CHAPTER X.THE STREETS AND THE PEOPLE.

“DEMOSTHENES” (CHARLES JAMES FOX), FROM “THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.”

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 sitout 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 thecharge 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?

And there was a third weapon. Sir Cecil Wray had even proposed a tax on housemaids! Horrible! Wicked! This Monster would actually drive out of their places all the housemaids in the country! What would become of these poor girls? What would they do? Must they be thrown, weeping and reluctant, into the arms of Vice? Eloquence was exhausted, tears were shed, wrath was aroused by the mere description of what would have happened to these

“THE WESTMINSTER MENDICANT” (SIR CECIL WRAY).

poor girls had this tax been passed. In vain did Sir Cecil explain away his words. There they were! In vain did he say that it would be cheaper and better to give every man a pension of twenty pounds a year, with permission to live where he wished. He had wounded the popular sentiment—he said he would willingly abolish Chelsea Hospital. As regards the housemaids, it was quite useless to explain that the master would pay the tax, not the maid. The averageelector did not want to pay any more taxes; rather than pay this tax he would go without his maid-servant—then what was the poor girl to do? With such excellent weapons as these, the caricaturist, the lampooner, the writer of squibs and the poet were amply provided.

First, by way of catechism:

Who, in his advertisement, professes to be the protector of the fair sex?Sir Cecil Wray.Who proposed a tax on the poorest of the fair sex?Sir Cecil Wray.Who calls himself a soldier and a man of humanity?Sir Cecil Wray.Who proposed to pull down Chelsea Hospital?Sir Cecil Wray.Who has forfeited the good opinion of every man of honour, humanity, and consistency?Sir Cecil Wray.

Next, which is always a sure method of creating a laugh, and is moreover very easy to manage, a leaflet in the Biblical style:

And it came to pass that there were dissensions amongst the rulers of the nation.And the Counsellors of the Back Stairs said, “Let us take advantage, and yoke the people, even as oxen, and rule them with a rod of iron.“And let us break up the Assembly of Privileges, and get a new one of Prerogatives, and let us hire false prophets to deceive the people.” And they did so.Then Judas Iscariot went among the citizens, saying, “Choose me one of your elders, and I will tax your innocent damsels, and I will take their bread from the helpless, lame, and blind,” etc., etc., etc.

And it came to pass that there were dissensions amongst the rulers of the nation.

And the Counsellors of the Back Stairs said, “Let us take advantage, and yoke the people, even as oxen, and rule them with a rod of iron.

“And let us break up the Assembly of Privileges, and get a new one of Prerogatives, and let us hire false prophets to deceive the people.” And they did so.

Then Judas Iscariot went among the citizens, saying, “Choose me one of your elders, and I will tax your innocent damsels, and I will take their bread from the helpless, lame, and blind,” etc., etc., etc.

Or by way of posters, as the following:

To be sold by AuctionByJUDAS ISCARIOT,At the Prerogative Arms, Westminster,CHELSEA HOSPITAL,With all the live and dead Stock,In which is included the Cloaks, Crutches, Fire Arms, etc., of thepoor worn-out Veterans, who have bled in their Country’sCause, their existence being declareda Public Nuisance.Likewise the Virtue, Innocence, and Modesty of the harmless,inoffensive Servant Maids.The Sale of this last lot was intended by Judas forthe purpose of raising the supplies forthe Tax on Maid Servants.JUDAS ISCARIOTis extremely sorry he cannot put up for SalePUBLIC INGRATITUDE,Having Reserved that Article for Himself.N. B.—To be disposed of, A large Quantity of Patent DarkLanterns, and the best Price will be given for a set of Fellowswho will go through thick and thin for a rotten back staircase.Huzza for Prerogative! A Fig for the Constitution!

It was then discovered—or alleged, which came to the same thing—that Sir Cecil had married his own housemaid. The following not very brilliant epigram is written “on Sir Cecil proposing a tax on Maid Servants after having married his own”:

When Cecil first the plan laid down,Poor servant girls to curse.He looked at home, and took his ownFor better and for worse.

