Once upon a time--says an old Italian novelist--a horse fell, as in a fit,
with his rider. The people, running from all sides, gathered about the
steed, and many and opposite were the opinions of the sudden malady of the
animal; as many the prescriptions tendered for his recovery. At length, a
great hubbub arose among the mob; and a fellow, with the brass of a
merryandrew, and the gravity of a quack-doctor, pressed through the
throng, and approached the beast. Suddenly there was silence. It was plain
to the vulgar that the solemn new-comer had brought with him some
exquisite specific: it was evident, from the grave self-complacency of the
stranger, that with a glance, he had detected the cause of sickness in the
horse,--and that, in a few seconds, the prostrate animal, revivified by
the cunning of the sage, would be up, and once more curvetting and
caracoling. The master of the steed eyed the stranger with an affectionate
anxiety; the mob were awed into breathless expectation. The wise man shook
his head, put his cane to his nose, and proceeded to open his mouth. It
was plain he was about to speak. Every ear throbbed and gaped to catch the
golden syllables. At length the doctor did speak: for casting about him a
look of the profoundest knowledge, and pointing to the steed, he said, in
a deep, solemn whisper,--"_Let the horse alone!_" Saying this, the doctor
vanished!
The reader will immediately make the application. The horse _John Bull_ is
prostrate. It will be remembered that Colonel SIBTHORP (that dull
mountebank) spoke learnedly upon glanders--that others declared the animal
needed a lighter burthen and a greater allowance of corn,--but that the
majority of the mob made way for a certain quacksalver PEEL, who being
regularly called in and fee'd for his advice, professed himself to be
possessed of some miraculous elixir for the suffering quadruped. All eyes
were upon the doctor--all ears open for him, when lo! on the 16th of
September,--PEEL, speaking with the voice of an oracle, said--"It is not
my intention in the present session of Parliament to submit any measures
for the consideration of the House!" In other words--"_Let the horse
alone!_"
The praises of the Tory mob are loud and long at this wisdom of the
doctor. He had loudly professed an intimate knowledge of the ailments of
the horse--he had long predicted the fall of the poor beast,--and now,
when the animal is down, and a remedy is looked for that shall once more
set the creature on his legs, the veterinary politician says--"_Let the
horse alone!_"
The speech of Sir ROBERT PEEL was a pithy illustration of the good old
Tory creed. He opens his oration with a benevolent and patriotic yearning
for the comforts of Parliamentary warmth and ventilation. He moves for
papers connected with "the building of the two houses of Parliament, and
with the adoption of measures for _warming and ventilating_ those houses!"
The whole policy of the Tories has ever exemplified their love of nice
warm places; though, certainly, they have not been very great sticklers
for atmospheric purity. Indeed, like certain other labourers, who work by
night, they have toiled in the foulest air,--have profited by the most
noisome labour. When Lord JOHN RUSSELL introduced that imperfect mode of
ventilation, the Reform Bill, into the house, had he provided for a full
and pure supply of public opinion,--had he ventilated the Commons by a
more extended franchise,--Sir ROBERT PEEL would not, as minister, have
shown such magnanimous concern for the creature comforts of Members of
Parliament--he might, indeed, have still displayed his undying love of a
warm place; but he would not have enjoyed it on the bench of the Treasury.
As for ventilation, why, the creature Toryism, like a frog, could live in
the heart of a tree;--it being always provided that the tree should bear
golden pippins.
