through the pestiferous haze;--and the heat was intense.

Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob contrived to find room at one of the tables;

and a slip-shod waiter supplied them in due time with a pot of ale and

bread and cheese, to the discussion of which they addressed themselves

in a manner affording not the slightest suspicion of the deadly enmity

which existed between them.

While they were thus engaged they had an opportunity of listening to

the conversation that was taking place amongst the other guests.

“Well, for my part,” said a little, stout, podgy individual, with a

bald head and a round, red, good-humoured countenance, “I have always

been taught to look on the City institootions as the blessedest things

ever inwented.”

“And I maintain that they’re the foulest abuses in the universe,”

exclaimed a tall, thin, sallow-faced individual, striking the table

with his clenched fist as he spoke. “Why should everything east of

Temple Bar be different from everything west?” he demanded, looking

sternly round upon the company as if to defy any one to answer

his questions. “Why should it be necessary to have barristers as

magistrates in Westminster, and fat stupid old Aldermen in the

City?--why should the ridiculous ostentation, useless trappings,

and preposterous display of the Mayoralty be maintained for so

miserably small a fraction of the great metropolis? Talk of your City

Institutions, indeed!--they are either the most awful nonsense that

ever made grown up persons look more absurd than little boys playing

with paper cocked-hats and wooden swords--or else they are rottenness

and corruption. When the Municipal Corporations were reformed in 1835,

why was the City of London omitted! Did not Lord John Russell then

pledge himself _most solemnly and sacredly_ to bring in a separate bill

for the London Corporation?--and has this promise, almost amounting to

a vow, ever been fulfilled? No: and why? Because every Government, one

after another, is afraid to lose the political support of this precious

Corporation. And to these selfish considerations is sacrificed every

principle of justice, propriety, and common sense. Look at the rascally

extravagance and vile profusion which characterise the Corporation.

The parish of St. Marylebone, with its hundred and forty thousand

inhabitants, only expends _a hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds_

for those parochial purposes which cost the City, with a population of

ten thousand less than the other, nearly _a million_! The difference is

that Marylebone is governed by an intelligent vestry--whereas London is

under a stupid Corporation! Look, again, at the iniquities perpetrated

by the Aldermen in their capacity as licensing magistrates--the gross

partiality that they show towards some publicans, and the inveterate

hostility they manifest towards others. The _rights of the freemen_

are a scandal and a shame--many able mechanics and other operatives

being frequently driven from the City on account of their inability

to pay the money for taking up their freedom.[32] Then again, look at

the preposterous power which the Lord Mayor enjoys of stopping up all

the thoroughfares and impeding business in every shape and way, on any

occasion when it may suit him and his bloated, guzzling, purse-proud

adherents to pass in their gingerbread coaches through the City. Is

this consistent with British freedom?--is it compatible with the rights

or interests of the citizens? Faugh!”

And the speaker resumed his pipe, in deep disgust at the abuses which

he had thus succinctly, but most truly enumerated.

“Well, I don’t know--but I like all our old institutions,” said

the bald-headed man, with the stolid obstinacy and contemptible

narrow-mindedness which so frequently characterise the John Bullism of

a certain class. “The wisdom of our ancestors----”

“The wisdom of the devil!” ejaculated the tall, sallow-faced individual

who had held forth on the City abuses. “That is a fool’s reason for

admiring established and inveterate corruption. The wisdom of our

ancestors, indeed! Why--those ancestors believed in the divine right of

Kings, and were sincere in praying on the 30th of January as if Charles

the First was really a Martyr instead of a Traitor. Our ancestors, too,

put faith in witches--aye, and burnt them also! It was our ancestors

who kindled the fires in Smithfield where persons suffered at the

stake; and our ancestors advocated the most blood-thirsty code of

laws in Europe, in virtue of which men were strung up by dozens at a

time at the Old Bailey. Our ancestors prosecuted writers for their

political and religious opinions, and seemed to take a delight in

everything that gratified the inhuman ambition of Kings and Queens, to

the prejudice of real freedom. Our ancestors, in fact, were the most

ignorant--besotted--bloody-minded miscreants that ever disgraced God’s

earth; and any man who turns an adoring glance upon the deeds of those

ruffians, deserves to be hooted out of all decent society.”

Having thus delivered his sentiments on the subject, the sallow-faced

individual was about to resume his pipe, when, another idea occurring

to him, he suddenly burst forth again in the following terms:--

“But who are those people that generalise so inanely when they speak

of the wisdom of our ancestors? They are persons who inherit all

the old, wretched, and worn-out prejudices of their forefathers,

without having the intellect or the courage to think for themselves.

