LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. From a Portrait by the Hon. HENRY
GRAVES _Face page_189
I
My scrap-books—A female politician of other days—Souvenirs of
past elections—_The Nottingham Lamb_—Bernal Osborne and his
Irish friend—Taxes—Political caricatures—Sir F. Carruthers
Gould—Sir Frank Lockwood—Lord Vernon and the Pope—Old menus—
Weddings of the past—Some anecdotes—Mrs. Norton—The Duchess
of Somerset—_The Owl_—The Fourth Party—Sir Henry Drummond
Wolff—The Comte de Paris and the Primrose League—Lord Randolph
Churchill and his resignation of office.
It has always been a passion with me to collect odds and ends of every
sort and put them into scrap-books and note-books. Consequently I now
have many volumes filled with old squibs, cuttings, photographs, scraps
of verse, menus of banquets, and other trifles which, together with
notes scribbled at the side, recall many pleasant and amusing days now
long vanished into the past. In many of my books, I must confess, the
contents are arranged in the most haphazard fashion, which now and then
produces some rather amusing contrasts; for instance, opening one at
hazard I came upon an old broadside of 1832 entitled “The Great Battle
for Reform,” side by side with a picture post-card dealing with the
Suffragette agitation,—a combination which brought into my mind the
following little anecdote. Long before the days of advanced female
politicians, in the year 1832, an elderly couple, peacefully sleeping in
their four-poster, were one morning roughly aroused at an early hour by
their excited maid-servant who, bursting into the bedroom, bawled out,
“It’s passed! It’s passed!” Extremely annoyed, the old lady called out
from inside the bed-curtains, “What’s passed, you fool?” “The Reform
Bill,” shouted the girl, “and we’re all equal now”; after which she
marched out of the room, purposely leaving the door wide open to show
her equality.
I possess many mementoes of old elections; amongst them an election
favour or ribband on which is embroidered “Disraeli,” a souvenir sent me
by Lord Beaconsfield in the early days of his political career.
Mr. Bernal Osborne, amongst others, also used to remember my passion for
collecting, and, consequently, I have a good many old election addresses
and squibs which are now beginning to possess some slight antiquarian
interest.
In 1868, at Nottingham, there was a tremendous electoral struggle, in
which no less than five candidates took part. Mr. Bernal Osborne, who
eventually found himself at the bottom of the poll, was one of these,
and sent me a curious little paper which was published during the
progress of what was a very acrimonious contest. This was an ephemeral
sheet, called _The Nottingham Lamb_, a copy of which I still retain,
issued apparently for the sole purpose of chaffing all five candidates.
As has been said, Mr. Osborne was defeated at this election; he did not
indeed succeed in again entering the House of Commons till 1870, when he
was returned for Waterford, the Irish constituency which, after his
Nottingham defeat, he had unsuccessfully wooed in 1869. Subsequent to
this election party feeling ran so high that Mr. Osborne had to be
smuggled out of the town in a covered car, some of his opponent’s
supporters having announced their intention of lynching him. A few days
afterwards he wrote to a friend: “I am slowly recovering from the
success of an Irish election.” Mr. Bernal Osborne, as is well known,
possessed the derisive faculty in an abnormal degree, and this he could
not help exercising everywhere, even in the House of Commons. He was,
indeed, the hero of many amusing incidents which convulsed that august
assembly, and even to-day tales are told of his readiness in banter and
repartee. I do not, however, know whether the following little story is
generally known.
Mr. Osborne had a great friend, an Irishman, and also a Member of
Parliament, though of quite opposite political views. This gentleman,
whose name was Tom Corrigan, was not by any means a teetotaller; indeed,
malicious people said that he never addressed the House except when
under the inspiration of sherry. On a certain night “Tom” chanced to
follow Bernal Osborne in a debate upon some Irish question or other, and
at once began: “What does my honourable friend know of Ireland? I
answer, nothing, or less than nothing. We all know the lines of the
poet—
A little learning is a dangerous thing” . . .
“Go on, Tom,” interjected his friend across the House; “go on, and quote
the next line!”
“And why should I be after quoting the next line, Mr. Speaker, sorr?”
“Because, Tom,” again interrupted Bernal Osborne, “the next line should
particularly suit you, for it runs: ‘Drink deep,’ Tom, ‘Drink deep.’”
Mr. Osborne was always very severe upon those who spoke above their own
capacity and other people’s comprehension. His favourite butts in the
House of Commons, indeed, were those pompous and Pharisaical members
whose _doctrinaire_ views he was ever ready to deride.
Amongst the political squibs in my scrap-book there is one directed
against the over-taxation which in long-past days certainly did press
very heavily upon the people of England. Exceedingly well written, it
is, I believe, an extract from an article by Sydney Smith, published in
the _Edinburgh Review_ about 1820. In the form of what we should to-day
call a political leaflet, it is rendered all the more effective by the
manner in which the words are arranged, and also by the very adroit use
made of capital letters:—
TAXES
upon every Article which enters into the Mouth, or covers the
Back, or is placed under the Foot;
TAXES
upon every thing which is pleasant to See, Hear, Feel, Smell,
and Taste;
TAXES
upon Warmth, Light, and Locomotion;
TAXES
on every thing on Earth and the Waters under the Earth;
on every thing that comes from abroad, or is grown at home;
TAXES
on the raw Material;
TAXES
on every value that is added to it by the industry of Man;
TAXES
on the SAUCE which pampers Man’s appetite, and the DRUG that
restores him to health; on the ERMINE which decorates the
JUDGE, and the ROPE which hangs the CRIMINAL; on the
BRASS NAILS of the COFFIN, and the RIBBANDS of the BRIDE.
AT BED or AT BOARD, COUCHANT or LEVANT,
WE MUST PAY.
The School Boy whips his TAXED Top;
The Beardless Youth manages his TAXED Horse with a TAXED
Bridle on a TAXED Road; and the dying Englishman,
pouring his Medicine which has paid 7 PER CENT,
into a Spoon which has paid 30 PER CENT,
throws himself back upon his
CHINTZ BED which has paid 22 PER CENT,
MAKES HIS WILL,
and expires in the arms of an Apothecary who has paid
£100
for the privilege of putting him to death.
HIS WHOLE PROPERTY IS THEN TAXED FROM
2 to 10 PER CENT;
Besides the Probate, large Fees are demanded for burying
him in the Chancel;
his virtues are handed down to posterity on TAXED MARBLE;
and he is then gathered to his Fathers to be