Walter Besant

THE Houses of Parliament—their history, their buildings, their constitution—belong to the history of the Empire. They happen to stand in the City of Westminster; but their history does not form part of the City history. The House of Commons has been called to Westminster almost without interruption for six hundred years. It sat for three hundred years in the Chapter House of the Abbey; then for three hundred years more in the Chapel of St. Stephen; when that was burned down the site was preserved and set apart for the New House, which arose when the ashes of the old had been cleared away. That site must not be considered a part of Westminster; it is part of the Island—part of the Empire.

In a certain special sense, however, the House of Commons did belong to the City of Westminster for a long time. A great many of the country members lodged in the narrow streets round the Abbey. The reason is plain: there were no streets or houses in the meadows lying north and west of the Houses of Parliament; either the members must lodge in the City of London and take boat for St. Stephen’s, or they must lodge in Westminster itself. It is stated by a writer of the last century that the principal means of support for the people of Westminster were the lodging and entertainment of the members. The monks were gone; Sanctuary was gone; the Court was gone; but the members remained, and so the taverns remained, too, and the ancient reputation of Westminster as a thirsty city was happily uninjured.

In another way Westminster created for itself a new distinction. As a borough it became notorious for the turbulence and the violence of the elections. Its central position, the King’s House always lying within its boundaries, the City of London its near neighbor, naturally caused an election at Westminster to attract more attention than an election at Oxford, say, or Winchester. Again, the electors of Westminster were not, probably, fiercer partisans than those of any other place, nor were their candidates always of greater importance; yet it is certain that for downright bludgeon rowdiness and riot, the rabble at Westminster, when it turned out at election time, was equaled by few towns, and surpassed by none.

Let us observe one point, which is instructive: the rabble had no votes; the butchers, those patriotic thinkers, who paraded the streets with clubs to the music of marrow-bones and cleavers; the chairmen, equal patriots of opposite convictions, who marched to the Way of War and the breaking of heads with their poles—formidable as pike or spear; the jolly sailors, convinced as to the foundations of order, who came along with bludgeons, thirsting for the display of their political principles—none of these brave fellows had any vote. Yet the share they took, the part they played, the influence they exercised in every election, cannot be disputed. The vote, you see, about which nowadays we make such a fuss, is by no means everything; in those days one stout fellow with a cudgel at the bottom of the steps of the hustings might be worth to his party fifty votes a day; he might represent as many voters sent home discouraged, or even persuaded, by a broken head, to a radical change of political principles.

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THE HOUSE OF COMMONS AND WESTMINSTER HALL FROM THE RIVER IN 1798 (FROM A CONTEMPORARY DRAWING).

In the year 1710, Swift says that the rabble surrounded his coach, and he was afraid of having dead cats thrown in at the window, or getting his glass broken. The part played by the dead cat in all eighteenth-century functions, elections, pillories, and outdoor speeches, was quite remarkable. In times of peace and quiet we hear of no dead cats. The streets did not then, and do not now, provide a supply of dead cats to meet all demands. It would seem as if all the cats of all the slums were slaughtered for the occasion. Throughout the last century the elections of Westminster became more and more riotous; there were riots and ructions in 1711 and in 1721; in 1741 these were quite surpassed by the contested election in which Lord Sundon and Sir Charles Wager were candidates on the one side,—the Court side,—and Admiral Vernon and Mr. Charles Edwin on the other. Lord Sundon, a newly created Irish peer, took upon himself to close the poll by the help of a detachment of Guards before it was finished. One vote an hour was supposed to keep the poll open. The returning officer, however, disregarding this convention, and, by Lord Sundon’s order, declared the poll closed and Lord Sundon with Sir Charles Wager duly elected. There was indignation; there was a question, which led to a debate in the House; and finally the election was declared illegal. The victory thus obtained by the populace against the Court party was celebrated long afterward by an annual dinner of the “Independent Electors.” It marks the change in our management of these things that there should have been a Court party, and that the Court should think it consistent with its dignity to take an active part in any election. That the king should openly side with this or that candidate shows that the sovereign, a hundred and fifty years ago, stood on a much lower level than the sovereign of to-day.