They are the statesmen who gladly fall back upon any argument in

order to defend the monstrous abuses of our institutions against the

enlightening influence of reform. They are the churchmen who are

deeply interested in preserving the loaves and fishes of which their

ancestors in the hierarchy plundered the nation. They are, in fact, all

those individuals who have anything to lose by wholesome innovation,

and everything to gain by the maintenance of a system so thoroughly

rotten, corrupt, and loathsome that it infects and demoralizes every

grade of society. The Peer eulogises the wisdom of his ancestors,

because they handed down to him usurped privileges and an hereditary

rank the principle of which is a crying shame. The Member of the House

of Commons speaks of the wisdom of his ancestors, because he holds

his seat through the frightful corruption introduced by them into the

electoral system. The placeman talks of the wisdom of his ancestors,

because they invented sinecures and distributed with the lavish hand

of robbers the gold which they wrung from the marrow and the sinew

of the industrious millions. The parson praises the wisdom of his

ancestors, because they invented the atrocious system of allowing a

rector to enjoy five thousand a-year for doing nothing, and paying his

curate ninety pounds a-year for doing everything. The lawyer praises

the wisdom of his ancestors, because they devised such myriads of

insane, stupid, unjust, rascally, and contradictory enactments, that a

man cannot move hand or foot even in the most trivial and common sense

affairs, without the intervention of an attorney: and wherever that

common sense does exist on one side, law is almost sure to be on the

other; in the same way that wherever justice _is_, there law _is not_.

For my part, I do firmly believe that there is not a more wretched and

oppressed country in all the world than England--nor a more duped,

deceived, gulled, and humbugged people on the face of the earth than

the English. Talk of freedom, indeed: why, almost every institution you

have is in favour of the rich and against the poor!”

“I can’t say that I see it,” observed the bald-pated man, in the

usually dogmatic tone of confirmed obstinacy and unmitigated ignorance.

“Then you must be blind!” ejaculated the other, his emphasis indicating

sovereign contempt for the individual whom he addressed. “Look at

the Game Laws: are they made for the rich or for the poor? Are not

thousands of miserable creatures thrown into gaols for daring to kill

a hare or a pheasant, because, forsooth! it interferes with the sport

of the ‘squire? Do not the rich ride when out hunting through the

corn-fields of their tenants?--and what redress can the latter obtain?

Then, again, look at the state of the law generally. What chance has

a poor man of bringing a wealthy oppressor to justice?--who can go to

Westminster Hall without a pocket full of gold? Why, the very Railway

Companies make it a boast that by means of capital they can ruin--aye,

and break the heart of any poor antagonist in a law-court, let his

cause be ever so just! Look, too, at the privileges enjoyed by the

landowners: what proportion of the taxes do they bear in comparison

with the industrious, toiling, starving peasantry or mechanics on

those estates? Look at the condition of our taxation: are not all the

necessaries of life subjected to frightful imposts, while the luxuries

are comparatively cheap to the favoured few who can obtain them? What

is the proportion between the duty on a poor man’s horse and cart and

a rich man’s carriage and four?--what the proportion between the poor

man’s beer and spirits and the rich man’s foreign wines? Again, if

a scion of the aristocracy wants money, he is provided with a good

place if not an absolute sinecure; whereas the poor man is sent to

die a lingering and degraded death in that awful gaol denominated a

work-house. Look at the combination of capital against labour. If

capitalists and monopolists lower wages, there is no redress save by

means of _a strike_ on the part of the workmen; and _a strike_ is

looked upon as something akin to rebellion against the Sovereign. In

every way is the law in favour of the rich--in every way is it grinding

and oppressive to the poor.”

A profound silence followed these observations: for every one present,

save the bald-pated man, perceived their truth and recognized their

justice,--and even _he_ had not impudence enough to venture a denial

which he could not sustain by argument.

“What we require, then,” resumed the sallow-faced individual, at length

breaking the long pause, “is an entire reform,--a radical reform, and

not a measure bearing the name without any of the reality. I love

my country and my countrymen as well as any British subject: but it

makes my heart bleed to witness the misery which exists throughout the

sphere of our industrious population;--and it makes my blood boil to

think that nothing is done to remedy the crying evils and reform the

tremendous abuses which I have this night enumerated.”