The Chelsea business provoked a more worthy effusion:

And will you turn us out of doors,In age, to want a prey—When cold winds blow and tempest roars?Oh! Hard Sir Cecil Wray!This house our haven is, and portAfter a stormy sea:Then shall it be cast down in sport,By hard Sir Cecil Wray?’Twill break our heart these scenes to leave,But soldiers must obey;Yet in my conscience I believeYou’re mad, Sir Cecil Wray.For who will see us poor and lame,Exposed on the highway,And not with curses load the nameOf thee, Sir Cecil Wray?These walls can talk of Minden’s plain,Of England’s proudest day:I think I hear these walls complainOf thee, Sir Cecil Wray.If thou art bent the poor to harm,Attack the young and gay:Girls both in health and beauty warm,—But we are old, Sir Wray.

And will you turn us out of doors,In age, to want a prey—When cold winds blow and tempest roars?Oh! Hard Sir Cecil Wray!

This house our haven is, and portAfter a stormy sea:Then shall it be cast down in sport,By hard Sir Cecil Wray?

’Twill break our heart these scenes to leave,But soldiers must obey;Yet in my conscience I believeYou’re mad, Sir Cecil Wray.

For who will see us poor and lame,Exposed on the highway,And not with curses load the nameOf thee, Sir Cecil Wray?

These walls can talk of Minden’s plain,Of England’s proudest day:I think I hear these walls complainOf thee, Sir Cecil Wray.

If thou art bent the poor to harm,Attack the young and gay:Girls both in health and beauty warm,—But we are old, Sir Wray.

But Sir Cecil Wray had once published a volume of poems. Perhaps the crudest stroke of all—if the poor man had the sensitive nature of most poets—must have been certain parodies of these verses. Here are some. The notes are, of course, part of the parody.

On Celia Killing a Flea.

Thou great epitome of little death, all hail!How blest thy fate beneath my Celia’s lovely nail!No more thou’lt skip from sheet to sheet alive and well,The furious nail and finger toll’d thy passing bell.

N. B.—The allusion to the noise made by the animal’s sudden death is beautifully descriptive of a passing bell.

On a Black Sow with a Litter of Thirteen Pigs.

To the head of that sow, what a back, chine,[7]and tail![8]Here, John, bring to Porkey[9]some milk and some meal.Desire your mistress and Patty[10]my cousinCome look at the mother and her baker’s dozen.[11]How sweet is the smell of the straw in her stye![12]It’s a mixture of oaten, and wheaten, and rye.What an eye has this fat little creature, indeed!But no wonder at that, ’tis the true Chinese Breed.[13]. . . . . . . . . .The thirteenth my dear wife has told me she meansTo dress here at home, with sage[14]chopped in the brains:And the belly,[15]she says, shall be stuffed with sweet things,With prunes and with currants—a Dish fit for Kings:And egg sauce[16]we will have, and potatoes,[17]and butter,And will eat till neither one word more can we utter.

How sweet is the smell of the straw in her stye![12]It’s a mixture of oaten, and wheaten, and rye.What an eye has this fat little creature, indeed!But no wonder at that, ’tis the true Chinese Breed.[13]. . . . . . . . . .The thirteenth my dear wife has told me she meansTo dress here at home, with sage[14]chopped in the brains:And the belly,[15]she says, shall be stuffed with sweet things,With prunes and with currants—a Dish fit for Kings:And egg sauce[16]we will have, and potatoes,[17]and butter,And will eat till neither one word more can we utter.

The election took place during the time of dismal depression following the humiliation of the AmericanWar. There was one branch of the service, and only one, which the country could regard with pride or even satisfaction. This was the Navy; and of all the brave men who, in that disastrous war, endeavored to uphold the honor of the British flag, Lord Hood was the popular favorite. He was at this time in his fiftieth year, and in the middle of his career. It is evident, from the silence with which the writers on the other side treated him, that it was not considered safe to attack him. Even the malignity of electioneering warfare was compelled to spare the name of Hood. He was returned, of course, and he continued to represent Westminster until the long war begun in 1793.

As regards Sir Cecil Wray, the attacks made upon him, of which we have seen some, were villainous enough to meet the case of the greatest monster or the most brazen turn-coat: they were also powerless, for the simple reason that the real foundation for attack was so extremely weak. One can already perceive, behind this onslaught of combined bludgeon and rapier, a harmless man of blameless private character; cultivated; probably rather weak; who was ill-advised when he opposed his old friend Fox, and when he brought forward Hood, a man enormously superior to himself. That he obtained so many votes and nearly defeated his opponent was due to the influence of the Court.

