Sir John Elley leaves his committee forlorn, and is sought for far and near without success:—
“Some time after, Sir John did recede,
A Bachelor passed him o’er Runnymede;
A Skeleton tall passed before his sight,
He thought the form was the good old knight;
And a death-like voice did grate on his ear—
‘We never have any corruption here;
This is sacred ground, so go back and relate,
Magna Charta has strangled your dear Candidate.’”
Two years later, another appeal to the country was impending. At the beginning of 1837, HB produced a figurative prospect of the situation, as “A New Instance of the Mute—ability of Human Affairs.” The British Constitution, that fabled “admiration of surrounding nations,” and “monument of the collective wisdom of generations,” is at last moribund: the fatal hour has arrived, and the chamber of mourning is presented to view. Mounted upon sable trestles, and covered with a rich pall, is the coffin which contains the defunct, according to the plate, “Died 1837, of the prevailing Influenza, the British Constitution of 1688, aged 149 years;” the mutes, with trappings of woe, stationed on either side of the coffin, are Lord John Russell and Spring Rice.
In March, 1837, HB gave the public a version of that appeal to the constituencies, then becoming more imminent: “Going to the Fair with It. A cant phrase for doing anything in an extravagant way—known, it is presumed, to most persons.” The three performers are in the thick of the fair, within the circle of booths; one tent has the sign of the “King’s Head,” with the Union Jack flying, another mounts the sign of “The Mitre.” Dan O’Connell is seated on the ground as a conjuror, with a paraphernalia of swords, rings, and balls—“Irish titles and appropriation clause” among the former. He is performing the “great sword-swallowing trick,” with a blade marked “Repeal.” Spring Rice, dressed as a tumbler, is balancing a block on a stick which rests on his chin. The chief attraction, the only performance which is absorbing the wonder of the entire spectators, is that of the acrobat, Lord John Russell, who is sustaining himself in the air raised on a single support, marked, “Irish Corporation Bill.” John Bull, who occupies the central position, cannot disguise his interest in the feat: “Well done, little ’un; you’ve got up a surprising height—take care how you let yourself down.” The Duke of Wellington is counselling John Bull: “These tricks are decidedly dangerous, and should not be encouraged.” Sir Robert Peel and Lord Stanley are in conference, as retired professors of conjuring. “This is the great trick now—the stilts are quite discarded.” A bishop is observing, “That man balances very inequitably.”
On the other side are grouped various critics of the performance. Lord Ebrington considers the trick “wonderful, even more astonishing than the Stilts.” Sir William Molesworth declares, “They deserve encouragement, but they don’t go half as far as they ought.” Hume also thinks, “it is very well as far as it goes!” Lord Brougham, wearing his distinguishing plaid trousers, is in conference with Mr. Roebuck as to starting an opposition show: “What do you think if we were to set up a little concern of our own: you would make a very nice little Tumbler, and I—you know, am an old hand that way!” Sir Francis Burdett, who had given some surprising performances in his time, is leaving the fair, declaring, “I can’t stand it any longer;” while his associate, Sir J. C. Hobhouse, advises him to wait a while, “Don’t go yet; the best of the sport is to come!”
The struggles, twists, and contortions of ministers to keep in place, and the involutions of “Ins and Outs,” were ably parodied, a few months before the dissolution, as the “Fancy Ball—Jim Crow Dance and Chorus” (April 17, 1837); in which the most prominent movers of both parties are travestied in fancy costumes, out-at-elbows, and with blackened faces—the likenesses admirably preserved; and executing a reel worthy of “Chimney Sweeps’ Day;” the whole arranged to the then-popular air of “Jump Jim Crow,” introduced at that time by an actor named Rice—the forerunner of the “Christy Minstrels” of a later generation. The central figures are—O’Connell, who is making a contemptuous gesture, and his partner, Lord Melbourne; Wellington and Peel are vis-à-vis; Stanley and Graham are jigging gaily together, so are Lords Abinger and Lyndhurst; Sir Francis Burdett and General de Lacy Evans are figuring back-to-back in approved Irish-jig style; and Spring Rice is getting on well to a lively measure along with Lord John Russell.
“Behold the Politician!
Out of place he’ll never go,
But to keep it, don’t he turn about
And jump Jim Crow?
“Turn about, and wheel about,
And do just so,
The only Cabinet Quadrille
Is jump Jim Crow!”
Sir Francis Burdett—the “seven-stringed Jack” and admirer of the French revolution of Gillray’s cartoons, the fiery Radical of Cruikshank’s early flashing squibs—after a career of remarkable prominence as a zealous innovator and friend of reform, quixotically riding full tilt against abuses of all kinds, was exhibiting himself, in the session about to close his old career, as a convert to fine full-bodied Tory principles. HB has pictorially given the contests the famous baronet had waged with the mighty Dan O’Connell, whose “repealing” proclivities seem finally to have opened Burdett’s eyes as to the desirability of preserving the integrity of the kingdom. His highly characteristic speech at the Westminster hustings is the best exposition of his changed opinions. In his picture of “A Fine Old English Gentleman, One of the Olden Time” (May 10, 1837), Doyle has commemorated the baronet’s final accession to the country party, by drawing Sir Francis in his familiar guise—blue coat, tightly buttoned, with swallow tails, white vest and ample white cravat, white cords, and top-boots,—seated, a prisoner in his own apartments, suffering from an attack of gout. A picture of the Tower, hung on the wall, indicates a previous episode of imprisonment, when Burdett became an inmate of that edifice (April 6, 1810); he was the last political prisoner confined there. It was felt that the baronet’s connection with Westminster was about to be severed; however, he offered himself for re-election, that his old constituents might pronounce upon his action.