[Illustration]

The discourse was now taken up by several other individuals present,

the bald-headed gentleman declining to pursue it farther; and the

sallow-faced guest fearlessly and ably dissected the whole social and

governmental system, concluding with an emphatic declaration that the

community should agitate morally, but unweariedly, for those reforms

which were so much needed.

It was twelve o’clock when Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob issued from the

Bengal Arms; and passing through George Yard, they entered Lombard

Street.

Thence they proceeded towards London Bridge, over which they walked in

a leisurely manner--side by side--watching each other--and maintaining

a profound silence.

Down the Blackfriars’ Road they went; and on reaching the obelisk in

St. George’s Fields, the Doctor paused for a few minutes to make up his

mind what course to pursue.

He was already wearied--and a mental irritation was growing upon him in

spite of his characteristic recklessness and indifference: he required

rest--and he knew that he could obtain none so long as his terrible

enemy was by his side.

“Perhaps I may weary him out,” thought the Doctor to himself: “or

if I lead him into the open country I shall perhaps be able to give

him the slip. Otherwise we must fight it out in some place where no

interruption need be dreaded.”

Influenced by these ideas, Jack Rily resumed his wanderings, Vitriol

Bob still remaining by his side like the ghost of some murdered victim.

They proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle; and on reaching that

celebrated tavern, they once more refreshed themselves with beer, as

the establishment was still open in consequence of some parochial

entertainment that was given there on that particular evening.

On issuing from the house, the two men proceeded along the Kent Road.

Nearly an hour had now elapsed since they had last exchanged a word;

for the feeling of desperate irritation was growing stronger and

stronger on the part of Jack Rily--while Vitriol Bob was becoming

impatient of this delay in the gratification of his implacable

vengeance.

But delight filled the soul of the latter when he found that his

companion was taking a direction that led into the open country; and,

breaking the long silence which had prevailed, he said tauntingly, “You

are getting tired, Jack.”

“Not a bit,” replied the Doctor, assuming a cheerful tone.

“Oh! yes--you are, old feller,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob: “you drag your

feet along as if you was.”

“I could walk all night without being wearied so much as you are now,”

returned the Doctor: and, thus speaking, he mended his pace.

“I never felt less tired than I am at present, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob:

“but you are failing in spite of this pretended briskness. You can’t

keep it up.”

“You shall see,” answered the Doctor, his irritation augmenting

fearfully.

Vitriol Bob made no further observation upon the subject; and the two

miscreants walked on, side by side, until they reached the Green Man at

Blackheath.

There was no tavern--no beer-shop open; and both were thirsty, alike

with fatigue and the workings of evil passions.

Seating himself upon a bench fixed against the wall of a public-house,

Jack Rily could not help gnashing his teeth with rage; and as he

maintained his looks fixed upon the countenance of his enemy, his eyes

glared with a savage and ferocious malignity. The moon-light enabled

Vitriol Bob to catch the full significancy of that expression which

distorted the Doctor’s features; and, sitting down close by his side,

he said, “You are growing desperate now, Jack: I knowed I should

disturb your coolness and composure before long.”

“By God! you’re right, my man!” ejaculated the Doctor, unable to

restrain his irritation. “I had no enmity against you at first--I would

have shaken hands with you and been as good friends as ever--aye,

and have given you more money than you’ve ever yet seen in all your

life,--given it to you as a present! But now I hate and detest you--I

loathe and abhor you! Damnation! I could stick my knife into you this

very minute!”

“Two can play at that game,” returned Vitriol Bob, savagely. “But

remember that we’re talking tolerably loud just underneath the windows

of this ’ere public; and I don’t feel at all inclined to be baulked of

the satisfaction----”

“Of a last and desperate struggle, eh?” exclaimed the Doctor, starting

up. “Well--we will not delay it much longer. Come along:--it is pretty

near time that this child’s play was put an end to--I am getting sick

of it.”

“Bless ye, I’ve no such excitement,” said Vitriol Bob, rising from

the bench and again placing himself by the side of his companion: “I

rayther like it than anythink else. We’ve had a nice walk--plenty of

refreshments--and now and then a cozie little bit of chat--besides the

advantage of hearing them political sermons in at the Bengal Arms: and

so I don’t think you can say we’ve spent the time wery disagreeably.”

All this was said to irritate the Doctor still more; for Vitriol Bob,

well acquainted with the disposition of his enemy, knew that when once

he was thus excited it was impossible for him to regain his composure.

Jack Rily made no answer--but continued his way in silence, weariness

gaining upon his body as rapidly as bitter ferocity was acquiring a

more potent influence over his mind.