Passages from the Life of a Philosopher

by Charles Babbage

ACT II.

SCENE I.—Downing-street, after a Cabinet Meeting. LORD A.; CLOSEWIND; SHIFT; SMOOTH; and other Members of the Cabinet.

Lord A. That point being settled, gentlemen, the sooner you are at your posts the better. The King comes down to dissolve on Friday.[40] But, before we part, we had better {286} decide about this Presidency of the Board of Man­u­fac­tures. The appointment requires an able man; of rather peculiar attainments. Mr. Turnstile has been mentioned to me; and his claims I am told, are strong:—long devotion to science,—great expense and loss of time for public objects,—high reputation, and weight of opinion, as a man of science.

[40] Parliament is ordinarily dissolved by Proclamation, after having been previously prorogued. However, there is at least one modern instance to justify the historical consistency of the text, namely, that which occurred on the 10th June, 1818, when the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV., dissolved the Parliament in person. The Dramatist cannot therefore be properly accused of drawing heedlessly upon his imagination, though even had he thus far transgressed the boundaries of historical truth, Horace’s maxim might have been pleaded in excuse:—

“Pictoribus atque Poetis

Quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas.”

Smooth. I believe that he has left science; at least, he wishes it to be so considered. He is my colleague at Shoreditch; and, of course, I wish to support him;—but,—when business is to be done;—and men,—and things, to be brought together,—I own,—I doubt—whether a more practical man,—might not——

Shift. And that poor Turnstile certainly is not. He must always have a reason;—nothing but the quod erat demonstrandum; a romancer; if you have anything to do, his first object is to do it well. I am quite sure he will not answer our purpose.

Closewind. He talks too much about consistency; and on party questions, you are never sure of him: last week he did not divide with us, on either night.

Lord A. Well; I am quite indifferent. I did hear of his being at Lord Flumm’s; and after what had just passed in the Lords, a personal friend of mine would, perhaps, have kept away from that quarter. Is there no other person?

Smooth. (Hesitatingly.) Davies Gilbert.

Shift. (Laughing.) Pooh! Pooh! Poor Gilbert! No, that will never do.

Smooth. Or—Warburton?

Shift. (Sneering.) Worse and worse!—if ever there was an impracticable——

Closewind. But we don’t know that Turnstile is sure of his seat. Smooth, hasn’t MacLeech been talked of for Shoreditch? {287}

Smooth. He’s certain of succeeding! The independent gentlemen don’t quite like Turnstile—they wish for Highway—and the split will foil them both. MacLeech—now that he has been mentioned—I must acknowledge, does seem to me to be the very man for the man­u­fac­tures,—a practical, persevering man of business,—never absent from the House,—excellent Scotch connections,—a cousin of the Duke of Y.’s——.

Lord A. That is a good point, certainly. An appointment given there would be candid and liberal;—it might conciliate——

Closewind. A very civil, excellent fellow, too. MacLeech, I should say, is the man.

Shift. I quite agree with you.

Smooth. I confess, I think he will fill the office well. And if it is thought quite necessary that Hume’s motion to reduce the salary,—though it is not large——

Closewind. Oh, no! The salary had better remain;—2000 l. is not too much. Besides, the principle of giving way is bad.

Lord A. Well, gentlemen, let it be so. Smooth, you will let MacLeech know that he has the office.

Smooth. And at the present salary?

Lord A. Agreed. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.—The Athenæum Club. SMOOTH and ATALL at a table.

Smooth. I saw it this morning on the breakfast-table at Lord A’s; it is an admirable article, and I was told is yours.

Atall. (Decliningly.) These things, you know, are always supposed to be anonymous. But I am not sorry that you liked the paper. Did his lordship speak of it? {288}

Smooth. The book was open at the article upon the table. It does you honour. Hits just the happy point,—hints probable intentions, without giving any pledge,—enough to please the Liberals,—and full room for explanation, if any change becomes expedient. The true plan, believe me, for a ministry, in times like these, is to proceed en tâtonnant.—Pray, Mr. Dean, how is the Bishop of Hereford?

Atall. I didn’t know that he was par­tic­u­lar­ly ill. He has long been feeble.

Smooth. These complainers do sometimes hold out. But they cannot last for ever.—We meet I hope to-morrow at the levee. You ought to be there.

Atall. I have come to town for the purpose; having secured, I think, Closewind’s election at Cambridge.

Smooth. Well done, my very good friend! Men of talent should always pull together. Sorry that I must go; but we meet to-morrow. (Shaking hands very cordially.) [Exit.