The longest and fiercest contest, the one with the most doubtful issues, the most violent of all the Westminster elections, was that of the year 1784. Of this election there was published a most careful record from day to day. I suppose there is no other election on record of which such a daily diary has been preserved. It appeared toward the end of the same

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OAK DOORWAY DISCOVERED IN THE SPEAKER’S DINING-ROOM AFTER THE FIRE.

year, and was published by Debrett, a Piccadilly bookseller. The anonymous authors, who modestly call themselves “Lovers of Truth and Justice,” begin the work with a narrative of the events which led to the Dissolution of March 25, 1784; they then proceed to set down the story of the Westminster election from day to day; they have reproduced many of the caricatures, rough, coarse, and vigorous, with which Rowlandson illustrated the contest; they have published all the speeches; they have collected the whole of the Election literature, with the poems, squibs, epigrams, attacks, and eulogies, which appeared on either side. Not only is there no other record, so far as I know, of any election so complete as this, but there has never been any other election, so far as I know, where the fight was fiercer, more determined, more unscrupulous, and of longer duration. The volume is, I believe, somewhat scarce and difficult to procure. Its full title is “The History of the Westminster Election, containing every Material Occurrence, from its Commencement, on the First of April, to the Final Close of the Poll, on 17th of May, to which is Prefixed a Summary Account of the Proceedings of the Late Parliament, so far as they appear Connected with the East India Business and the Dismission of the Portland Administration, with other Select and Interesting Occurrences at the Westminster Meetings, Previous to its Dissolution on the 25th Day of March 1784.”

This long title-page promises no more than the volume performs. It is proposed, therefore, to reproduce in these pages, with the assistance of the “Lovers of Truth and Justice,” the history of an election as it was conducted a hundred years ago.

The Dissolution of March, 1784, and the causes which led to it, belong to the history of the country and to the life of Charles James Fox. Let us accept the fact that the General Election was held in April; that the candidates for Westminster were Admiral Lord Hood and Sir Cecil Wray on the Ministerial side, and Fox for the Opposition. The former was also the Court side; the candidates on that side were called the King’s friends; the King himself took the keenest interest in the daily progress of the poll; he peremptorily ordered all the Court servants, the Court tradesmen, and the Court dependents to vote for Hood and Wray; and he actually sent a body of two hundred and eighty Guards to vote on that side. No king, in fact, ever interfered with an election more openly, more actively, or with less dignity. The

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THE HOUSE OF LORDS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE CENTURY.

struggle, remember, of King v. Commons was not completed when William of Orange succeeded James. The lesson taught by the struggle of the seventeenth century was most imperfectly grasped by King George the Third. On the other hand, the Prince of Wales, with the filial loyalty which characterized him as well as his grandfather, used all his influence on the side of Fox.

The temper of the City of Westminster, and the certain prospect of a stormy time, was shown two months before the Dissolution, when a document purporting to be a humble address to the King from the Dean, the High Steward, and the Burgesses assembled at the Guildhall, Westminster, was passed about for signature. It was accepted for what it pretended to be, and was signed by twenty-eight hundred people, among whom were a great many electors. Lastly, it was presented by Sir Cecil Wray, one of the members, as from the Dean and High Steward.

A few days later, a meeting of the electors was called at the Shakespeare Tavern, Covent Garden, at which this document was very severely handled. It was affirmed that the Dean and the High Steward actually knew nothing of the address, and that their names had been most improperly affixed without their sanction. This was the beginning of a great cataract of lies. Whether the names had been used with or without sanction, mattered little; the allegation presented an excuse for a resolution of confidence in Fox, which was passed with acclamation.

On February 10, another meeting, with Sir Cecil Wray in the chair, adopted an address to his Majesty expressing confidence in the Ministry. This meeting was, of course, described by one side as “very numerous and most respectable,” and by the other as exactly the reverse: “Never was there, perhaps, in the annals of all the meetings ever held in England, so motley a group, so noisy an assembly, or one less respectable for its company.”

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THE HOUSE OF COMMONS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE CENTURY.

