At last the dishes were removed, and the business of the evening, with the drinking, began. It is not stated, unfortunately, whether the Friends of Liberty drank port or punch. Contemporary pictures incline one to favor the theory of punch.
We of too degenerate age are wont to complain of the after-dinner speech. Which of us could now sit out the speeches and the toasts at this banquet, and survive? Even the Speaker would recoil in terror at the prospect of such a night.
They did not drink the health of the King. His name was purposely omitted—a thing astonishing to us, who cannot remember personal hostility to the sovereign. Fox, who was in the chair, began with the “Independent Electors of the City of Westminster”; he followed with “The Majesty of the People of England,” “The Cause of Freedom all over the World,” “The Glorious and Immortal Memory of King William the Third.” Twenty-seven toasts are enumerated at length, with the ominous words at the end, “Several other toasts were given.” Songs were sung by Captain Morris of Anacreontic fame, Mr. Bannister, and others of the tuneful choir.
In the midst of this growing excitement it was learned that the Great Seal of England, which was in the custody of the Lord Chancellor, had been stolen. Men looked at each other in amazement and dismay. What did this thing portend? Who had caused it to be done? What did it mean? Was it ordered by the King, or by Pitt, or by Fox? What deep-laid plot did the burglary conceal? Nobody could tell. The King, rising to the occasion, ordered a new seal to be made without delay. The robbery, which had no political significance, was forgotten, and the mind of the public returned to the General Election.
On March 25 the House of Commons was dissolved, and the candidates made haste to issue their addresses to the “Worthy and Independent Electors of the City of Westminster.” The Committee of Hood and Wray met at Wood’s Hotel, and that of Fox at the Shakespeare Tavern, both in Covent Garden. The Westminster hustings were at that time put up in front of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. If I remember aright, the hustings of the election of 1868 were erected in Trafalgar Square; and I think they were the last. Then, pending the opening of the poll, the merry game of abuse and misrepresentation began, and was carried on with the greatest vigor on both sides. Against Hood nothing at all could be alleged by the most rancorous opponent; he was an Irish peer, newly created, and a victorious admiral. Against Sir Cecil Wray, however, there were two or three unfortunate circumstances.
“JUDAS ISCARIOT” (SIR CECIL WRAY), FROM “THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.”
Thus, he had been put into his seat by the recommendation and influence of Fox, whom he now deserted. Of course, therefore, he was Judas, Judas Iscariot, Traitor, Monster of Ingratitude. That was the first charge: in default of anything else it was a good solid charge, to which his enemies could always return. Plain ingratitude, however, has always failed to command popular indignation. What can one expect? What does everybody’s experience teach? “Gratitude, sir,” says the disappointed man of Virtue, “no one expects; but——” I do not suppose that the charge of ingratitude lost Sir Cecil Wray one single vote, any more than unexpected inconsistency or a sudden change of front or a sudden change of principle in these days affects the seat of a modern politician. The electors, therefore, heard with unmoved faces that Sir Cecil was worse than Judas Iscariot as regards treachery and ingratitude. What had the Election to do with private gratitude? They therefore proceeded to vote for him.
There was, however, another weapon—and one far more effective. He had once called the attention of the House to the lavish expenditure of Chelsea Hospital, which maintained the old soldiers of the country at an annual cost of fifty-one pounds apiece. And on that occasion he declared that, rather than continue this prodigality, he would like to see the abolition of the Hospital! The abolition of Chelsea Hospital! And Chelsea Hospital was in Westminster Borough! And that a Westminster member should say this monstrous thing! And, after he had said it, should dare to become a candidate again! Here indeed seemed a chance for the other side! Would the electors—the patriotic, enlightened electors of Westminster—return one who would actually abolish, because it cost a little money, the old soldier’s hospital?