When first he heard the Statue speak, Mr. Blenkinsop says, he certainly experienced a kind of sudden shock, a momentary feeling of consternation. But this soon abated in a wonderful manner. The Statue's voice was quite mild and gentle—not in the least grim—had no funereal twang in it, and was quite different from the tone a statue might be expected to take by any body who had derived his notions on that subject from having heard the representative of the class in "Don Giovanni."
"Well, what times do you mean by the good old times?" repeated the Statue, quite familiarly. The churchwarden was able to reply with some composure, that such a question coming from such a quarter had taken him a little by surprise.
"Come, come, Mr. Blenkinsop," said the Statue, "don't be astonished. 'Tis half-past twelve, and a moonlight night, as your favorite police, the sleepy and infirm old watchman, says. Don't you know that we statues are apt to speak when spoken to, at these hours? Collect yourself. I will help you to answer my own question. Let us go back step by step; and allow me to lead you. To begin. By the good old times, do you mean the reign of George the Third?"
"The last of them, sir," replied Mr. Blenkinsop, very respectfully, "I am inclined to think, were seen by the people who lived in those days."
"I should hope so," the Statue replied. "Those the good old old times? What! Mr. Blenkinsop, when men were hanged by dozens, almost weekly, for paltry thefts. When a nursing woman was dragged to the gallows with a child at her breast, for shop-lifting, to the value of a shilling. When you lost your American colonies, and plunged into war with France, which, to say nothing of the useless bloodshed it cost, has left you saddled with the national debt. Surely you will not call these the good old times, will you, Mr. Blenkinsop?"
"Not exactly, sir; no, on reflection I don't know that I can," answered Mr. Blenkinsop. He had now—it was such a civil, well-spoken statue—lost all sense of the preternatural horror of his situation, and scratched his head, just as if he had been posed in argument by an ordinary mortal.
"Well then," resumed the Statue, "my dear sir, shall we take the two or three reigns preceding? What think you of the then existing state of prisons and prison discipline? Unfortunate debtors confined indiscriminately with felons, in the midst of filth, vice, and misery unspeakable. Criminals under sentence of death tippling in the condemned cell, with the Ordinary for their pot-companion. Flogging, a common punishment of women convicted of larceny. What say you of the times when London streets were absolutely dangerous, and the passenger ran the risk of being hustled and robbed even in the daytime? When not only Hounslow and Bagshot Heath, but the public roads swarmed with robbers, and a stage-coach was as frequently plundered as a hen-roost. When, indeed, 'the road' was esteemed the legitimate resource of a gentleman in difficulties, and a highwayman was commonly called 'Captain'—if not respected accordingly. When cock-fighting, bear-baiting, and bull-baiting were popular, nay, fashionable amusements. When the bulk of the landed gentry could barely read and write, and divided their time between fox-hunting and guzzling. When duelist was a hero, and it was an honor to have 'killed your man.' When a gentleman could hardly open his mouth without uttering a profane or filthy oath. When the country was continually in peril of civil war; through a disputed succession; and two murderous insurrections, followed by more murderous executions, actually took place. This era of inhumanity, shamelessness, brigandage, brutality, and personal and political insecurity, what say you of it, Mr. Blenkinsop? Do you regard this wig and pigtail period as constituting the good old times, respected friend?"
"There was Queen Anne's golden reign, sir," deferentially suggested Mr. Blenkinsop.
"A golden reign!" exclaimed the Statue. "A reign of favoritism and court trickery at home, and profitless war abroad. The time of Bolingbroke's, and Harley's, and Churchill's intrigues. The reign of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough and of Mrs. Masham. A golden fiddlestick! I imagine you must go farther back yet for your good old times, Mr. Blenkinsop."
"Well," answered the churchwarden, "I suppose I must, sir, after what you say."