Then followed handbills for distribution. The struggle, it must be remembered, was one which could hardly occur in these days: it was, in fact nothing short of a declaration of confidence in the King or the opposite; for or against secret influence; for or against Court direction, and the extension of prerogative. Here is a specimen of what was written at the outset:

“Of all the features which mark the political character of the English nation the most striking and remarkable is a perpetual jealousy of prerogative.... Ask an Englishman what sort of Judge, Crown Lawyer, or Minister, he most dreads: his uniform answer is a prerogative Judge, a prerogative Lawyer, a prerogative Minister. Is then a prerogative King of so little danger to us that we are all at once to forget these jealousies, which seem to have been twisted with our existence, and to fall into a miraculous fondness for that prerogative which our ancestors have shed their dearest blood to check and limit? Let the people of England once confederate with the Crown and the Lords in such a conflict, and who is the man that will answer for one hour of legal liberty afterwards?

“Can the people confide in His Majesty’s secret advisers? I say NO. And I demand one instance, in the twenty-three years of this wretched reign, when a regard to the liberty of the people can be traced in any measure to the secret system.”

This document, which went on in a similar strain to a great length, was handed about from house to house; no doubt a copy was given to the King.

A general meeting of all the electors was called on March 14, in Westminster Hall. This assemblage proved everything that could be desired; the hall was completely packed with an uproarious mob, chiefly on the King’s side; the hustings were made a battlefield for the possession of the chair, which was pulled to pieces in the struggle; then the hustings broke down, and a good many on either side were trampled upon and injured. Nobody could be heard; when it was understood that the meeting was asked to express an opinion on the Address to the King, nearly all the

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THE ENTRANCE TO SPEAKER’S YARD AS IT APPEARED BEFORE THE FIRE.

hands went up. Fox tried to speak; a bag of asafetida was thrown in his face; his friends carried him out on their shoulders; finally he addressed the crowd from the bow-window of the King’s Head Tavern, in Palace Yard. After the speech they took the horses from his carriage and dragged him all the way to Devonshire House, in Piccadilly, with shouts and cheers.

A so-called report of the meeting was then drawn up by Fox’s friends, stating that the chair had been taken by Fox and that a new Address to the King had been unanimously adopted. At the outset, therefore, neither side was in the least degree desirous to present the bald, bare, cold, unsatisfying truth.

On March 19 the Friends of Liberty held a great banquet at Willis’s Rooms. They numbered five hundred; the dinner was fixed for half-past five, but such was the ardor of the company, so great their determination to do justice to the feast, that they began to assemble at half-past three.

It is pleasant to read of civic and electioneering banquets—to see pictures of the patriots enjoying some of the rewards of virtue. The dinner was spread on six tables; and in order to prevent confusion, everything was put on the table at once, so that when the covers—if there were any covers—were removed, the company “saw their dinner.” Then friends and neighbors helped each other with loving zeal from the dishes before them; the waiters looked to the bottles, while the guests handed the plates to each other. Only to think of this dinner makes one hear the clatter of knives and forks, the buzz of talk—serious talk, because the average elector of Westminster in 1784 was not a person who laughed much; indeed, one

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“THEMISTOCLES” (LORD HOOD), FROM “THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.”

imagines that, after the humiliations and disgraces of the American war, there could be very little laughter left in the country at all, even among the young and the light-hearted. Music there was, however,—music to uplift the hearts of the despondent,—violins and a ’cello, with perhaps flutes and horns. Singing there was, also, after dinner. During the banquet there was not much drinking; it would be sinful, with the whole night before one, to destroy a generous thirst at the outset. Men of that age were very powerful performers at the table; we neither eat nor drink with the noble, copious, and indiscriminate voracity of our ancestors; without any scientific observance of order these Friends of Liberty tackled all that stood before them: beef and mutton, fish and apple pie, turkey, tongue, ham, chicken, soup, and jelly—“plentifully dispersed and fashionably set out.” Faces grew shiny with long-continued exercise; those who wore wigs pushed them back; those who wore powder found it slipping from their hair on their shoulders; bones—the succulent bones of duck and chicken—were freely gnawed and sucked, as was still the custom even in circles much higher than that which these Friends of Liberty adorned.

“DEMOSTHENES” (CHARLES JAMES FOX), FROM “THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.”

At last the dishes were removed, and the business of the evening, with the drinking, began. It is not stated, unfortunately, whether the Friends of Liberty drank port or punch. Contemporary pictures incline one to favor the theory of punch.

We of too degenerate age are wont to complain of the after-dinner speech. Which of us could now sit out the speeches and the toasts at this banquet, and survive? Even the Speaker would recoil in terror at the prospect of such a night.