As for Fox, he was at this time forty-five years of age, and in the midst of his unbounded activity. At the age of nineteen he was returned for Midhurst. Before the age of twenty-five he had become a power in the House of Commons; he had run race horses; he was a notorious gambler; and had incurred debts to the total of £240,000; he was regarded as an enemyof the King and a friend of the people. We shall see what the other side could rake up against him.

“PROCESSION TO THE HUSTINGS AFTER A SUCCESSFUL CANVASS” (AFTER A PRINT A. D. 1784).

First there were questions suggested: “Did you not” say, or do, this or that; abuse Lord North and then join him; promise great things and perform nothing; buy up all the usual scribblers in the City; cringe to the electors? Then there were sarcastic reasons why Fox should be supported: the admirable economy with which he conducted his own affairs; his general consistency; his great landed estates; his hatred of gambling.

Another set of questions insinuated that he was a private friend of one Tyrle, executed for high treasonin sending information to France. Virtuous indignation, of course, and not political expediency, compelled the plain and honest “Father” to ask whether the electors would vote for the “high priest of drunkenness, gaming, and every species of debauchery that can contaminate the principles we should wish to inculcate in our offspring.”

They called him Carlo Khan, and Cogdie Shufflecard Reynardine, and they made the most infamous attacks on the Duchess of Devonshire and the other ladies who canvassed for him. Most of them are not to be quoted. The following extracts are the most decent:

Hail, Duchess, first of womankind!Far, far you leave your sex behind;With you none can compare:For who but you, from street to street,Would run about, a vote to get,Thrice, thrice bewitching fair!Each day you visit every shop,Into the house your head you pop,Nor do you act the prude:For every man salutes your Grace;Some kiss your hand and some your face,And some are rather rude.The girl condemned to walk the streetsAnd pick each blackguard up she meets,And get him in her clutches,Has lost her trade; for they despiseHer wanton airs, her leering eyes.Now they can kiss a Duchess!

Hail, Duchess, first of womankind!Far, far you leave your sex behind;With you none can compare:For who but you, from street to street,Would run about, a vote to get,Thrice, thrice bewitching fair!

Each day you visit every shop,Into the house your head you pop,Nor do you act the prude:For every man salutes your Grace;Some kiss your hand and some your face,And some are rather rude.

The girl condemned to walk the streetsAnd pick each blackguard up she meets,And get him in her clutches,Has lost her trade; for they despiseHer wanton airs, her leering eyes.Now they can kiss a Duchess!

The following lyrics are the commencement of a short satiric poem, compelled, like the remonstrance of the “Father,” by the indignant heart of the poet:

See modest Duchesses, no longer nice,In Virtue’s honour haunt the sinks of Vice:In Freedom’s cause the guilty bribe convey,And perjured wretches piously betray.

In a lighter strain the following:

Her mien like Cytherea’s dove,Her lips like Hybla’s honey:Who would not give a vote for love,Unless he wanted money?Alas! To reputation blind!I wonder some folks bore it:You’ve lost your fame, and those that findCan ne’er again restore it.

Her mien like Cytherea’s dove,Her lips like Hybla’s honey:Who would not give a vote for love,Unless he wanted money?

Alas! To reputation blind!I wonder some folks bore it:You’ve lost your fame, and those that findCan ne’er again restore it.

On the other side there was one capable of putting the Duchess in a more amiable light:

Arrayed in matchless beauty, Devon’s fair,In Fox’s favour takes a zealous part:But, oh! where’er the pilferer comes, beware—She supplicates a vote and steals a heart.

All the ladies were not on the side of Fox. Lady Buckinghamshire came into the field for Hood and Wray. Unfortunately she was inferior to the Duchess in personal charms, and the friends of Fox, one regrets to say, had the bad taste to call her Madame Blubber. They made at least one song about her, of which one can quote the first two stanzas:

A certain lady I won’t nameMust take an active part, sir,To show that Devon’s beauteous dameShould not engage each heart, sir.She canvassed all—both great and small,And thundered at each door, sir;She rummaged every shop and stall,The Duchess was still before, sir.Sam Marrowbones had shut his shop,And just had lit his pipe, sir,When in the lady needs must pop,Exceeding plump and ripe, sir.“Gad zounds!” said he, “how late you be!For votes you come to bore me,—But let us feel, are you beef or veal?The Duchess has been before ye.”

