[1833] “I hold that this, which we have here, is the best sort of Government in the world.”
At the commencement of the year 1802, that party represented by Mr. Windham and his friends honestly believed that England was at the feet of Buonaparte; and, so strongly did they urge their opinions, that the advocates of peace were beginning to talk again of war, “should it be found necessary,” even before the definitive treaty arrived in London, in April. Mr. Cobbett’s view was that we were “a beaten and a conquered people;” that John Bull was only a spaniel after all. Not that “Boney” was so much to be feared, as the spirit of the French Republic, which was sapping the foundations of English loyalty. Anti-Gallicanism seemed dying out. Noble sentiments were being overpowered by effeminacy, cant, and the love of money. Loyalty had become “a matter of expedience rather than what it used to be—a principle of equal force with filial affection or the love of life.”
But Mr. Addington and his ministry are pledged to peace, and peace must be tried, if only to expose its inutility. So, while the ministerial papers blow peace-bubbles, and leave off, for a while, calling “Boney” wicked names, Mr. Cobbett sighs to think how the paths of glory do indeed lead but to the grave: for England is approaching her final doom.
The first-fruit of all this is ruffianism in the shape of newspaper abuse and of mob-tyranny. For the time being, Mr. Cobbett is the most unpopular man in London, and he knows it—and he defies it:—
“The alliterative words, peace and plenty, sound well in a song, or make a pretty transparency in the window of an idiot; but the things which these harmonious words represent are not always in unison.”
Which means, of course, that he will certainly not illuminate his windows on the forthcoming celebration of the signing of the Definitive Treaty. His Register is occupied with more letters to Lord Hawkesbury, written, too, in magnificent style, and furnished with arguments which might be refused a hearing, but could not be gainsaid.
So the peace-proclaiming cavalcade approaches; the order for illumination goes forth; and the windows of No. 11, Pall Mall, are once more shattered, and the ornamental “Crown and Mitre” once more dashed to the ground.
This time, however, it was a more serious matter for the assailants. Cobbett had expected something of the kind, and removed his wife and family to the house of a friend; he gave notice to the police, and was resolved to reach the culprits, if possible—which he did, for “six of the villains” were brought up to Bow Street next morning. They were all in a respectable station in life, two of them being clerks in the Post Office, and one of these a son of the Rev. William Beloe, who had formerly been one of Porcupine’s warmest admirers. In the end these young men were tried at the sessions, and heavily fined.
But the incident furnished Cobbett with material for sarcasm, which was freely dealt out at intervals. He “would rather be compelled to illuminate than have a choice, and so have his house demolished by Government reptiles.” On the king’s birthday (4th June) the people were not illuminating, as “the practice seems discredited on account of recent occurrences.” And in the following year, when things were going wrong again, and the decks were once more being cleared for action, he ventures to remind Lord Hawkesbury (who had “smiled” at the affair) that there was a time to weep as well as a time to laugh.