They did not drink the health of the King. His name was purposely omitted—a thing astonishing to us, who cannot remember personal hostility to the sovereign. Fox, who was in the chair, began with the “Independent Electors of the City of Westminster”; he followed with “The Majesty of the People of England,” “The Cause of Freedom all over the World,” “The Glorious and Immortal Memory of King William the Third.” Twenty-seven toasts are enumerated at length, with the ominous words at the end, “Several other toasts were given.” Songs were sung by Captain Morris of Anacreontic fame, Mr. Bannister, and others of the tuneful choir.

In the midst of this growing excitement it was learned that the Great Seal of England, which was in the custody of the Lord Chancellor, had been stolen. Men looked at each other in amazement and dismay. What did this thing portend? Who had caused it to be done? What did it mean? Was it ordered by the King, or by Pitt, or by Fox? What deep-laid plot did the burglary conceal? Nobody could tell. The King, rising to the occasion, ordered a new seal to be made without delay. The robbery, which had no political significance, was forgotten, and the mind of the public returned to the General Election.

On March 25 the House of Commons was dissolved, and the candidates made haste to issue their addresses to the “Worthy and Independent Electors of the City of Westminster.” The Committee of Hood and Wray met at Wood’s Hotel, and that of Fox at the Shakespeare Tavern, both in Covent Garden. The Westminster hustings were at that time put up in front of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. If I remember aright, the hustings of the election of 1868 were erected in Trafalgar Square; and I think they were the last. Then, pending the opening of the poll, the merry game of abuse and misrepresentation began, and was carried on with the greatest vigor on both sides. Against Hood nothing at all could be alleged by the most rancorous opponent; he was an Irish peer, newly created, and a victorious admiral. Against Sir Cecil Wray, however, there were two or three unfortunate circumstances.

Thus, he had been put into his seat by the recommendation and influence of Fox, whom he now deserted. Of course, therefore, he was Judas, Judas Iscariot, Traitor, Monster of Ingratitude. That was the first charge: in default of anything else it was a good solid charge, to which his enemies could always return. Plain ingratitude, however, has always failed to command popular indignation. What can one expect? What does everybody’s experience teach? “Gratitude, sir,” says the disappointed man of Virtue, “no one expects; but——” I do not suppose that the charge of ingratitude lost Sir Cecil Wray one single vote, any more than unexpected inconsistency or a sudden change of front or a sudden change of principle in these days affects the seat of a modern politician. The electors, therefore, heard with unmoved faces that Sir Cecil was worse than Judas Iscariot as regards treachery and ingratitude. What had the Election to do with private gratitude? They therefore proceeded to vote for him.

There was, however, another weapon—and one far more effective. He had once called the attention of the House to the lavish expenditure of Chelsea Hospital, which maintained the old soldiers of the country at an annual cost of fifty-one pounds apiece. And on that occasion he declared that, rather than continue this prodigality, he would like to see the abolition of the Hospital! The abolition of Chelsea Hospital! And Chelsea Hospital was in Westminster Borough! And that a Westminster member should say this monstrous thing! And, after he had said it, should dare to become a candidate again! Here indeed seemed a chance for the other side! Would the electors—the patriotic, enlightened electors of Westminster—return one who would actually abolish, because it cost a little money, the old soldier’s hospital?

And there was a third weapon. Sir Cecil Wray had even proposed a tax on housemaids! Horrible! Wicked! This Monster would actually drive out of their places all the housemaids in the country! What would become of these poor girls? What would they do? Must they be thrown, weeping and reluctant, into the arms of Vice? Eloquence was exhausted, tears were shed, wrath was aroused by the mere description of what would have happened to these

poor girls had this tax been passed. In vain did Sir Cecil explain away his words. There they were! In vain did he say that it would be cheaper and better to give every man a pension of twenty pounds a year, with permission to live where he wished. He had wounded the popular sentiment—he said he would willingly abolish Chelsea Hospital. As regards the housemaids, it was quite useless to explain that the master would pay the tax, not the maid. The average elector did not want to pay any more taxes; rather than pay this tax he would go without his maid-servant—then what was the poor girl to do? With such excellent weapons as these, the caricaturist, the lampooner, the writer of squibs and the poet were amply provided.