Sam Marrowbones had shut his shop,And just had lit his pipe, sir,When in the lady needs must pop,Exceeding plump and ripe, sir.“Gad zounds!” said he, “how late you be!For votes you come to bore me,—But let us feel, are you beef or veal?The Duchess has been before ye.”

On Thursday, April 1, the polling began. The hustings were put up in Covent Garden, and at 11A.M.the candidates appeared before an enormous mob. Fox’s address was drowned in clamors and shouts and curses, and by the delectable music of marrowbones and cleavers. The show of hands was declared in favor of Hood and Wray: a poll was demanded, and was opened immediately.

The polling went on, day after day, for more than six weeks. It was not until Monday, May 17, that it was finally closed. During the whole of that time Westminster was the scene of continual fighting, feasting, and drinking. Lord Hood, about whose return there seems to have been no doubt from the beginning, thought it necessary to protect his voters by a body of sailors brought from Wapping. These gallant fellows were stationed in front of the hustings, displaying the King’s colors, and actually commanded by naval officers. It seems incredible that such a thing should have been tolerated. But it was a hundred years ago. The sailors assaulted and knocked down the voters on the other side. When complaints were made, Hood’s Committee refused to send them away.

On Saturday, April 3, a body of Guards, nearly three hundred strong, were marched to Covent Garden under orders to vote for Hood and Wray.

On April 5 the sailors met their match, for the chairmen, all stout and sturdy Irishmen, came down to Covent Garden in a body, and after a battle with cudgels and chair-poles in the fine old eighteenth-century fashion,—a form of fight which gave every possible advantage to the valiant, and every opportunity for personal distinction,—they drove the sailors

THE SPEAKER’S COURT AS IT APPEARED BEFORE THE FIRE.

from the field and remained in possession. The routed sailors made for St. James’s Street, proposing to destroy the chairs; but they were followed by the chairmen, resolute to preserve their property. Again the sailors were driven from the field. The rioting continued, more or less, during the whole of the Election. For the most part it was carried on in CoventGarden, outside Wood’s Hotel, which was the headquarters of Hood and Wray; and outside the Shakespeare Tavern, where sat Fox’s Committee. For instance, one day a certain party of amiable and honest butchers marched into Covent Garden wearing Fox’s colors. Of course it was quite accidental that this procession, with its band of marrowbones and cleavers, should strike up an inspiriting strain, accompanied by derisive cheers, in front of Wood’s Hotel, and of course they did not expect what followed—the appearance on the scene of the sailors armed with bludgeons and cutlasses. A fight followed, in which the sailors were driven back; someone from the hotel windows fired into the mob, upon which the windows were broken. The arrival of the Guards prevented fresh hostilities. A good many were wounded in this affair; happily, no one was killed.

A more serious riot took place on May 11. It was supposed that the polling would conclude on that day; the Westminster magistrates, apprehending a riot, called together a large number of special constables, and sent them to Covent Garden to keep the peace. The polling went on quietly until three o’clock, when it closed for the day. Then the fighting began between the butchers and the constables. Who provoked it? The constables were sent, it was said, in order to get up a riot. The butchers, it was said, began. Fox himself was knocked down. The constables were defeated, one man being killed; and the soldiers were called in.

Mr. John Hunter, surgeon, gave evidence in the inquest that followed. The man was killed by injuries inflicted by some blunt weapon, presumably a bludgeon. The jury returned a verdict of willful murderagainst some person or persons unknown. The funeral of the unfortunate man was carefully conducted so as to throw the odium of his death on Fox’s side. He was buried, though a Whitechapel man, in the churchyard of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. The other people declared that he was really buried at Whitechapel, and that the coffin placed in St. Paul’s was empty. The funeral was conducted, of course, very slowly past the Shakespeare Tavern and before the hustings. The widow followed in a mourning coach, crying out of the window: “Blood for Blood!” The procession was admirably arranged in order to provoke another riot, which would certainly have happened had not Fox’s Committee caused the polling to be stopped at two, instead of three, o’clock, so that when the funeral arrived Covent Garden was comparatively quiet. The last day of the struggle was on May 17, after forty-seven days of polling. The result was:

Sir Cecil Wray demanded a scrutiny, to which Fox objected. The reason of his objection appeared later on, when the subject was discussed in the House, and it appeared that a scrutiny would probably last five years and would cost thirty thousand pounds, which would have to be paid by the candidates. It was therefore abandoned.

