Some of our big mothers of the broad-sheet have expressed their surprise
that Lord John Russell should have penned so long an address to the
citizens of London, only the day before his wedding. For ourselves, we
think, it would have augured a far worse compliment to Lady John had he
written it the day after. These gentlemen very properly look upon marriage
as a most awful ceremony, and would, therefore, indirectly compliment the
nerve of a statesman who pens a political manifesto with the torch of Hymen
in his eyes, and the whole house odorous of wedding-cake. In the like
manner have we known the last signature of an unfortunate gentleman, about
to undergo a great public and private change, eulogized for the firmness
and clearness of its letters, with the perfect mastery of the supplementary
flourish. However, what is written is written; whether penned to the
rustling of bridesmaids' satins, or the surplice of the consolatory
ordinary--whether to the anticipated music of a marriage peal, or to the
more solemn accompaniment of the bell of St. Sepulchre's.
Ha! Lord John, had you only spoken out a little year ago--had you only told
her Majesty's Commons what you told the Livery of London--then, at this
moment, you had been no moribund minister--then had Sir Robert Peel been as
far from St. James's as he has ever been from Chatham. But so it is: the
Whig Ministry, like martyr Trappists, have died rather than open their
mouths. They would not hear the counsel of their friends, and they refused
to _speak out_ to their enemies. They retire from office with, at least,
this distinction--they are henceforth honorary members of the Asylum for
the Deaf and Dumb!
Again, the Whigs are victims to their inherent sense of politeness--to
their instinctive observance of courtesy towards the Tories. There has been
no bold defiance--no challenge to mortal combat for the cause of public
good; but when Whig has called out Tory, it has been in picked and holiday
phrase--
"As if a brother should a brother dare,
To gentle exercise and proof of arms."
For a long time the people have expected to see "cracked crowns and bloody
noses," and at length, with true John Bull disgust, turned from the ring,
convinced that the Whigs, whatever play they might make, would never go in
and fight.
But have the Tories been correspondingly courteous? By no means; the
generosity of politeness has been wholly with the Whigs. They, like
frolicsome youths at a carnival, have pelted their antagonists with nothing
harder than sugar-plums--with egg-shells filled with rose-water; while the
Tories have acknowledged such holiday missiles with showers of brickbats,
and eggs _not_ filled with aromatic dew. What was the result? The Tories
increased in confidence and strength with every new assault; whilst the
battered Whigs, from their sheer pusillanimity, became noisome in the
nostrils of the country.
At length, the loaves and fishes being about to be carried off, the Whigs
speak out: like sulky Master Johnny, who, pouting all dinner-time, with his
finger in his mouth, suddenly finds his tongue when the apple-dumplings are
to be taken from the table. Then does he advance his plate, seize his ivory
knife and fork, put on a look of determined animation, and cry aloud for
plenty of paste, plenty of fruit, and plenty of sugar! And then _Mrs. Tory_
(it must be confessed a wicked old _Mother Cole_ in her time), with a face
not unlike the countenance of a certain venerable paramour at a baptismal
rite, declares upon her hopes of immortality that the child shall have
nothing of the sort, there being nothing so dangerous to the constitution
as plenty of flour, plenty of fruit, and plenty of sugar. Therefore, there
is a great uproar with Master Johnny: the House, to use a familiar phrase,
is turned out of the windows; the neighbourhood is roused; Master Johnny
rallies his friends about him, that is, all the other boys of _the court_,
and the fight begins. Johnny and his mates make a very good fight, but
certain heavy Buckinghamshire countrymen--fellows of fifty stone--are
brought to the assistance of that screaming beldame _Mother Tory_, and poor
Master Johnny has no other election than to listen to the shouts of triumph
that declare there never shall be plenty of flour, plenty of sugar, or, in
a word, plenty of pudding.
However, Lord Russell is not discouraged. No; he says "there _shall_ be
cakes and ale, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth, too!" We only trust
that his Lordship's manifesto is not tinged by those feelings of hope (and
in the case of his lordship we may add, resignation) that animate most men
about to enter wedlock. We trust he does not confound his own anticipations
of happiness with the prospects of the country; for in allusion to the
probable policy of the Tories, he says--"Returned to office--they may adopt
our measures, and submit to the influence of reason." Reason from the
Stanleys--reason from the Goulburns--reason from the Aberdeens! When the
Marquis of Londonderry shall have discovered the longitude, and Colonel
Sibthorp have found out the philosopher's stone, we may then begin to
expect the greater miracle.
The Whigs, according to Lord Russell's letter, have really done so much
when out of power, and--as he insinuates, are again ready to do so much the
instant they are expelled the Treasury--that for the sake of the country,
it must be a matter of lamentation if ever they get in again.
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