First, by way of catechism:

Next, which is always a sure method of creating a laugh, and is moreover very easy to manage, a leaflet in the Biblical style:

Or by way of posters, as the following:

To be sold by Auction
By
JUDAS ISCARIOT,
At the Prerogative Arms, Westminster,
CHELSEA HOSPITAL,
With all the live and dead Stock,
In which is included the Cloaks, Crutches, Fire Arms, etc., of the
poor worn-out Veterans, who have bled in their Country’s
Cause, their existence being declared
a Public Nuisance.
Likewise the Virtue, Innocence, and Modesty of the harmless,
inoffensive Servant Maids.
The Sale of this last lot was intended by Judas for
the purpose of raising the supplies for
the Tax on Maid Servants.
JUDAS ISCARIOT
is extremely sorry he cannot put up for Sale
PUBLIC INGRATITUDE,
Having Reserved that Article for Himself.
N. B.—To be disposed of, A large Quantity of Patent Dark
Lanterns, and the best Price will be given for a set of Fellows
who will go through thick and thin for a rotten back staircase.
Huzza for Prerogative! A Fig for the Constitution!

It was then discovered—or alleged, which came to the same thing—that Sir Cecil had married his own housemaid. The following not very brilliant epigram is written “on Sir Cecil proposing a tax on Maid Servants after having married his own”:

The Chelsea business provoked a more worthy effusion:

But Sir Cecil Wray had once published a volume of poems. Perhaps the crudest stroke of all—if the poor man had the sensitive nature of most poets—must have been certain parodies of these verses. Here are some. The notes are, of course, part of the parody.

On Celia Killing a Flea.

N. B.—The allusion to the noise made by the animal’s sudden death is beautifully descriptive of a passing bell.

On a Black Sow with a Litter of Thirteen Pigs.

The election took place during the time of dismal depression following the humiliation of the American War. There was one branch of the service, and only one, which the country could regard with pride or even satisfaction. This was the Navy; and of all the brave men who, in that disastrous war, endeavored to uphold the honor of the British flag, Lord Hood was the popular favorite. He was at this time in his fiftieth year, and in the middle of his career. It is evident, from the silence with which the writers on the other side treated him, that it was not considered safe to attack him. Even the malignity of electioneering warfare was compelled to spare the name of Hood. He was returned, of course, and he continued to represent Westminster until the long war begun in 1793.

As regards Sir Cecil Wray, the attacks made upon him, of which we have seen some, were villainous enough to meet the case of the greatest monster or the most brazen turn-coat: they were also powerless, for the simple reason that the real foundation for attack was so extremely weak. One can already perceive, behind this onslaught of combined bludgeon and rapier, a harmless man of blameless private character; cultivated; probably rather weak; who was ill-advised when he opposed his old friend Fox, and when he brought forward Hood, a man enormously superior to himself. That he obtained so many votes and nearly defeated his opponent was due to the influence of the Court.

As for Fox, he was at this time forty-five years of age, and in the midst of his unbounded activity. At the age of nineteen he was returned for Midhurst. Before the age of twenty-five he had become a power in the House of Commons; he had run race horses; he was a notorious gambler; and had incurred debts to the total of £240,000; he was regarded as an enemy of the King and a friend of the people. We shall see what the other side could rake up against him.

First there were questions suggested: “Did you not” say, or do, this or that; abuse Lord North and then join him; promise great things and perform nothing; buy up all the usual scribblers in the City; cringe to the electors? Then there were sarcastic reasons why Fox should be supported: the admirable economy with which he conducted his own affairs; his general consistency; his great landed estates; his hatred of gambling.

Another set of questions insinuated that he was a private friend of one Tyrle, executed for high treason in sending information to France. Virtuous indignation, of course, and not political expediency, compelled the plain and honest “Father” to ask whether the electors would vote for the “high priest of drunkenness, gaming, and every species of debauchery that can contaminate the principles we should wish to inculcate in our offspring.”