But the fun was not yet finished. A Triumphal Procession was formed, and the successful candidate was escorted on his way to Devonshire House. The following was the order of the Procession:

Heralds on Horseback.Twenty-four marrowbones and cleavers.The Arms of Westminster.Thirty Firemen of Westminster.Martial Music.Committees of the seven Parishes, with white Wands, followingtheir respective banners and attended by numberlessgentlemen of the several Districts.Squadron of Gentlemen on Horseback in Buff and Blue.Trumpets.Flag—The Rights of the Commons.Grand Band of Music.Flag—The Men of the People.Marshals on Foot.Triumphal ChairDecorated with Laurels, in which was seatedThe Right Hon. Charles James Fox.Trumpets.Flag—The Whig Cause.Second Squadron of Horse.Liberty Boys of Newport Market.Mr. Fox’s Carriage crowned with Laurels.Banner Sacred to Female Patriotism.Blue Standard, InscribedIndependence!State carriages of the Duchess of Portland and the Duchess ofDevonshire, drawn by six horses superbly caparisoned,with six running footmen attending on each.Gentlemen’s Servants closing the Procession—two and two.

The Procession over, they all adjourned—Marrowbones, Cleavers, Liberty Boys and all, to Willis’s Rooms, where they made a glorious night of it.

The Prince of Wales gave adéjeunerin honor of the occasion to six hundred “of the first persons of fashion.” They danced all night and till six in the morning, and they all met again in the evening at Mrs. Crewe’s Ball. Captain Morris took the chairafter supper, and sang the “Baby and Nurse.” He then proposed a toast, “Buff and Blue and Mrs. Crewe!” to which the fair hostess responded, wittily and gracefully, with “Buff and Blue and all for you!” Then Captain Morris gave them a succession of songs “with a spirit that made every fair eye in the room dance with delight.” At four o’clock they went back to the dancing and kept it up till six or seven.

So ended the fiercest contest and the longest of which any history remains. It is also, to repeat what has been already advanced, the only election of which there has been preserved so complete a record. Page after page, in the volume from which I have quoted, is filled with paragraphs cut from the papers of the day, in which the most astonishing ingenuity is devoted to the invention of new libels, the distortion of old speeches, and the perversion of facts. We have seen that against Sir Cecil Wray absolutely nothing of the least importance could be alleged, because it was absurd to suppose that he was to be Fox’s henchman for life. Fox had certainly introduced Wray to the Westminster electors, and that was the only service he had rendered him. Against Fox himself very little of importance could be alleged, because, even if he was a prodigal, a gambler, and of doubtful virtue, the average Briton has always loved a sportsman, and has never—at least, not until quite recently—thought that a man’s gifts and powers as a statesman depended upon his private morals. All the abuse, all the libels, all the monstrous lies hurled about on either side were absolutely useless. I do not believe that they influenced a single elector. Were the gentlemen who played so beautifully with the marrowbones and cleavers influenced? Were the Liberty Boys of Newport Market influenced? Were the residents of Peter Street, Orchard Street, the Almonry influenced? They were not voters. The voting qualification of 1784 was the burgage holding, the tenant who paid scot and lot, and the potwaller. Did the presence of the sailors assist the Court party? Did the valiant chairmen prove of any real help to Fox? I think not. All these things amused the mob; none of these things moved the elector. The one thing that damaged Fox was his late coalition with Lord North, the man most heartily and thoroughly detested in all the length and breadth of the country—the man universally regarded as the chief cause of the national disasters and humiliations. And I think that what hurt Sir Cecil Wray most was the marching of the three hundred guards in a body to vote as they were ordered, and the interference of the Court in commanding every person connected with the household to vote against Fox. And for my own part, had I been able to vote at that election, Fox should have had a plumper from me if only to win one of the Duchess’s smiles; and if any other reason were wanting, I should have voted for Fox because of all the men of that most disagreeable period, Fox, to my mind, with all his faults, stands out as the bravest, the most genial, and the most patriotic.