We can, however, imagine that this solicitude of Sir ROBERT for the ease
and comfort of the legislative Magi may operate to his advantage in the
minds of certain honest folk, touched by the humanity which sheds so sweet
a light upon the opening oration of the new minister. "If"--they will
doubtless think--"the humane Baronet feels so acutely for the Lords
Spiritual and Temporal,--if he has this regard for the convenience of only
658 knights and burgesses,--if, in his enlarged humanity, he can feel for
so helpless a creature as the Earl of COVENTRY, so mild, so unassuming a
prelate as the Bishop of EXETER--if he can sympathise with the wants of
even a D'ISRAELI, and tax his mighty intellect to make even SIBTHORP
comfortable,--surely the same minister will have, aye, a morbid sense of
the wants, the daily wretchedness of hundreds of thousands, who, with the
fiend Corn Law grinning at their fireless hearths--pine and perish in
weavers' hovels, for the which there has as yet been _no_ 'adoption of
measures for the warming and ventilating.'" "Surely"--they will think--"the
man whose sympathy is active for a few of the 'meanest things that live'
will gush with sensibility towards a countless multitude, fluttering into
rags and gaunt with famine. He will go back to first principles; he will,
with a giant's arm, knock down all the conventionalities built by the
selfishness of man--(and what a labourer is selfishness! there was no such
hard worker at the Pyramids or the wall of China)--between him and his
fellow! Hunger will be fed--nakedness will be clothed--and God's image,
though stricken with age, and broken with disease, be acknowledged; not in
the cut-and-dried Pharisaical phrase of trading Church-goers, as a thing
vested with immortality--as a creature fashioned for everlasting
solemnities--but _practically_ treated as of the great family of man--a
brother, invited with the noblest of the Cæsars, to an immortal banquet!"
Such may be the hopes of a few, innocent of the knowledge of the
stony-heartedness of Toryism. For ourselves, we hope nothing from Sir
ROBERT PEEL. His flourish on the warming and ventilation of the new Houses
of Parliament, taken in connexion with his opinions on the Corn Laws,
reminds us of the benevolence of certain people in the East, who, careless
and ignorant of the claims of their fellow-men, yet take every pains to
erect comfortable hospitals and temples for dogs and vermin. Old
travellers speak of these places, and of men being hired that the sacred
fleas might feed upon their blood. Now, when we consider the history of
legislation--when we look upon many of the statutes emanating from
Parliament--how often might we call the House of Commons the House of
Fleas? To be sure, there is yet this great difference: the poor who give
their blood there, unlike the wretches of the East, give it for nothing!
Sir ROBERT'S speech promises nothing whatever as to his future policy. He
leaves everything open. He will not say that he will not go in precisely
the line chalked out by the Whigs. "Next session," says. Sir ROBERT, "you
shall see what you shall see." About next February, _Orson_, in the words
of the oracle in the melo-drama, will be "endowed with reason." Until
then, we must accept a note-of-hand for Sir ROBERT, that he may pay the
expenses of the government.
"I have already expressed my opinion, that it is absolutely
necessary to adopt some measures for equalising the revenue and
expenditure, and we will avail ourselves of the earliest
opportunity, after mature consideration of the circumstances of the
country, to submit to a committee of the whole house measures for
remedying the existing state of things. _Whether that can be best
done by diminishing the expenditure of the country, or by
increasing the revenue, or by a combination of those two means--the
reduction of the expenditure and the increase of the revenue--I
must postpone for future consideration._"
Why, Sir ROBERT was called in because he knew the disease of the patient.
He had his remedy about him. The pills and the draught were in his
pocket--yes, in his patriotic poke; but he refused to take the lid from
the box--resolutely determined that the cork should not be drawn from the
all-healing phial--until he was regularly called in; and, as the gypsies
say, his hand crossed with a bit of money. Well, he now swears with such
vigour to the excellence of his physic--he so talks for hours and hours
upon the virtues of his drugs, that at length a special messenger is sent
to him, and directions given that the Miraculous Doctor should be received
at the state entrance of the patient's castle, with every mark of
consideration. The Doctor is ensured his fee, and he sets to work.
Thousands and thousands of hearts are beating whilst his eye scrutinizes
John Bull's tongue--suspense weighs upon the bosom of millions as the
Doctor feels his pulse. Well, these little ceremonies settled, the Doctor
will, of course, pull out his phial, display his boluses, and take his
leave with a promise of speedy health. By no means. "I must go home," says
the Doctor, "and study your disease for a few months; cull simples by
moonlight; and consult the whole Materia Medica; after that I'll write you
a prescription. For the present, good morning."
"But, my dear Doctor," cries the patient, "I dismissed my old physician,
because you insisted that you knew my complaint and its, remedy already."
"That's very true," says Doctor PEEL, "but _then_ I wasn't called in."
The learned Baldæus tells us, that "Ceylon doctors give _jackall's flesh_
for consumptions." Now, consumption is evidently John Bull's malady;
hence, we would try the Ceylon prescription. The jackalls are the
landowners; take a little of _their flesh_, Sir ROBERT, and for once,
spare the bowels of the manufacturer.