They called him Carlo Khan, and Cogdie Shufflecard Reynardine, and they made the most infamous attacks on the Duchess of Devonshire and the other ladies who canvassed for him. Most of them are not to be quoted. The following extracts are the most decent:

The following lyrics are the commencement of a short satiric poem, compelled, like the remonstrance of the “Father,” by the indignant heart of the poet:

In a lighter strain the following:

On the other side there was one capable of putting the Duchess in a more amiable light:

All the ladies were not on the side of Fox. Lady Buckinghamshire came into the field for Hood and Wray. Unfortunately she was inferior to the Duchess in personal charms, and the friends of Fox, one regrets to say, had the bad taste to call her Madame Blubber. They made at least one song about her, of which one can quote the first two stanzas:

On Thursday, April 1, the polling began. The hustings were put up in Covent Garden, and at 11 A.M. the candidates appeared before an enormous mob. Fox’s address was drowned in clamors and shouts and curses, and by the delectable music of marrowbones and cleavers. The show of hands was declared in favor of Hood and Wray: a poll was demanded, and was opened immediately.

The polling went on, day after day, for more than six weeks. It was not until Monday, May 17, that it was finally closed. During the whole of that time Westminster was the scene of continual fighting, feasting, and drinking. Lord Hood, about whose return there seems to have been no doubt from the beginning, thought it necessary to protect his voters by a body of sailors brought from Wapping. These gallant fellows were stationed in front of the hustings, displaying the King’s colors, and actually commanded by naval officers. It seems incredible that such a thing should have been tolerated. But it was a hundred years ago. The sailors assaulted and knocked down the voters on the other side. When complaints were made, Hood’s Committee refused to send them away.

On Saturday, April 3, a body of Guards, nearly three hundred strong, were marched to Covent Garden under orders to vote for Hood and Wray.

On April 5 the sailors met their match, for the chairmen, all stout and sturdy Irishmen, came down to Covent Garden in a body, and after a battle with cudgels and chair-poles in the fine old eighteenth-century fashion,—a form of fight which gave every possible advantage to the valiant, and every opportunity for personal distinction,—they drove the sailors

from the field and remained in possession. The routed sailors made for St. James’s Street, proposing to destroy the chairs; but they were followed by the chairmen, resolute to preserve their property. Again the sailors were driven from the field. The rioting continued, more or less, during the whole of the Election. For the most part it was carried on in Covent Garden, outside Wood’s Hotel, which was the headquarters of Hood and Wray; and outside the Shakespeare Tavern, where sat Fox’s Committee. For instance, one day a certain party of amiable and honest butchers marched into Covent Garden wearing Fox’s colors. Of course it was quite accidental that this procession, with its band of marrowbones and cleavers, should strike up an inspiriting strain, accompanied by derisive cheers, in front of Wood’s Hotel, and of course they did not expect what followed—the appearance on the scene of the sailors armed with bludgeons and cutlasses. A fight followed, in which the sailors were driven back; someone from the hotel windows fired into the mob, upon which the windows were broken. The arrival of the Guards prevented fresh hostilities. A good many were wounded in this affair; happily, no one was killed.

A more serious riot took place on May 11. It was supposed that the polling would conclude on that day; the Westminster magistrates, apprehending a riot, called together a large number of special constables, and sent them to Covent Garden to keep the peace. The polling went on quietly until three o’clock, when it closed for the day. Then the fighting began between the butchers and the constables. Who provoked it? The constables were sent, it was said, in order to get up a riot. The butchers, it was said, began. Fox himself was knocked down. The constables were defeated, one man being killed; and the soldiers were called in.

Mr. John Hunter, surgeon, gave evidence in the inquest that followed. The man was killed by injuries inflicted by some blunt weapon, presumably a bludgeon. The jury returned a verdict of willful murder against some person or persons unknown. The funeral of the unfortunate man was carefully conducted so as to throw the odium of his death on Fox’s side. He was buried, though a Whitechapel man, in the churchyard of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. The other people declared that he was really buried at Whitechapel, and that the coffin placed in St. Paul’s was empty. The funeral was conducted, of course, very slowly past the Shakespeare Tavern and before the hustings. The widow followed in a mourning coach, crying out of the window: “Blood for Blood!” The procession was admirably arranged in order to provoke another riot, which would certainly have happened had not Fox’s Committee caused the polling to be stopped at two, instead of three, o’clock, so that when the funeral arrived Covent Garden was comparatively quiet. The last day of the struggle was on May 17, after forty-seven days of polling. The result was:

Sir Cecil Wray demanded a scrutiny, to which Fox objected. The reason of his objection appeared later on, when the subject was discussed in the House, and it appeared that a scrutiny would probably last five years and would cost thirty thousand pounds, which would have to be paid by the candidates. It was therefore abandoned.