Afterthe Palace and the Monastery, the City of Refuge, the Sign of the Red Pale, and the Borough at Election-time, we turn to the City streets and the people.

Now, if we include that part of the City lying west and north of Charing Cross and Pall Mall, the part which has been built and occupied since the seventeenth century, we are face to face with nothing less than the history of the British aristocracy during the last two centuries. This history has never been written; it is a work which cannot even be touched upon in these pages: to consider any part of it in a single chapter would be absurd. It belongs, like the history of the House of Commons, to the City of Westminster, because most of its events took place, and most of the people concerned lived, within the limits of that City. Also, like the House of Commons, the quarter where the aristocracy have had their town houses for two hundred years belongs to the national history, and must be treated independently of the City.

The British aristocracy was never so much a Caste apart as during the hundred and fifty years ending about the middle of this century. Their younger sons had quite abandoned the ancient practice of entering the City and going into trade; every kind of money-making, except the collection of rents from land, had become unworthy of a gentleman. No one could buy

GRIFFINS FROM THE ROOF OF HENRY VII.’S CHAPEL.

or sell and continue to call himself a gentleman. There was a noble Caste and a trading Caste, quite separate and apart. The noble Caste possessed everything worth having; the whole of the land was theirs; all the great offices of state, all the lesser offices worth having, were theirs; the commands in the army and navy were theirs—not only the command of armies and fleets, but also of regiments and men-o’-war; the rich preferments of the Church—the deaneries, canonries, and bishoprics—were theirs; the House of Commons belonged to them (even the popular or radical members belonged to the Caste; in the election which was treated in the last chapter, Fox, the Friend of Liberty, the chosen of the Independent Electors, belonged to the Caste as much as his opponents,Lord Hood and Sir Cecil Wray). Everything was theirs, except the right to trade; they must not trade. To be a banker was to be in trade; the richest merchant was a tradesman as much as the grocer who sold sugar and treacle.

The materials for this history are abundant; there are memoirs, letters, biographies, autobiographies, recollections, in profusion. The life of the Caste during this period of a hundred and fifty years can be fully written. The historian, if we were able to exercise the art of selection, would present a series of highly dramatic chapters; there would be found in them love, jealousy, and intrigue; there would be ambition and cabal; there would be back-stairs interest; there would be Court gossip, and scandal, and whisperings; there would be gaming, racing, coursing, prize-fighting, drinking; there would be young Mohocks and old profligates; there would be ruined rakes and splendid adventurers—in a word, there would be the whole life of pleasure, and the whole life of ambition. It would be, worthily treated, a noble work.

This Caste, which enjoyed all the fruits of the earth, for which the rest of the nation toiled with the pious contentment enjoined by the Church, created for its own separate use a society which was at the same time free and unrestrained, yet courtly and stately. No one not born and bred in the Caste could attain its manners; if an outsider by any accident found himself in this circle, he thought he had got into the wrong paradise, and asked leave to exchange. Again, among the Caste, which, with a few brilliant exceptions, was without learning and without taste, were found all the patrons of art, poetry, andBelles Lettres. Still more remarkable, while the Caste had no religion, it ownedthe patronage of all the best livings in the Church. And, while it enjoyed an immunity never before claimed by any class of men, from morality, principle, and self-restraint, the Caste was the encouraging and fostering patron of every useful and admirable virtue, such as thrift, fidelity, temperance, industry, perseverance, frugality, and contentment. A wonderful history, indeed—and all of it connected with Westminster!

Of course, another side presents itself. The Caste was brave—its courage was undoubted; it was never without ability of the very highest kind, though a great deal of its ability was allowed to lie waste for want of stimulus; it was proud; if the occasion had arrived—it was very near arriving—the Caste would have faced the mob as dauntlessly as its cousin in France, whom the mob might kill, but could neither terrify nor degrade.

Again, there is the literary side. With the exception of a few names belonging to Fleet Street, and a few belonging to Grub Street, most of our literary history belongs to the quarter lying west of Temple Bar—in other words, to Westminster. One might go from street to street, pointing out the residence of Byron here, and of Moore there, of Swift, of Pope, of Addison. And in this way one could compile a chapter as interesting as a catalogue.