SCENE VI.—BYEWAYS’ lodgings. BYEWAYS alone, writing.

Enter TURNSTILE.

Turnstile. My dear Byeways; I want your assistance. Deserted by those shabby dogs the Radicals, and tricked, I fear, by the Whigs, I find I have no chance of a decent show of numbers at the next election, if my scientific friends do not support me with spirit. Even so, it can be only an honourable retreat. I count upon you,—you understand the world;—and as soon as we can muster a committee, you must be my chairman.

Byeways. My good friend, don’t be in a hurry; sit down and tell me all about it. I know you don’t care much about your seat,—and after all,—it is,—to you, a waste of {289} time;—but, with the Independents at your back, you are secure. As to me, my dear fellow, you know that I am——

Turnstile. But man! the Independents, as you call them, have taken up Highway; he blusters, and goes any length.

Byeways. But Smooth, you know, is strong in Shoreditch,—Government interest,—you brought him in last time; and you and he, together——

Turnstile. I know it; but he says he is not strong enough to run any risk. If you will be my chairman, with a good committee, we may at least die game.

Byeways. My dear Turnstile, you know how glad I always am to serve you—and you know what I think;—but in my situation, my dear fellow, it is quite impossible that I can oppose the ministers. MacLeech too, they say, is a candidate; and his brother-in-law’s uncle was very civil, last year, in Scotland, to my wife’s cousin.—But I have a plan for you. There is Atall, just come to town; make him your chief, and bring the Cambridge men together. The clergy were always strong in Shoreditch. Atall can speak to them.—I am obliged to go to the War Office.—And you had better lose no time in seeing Atall. Sorry to bid you good-bye. [Exit.

Turnstile. Well, this is strange! yet I thought I might have counted upon Byeways. [Exit.

SCENE VIII.—LADY FLUMM’S Drawing-room. LADY FLUMM; LADY SELINA; HON. MRS. FUBSEY.

Mrs. Fubsey. But, my dear sister; how can you so beflatter that poor man? You don’t know all the mischief you may do to him.

Lady Flumm. “Poor man!” I cannot pity him. His maxim is, that knowledge is power; and he thinks his {290} knowledge is all that can be known. He has to learn that our knowledge, also, is power; and that we know how to use it too.

Enter LORD FLUMM.

Lord Flumm. There, Lady Selina, so much for your philosophic friend. Poor Turnstile! What a business he has made of it. Here is the “Times,” with the report of the Shoreditch election meeting. Turnstile has no chance. The Scotchmen coalesce; Highway none of us can think of; and Smooth and MacLeech walk over the ground in triumph; and then, the Presidency of Man­u­fac­tures, the very appointment for which poor Turnstile was fitted (and, to do the poor devil justice, he could have filled it well), is given to MacLeech, a Scotch hanger on, or distant cousin of Smooth’s, and with the old salary, in spite of all that Hume could say against it.—Bravo! Reform, and the Whigs for ever!—We Tories could not have done the business in a better style.

Enter a Footman.

Footman. Mr. Turnstile, my Lady, sends up his card.

Lady Flumm. Oh, not at home! And Sleek, put a memorandum in the visiting-book, that we are “out of town,” whenever Mr. Turnstile calls.

SCENE XII.—TURNSTILE’S Parlour. Night. TURNSTILE alone.

Turnstile. Then all is up. What a fool have I been to embark upon this sea of trouble! Two years of trifling and lost time; while others have been making discoveries and adding to their reputation. Those rascal Whigs, my blood boils to think of them. I can forgive the Shoreditch {291} people—the greasy, vulgar, money-getting beasts;—but my friends, the men of principle—— (Getting up and walking about.)

Is it still too late to return? (Looking round upon his books and instruments.) There you are, my old friends, whom I have treated rather ungratefully. What a scene at that cursed meeting! Highway’s bullying; and the baseness of Smooth; the sleek, sly, steering of that knave MacLeech; and yet they must succeed. There’s no help for it. I am fairly beaten—thrown overboard, with not a leg to stand upon; and all I have to do is to go to bed now, to sleep off this fever; and to-morrow, take leave of politics, and try to be myself once more.

END OF THE EXTRACTS.

Note.—The reader will doubtlessly have already discovered that “Byeways,” with the other dramatis personæ of this squib, are living characters not unknown in fashionable and political circles. In a future edition, if it can be done without offence, I may perhaps be induced to present them to the public without their masks and buskins.