But the fun was not yet finished. A Triumphal Procession was formed, and the successful candidate was escorted on his way to Devonshire House. The following was the order of the Procession:

Heralds on Horseback.
Twenty-four marrowbones and cleavers.
The Arms of Westminster.
Thirty Firemen of Westminster.
Martial Music.
Committees of the seven Parishes, with white Wands, following
their respective banners and attended by numberless
gentlemen of the several Districts.
Squadron of Gentlemen on Horseback in Buff and Blue.
Trumpets.
Flag—The Rights of the Commons.
Grand Band of Music.
Flag—The Men of the People.
Marshals on Foot.
Triumphal Chair
Decorated with Laurels, in which was seated
The Right Hon. Charles James Fox.
Trumpets.
Flag—The Whig Cause.
Second Squadron of Horse.
Liberty Boys of Newport Market.
Mr. Fox’s Carriage crowned with Laurels.
Banner Sacred to Female Patriotism.
Blue Standard, Inscribed
Independence!
State carriages of the Duchess of Portland and the Duchess of
Devonshire, drawn by six horses superbly caparisoned,
with six running footmen attending on each.
Gentlemen’s Servants closing the Procession—two and two.

The Procession over, they all adjourned—Marrowbones, Cleavers, Liberty Boys and all, to Willis’s Rooms, where they made a glorious night of it.

The Prince of Wales gave a dÉjeuner in honor of the occasion to six hundred “of the first persons of fashion.” They danced all night and till six in the morning, and they all met again in the evening at Mrs. Crewe’s Ball. Captain Morris took the chair after supper, and sang the “Baby and Nurse.” He then proposed a toast, “Buff and Blue and Mrs. Crewe!” to which the fair hostess responded, wittily and gracefully, with “Buff and Blue and all for you!” Then Captain Morris gave them a succession of songs “with a spirit that made every fair eye in the room dance with delight.” At four o’clock they went back to the dancing and kept it up till six or seven.

So ended the fiercest contest and the longest of which any history remains. It is also, to repeat what has been already advanced, the only election of which there has been preserved so complete a record. Page after page, in the volume from which I have quoted, is filled with paragraphs cut from the papers of the day, in which the most astonishing ingenuity is devoted to the invention of new libels, the distortion of old speeches, and the perversion of facts. We have seen that against Sir Cecil Wray absolutely nothing of the least importance could be alleged, because it was absurd to suppose that he was to be Fox’s henchman for life. Fox had certainly introduced Wray to the Westminster electors, and that was the only service he had rendered him. Against Fox himself very little of importance could be alleged, because, even if he was a prodigal, a gambler, and of doubtful virtue, the average Briton has always loved a sportsman, and has never—at least, not until quite recently—thought that a man’s gifts and powers as a statesman depended upon his private morals. All the abuse, all the libels, all the monstrous lies hurled about on either side were absolutely useless. I do not believe that they influenced a single elector. Were the gentlemen who played so beautifully with the marrowbones and cleavers influenced? Were the Liberty Boys of Newport Market influenced? Were the residents of Peter Street, Orchard Street, the Almonry influenced? They were not voters. The voting qualification of 1784 was the burgage holding, the tenant who paid scot and lot, and the potwaller. Did the presence of the sailors assist the Court party? Did the valiant chairmen prove of any real help to Fox? I think not. All these things amused the mob; none of these things moved the elector. The one thing that damaged Fox was his late coalition with Lord North, the man most heartily and thoroughly detested in all the length and breadth of the country—the man universally regarded as the chief cause of the national disasters and humiliations. And I think that what hurt Sir Cecil Wray most was the marching of the three hundred guards in a body to vote as they were ordered, and the interference of the Court in commanding every person connected with the household to vote against Fox. And for my own part, had I been able to vote at that election, Fox should have had a plumper from me if only to win one of the Duchess’s smiles; and if any other reason were wanting, I should have voted for Fox because of all the men of that most disagreeable period, Fox, to my mind, with all his faults, stands out as the bravest, the most genial, and the most patriotic.