In the same way, the connection of street and noble residents might be carefully noted down, with the same result. This, indeed, has been already done by Jesse. If you read one or two of his chapters, taken almost at random, you will presently feel that your wits are wandering. For instance, here is a passage concerning one of the least distinguished streets in Westminster:

GRIFFINS FROM THE ROOF OF HENRY VII.’S CHAPEL.

“In Cannon Row stood the magnificent residence of Anne Stanhope, the scorned and turbulent wife of the great Protector, Duke of Somerset. Here, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, was the inn or palace of the Stanleys, Earls of Derby. Close by was the mansion of Henry, second Earl of Lincoln, who sat in judgment on Mary Queen of Scots, and who was one of the peers deputed by Queen Elizabeth to arrest the Earl of Essex in his house. Here, in the reign of James I., the Sackvilles, Earls of Dorset, had their town residence; and here, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, was the mansion of the great family of the Cliffords, Earls of Cumberland.”

How much, gentle reader, are you likely to remember of such information as thisafter reading twenty pages of it? How much, indeed, is it desirable to remember? Why encumber the brain with names and titles which are meaningless to your mind, and can restore for you no more of the past life and bygone actors than a handful of Helen’s dust could restore her beauty?

GRIFFIN FROM THE ROOF OF HENRY VII.’S CHAPEL.

There is, however, another part of Westminster—a part which concerns us more than Caste Land. It is the part which lies around the ancient precincts of the Abbey. Here we touch Westminster; here we are not on land that belongs to the country, nor among peoplewho belong to the country; we are in Westminster proper—in the streets which cannot even now, when all the former spaces of separation are covered up and built over, be called a part of London or a suburb of London. They are Westminster.

These streets possessed, until quite recently, the picturesqueness that belongs to the aged vagrom man. He hardly exists in these days; but one remembers him. He was old—age had lent no touch of reverence or dignity; he was clad in many-colored rags and fluttering duds; he leaned upon a stick; his white locks were the only part of him that presented any appearance of cleanliness; his face was lined and puckered, his features were weatherbeaten and prominent, his eyes were wolfish. He was admirable—in a picture. Such were the streets, such the houses, of Westminster—that part of the City lying round about the Abbey. Those on the west and south of the Abbey are comparatively new streets. In the excellent map by Richard Newcourt showing London and Westminster in the year 1658, we find Tothill Street completely built; Rochester Row does not exist; Great St. Peter Street has a few houses, Great College Street none; St. Anne’s Street has houses with gardens. The crowded part of Westminster in the seventeenth century was that narrow area north of New Palace Yard, of which King Street was the most important thoroughfare. When we consider that this place was a great center of trade long before and long after the building of London Bridge; that for six hundred years it was close to the King’s House, with all his followers, huscarles, archers, or bodyguard—we are not surprised that there has always been about these streets the flavor of the tavern—always thesmell of casks and pint pots, of stale beer and yesterday’s wine. Where there are soldiers there are taverns; there also are the minstrels and the music and the girls. It may also be concluded beyond a doubt that the Sanctuary was a thirsty place. Long after Court and Camp and Sanctuary had left the place the name and fame of Westminster for its taverns and its dens remained. These streets were a byword and a reproach well into the present century. One or two streets there were that claimed for a generation or so a kind of respectability. They were the streets lying between New Palace Yard and Whitehall, such as King Street, and Cannon Street, with one or two of later growth,—of seventeenth and eighteenth century respectability,—such as Petty France, Cowley Street, and College Street.

King Street, especially, if one may brave the reproach of cataloguing, is full of history. Here lived Oliver Cromwell; his house is said to have stood on the north side of the Blue Boar’s Head, of which the court still remains. Sir Henry Wootton lived here; one of Caxton’s successors set up his press in this street. It was formerly, as we have already seen, a picturesque and beautiful street, with its gate at either end, its overhanging gables, and its signs. Half a dozen taverns stood in this street—the Swan, the Dog, the Bell, the Blue Boar’s Head, etc. This little street, now so insignificant, was formerly, we are always, by every writer, called upon to observe, the “highway” between London and Westminster. But then nobody went by road who could go by river. The Thames was the highway—not King Street—between London and Westminster; by the Thames the Port of London sent its goods to the Court of Westminster or Whitehall;

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