What unknown marvels might be anticipated from the combinations of party, is hinted in the “Un-Holy Alliance, or An Ominous Conjunction” (July 29, 1830), showing the Duke of Cumberland and Lords Durham, Grey, and Eldon in close confabulation. “Old Bags,” as the whilom lord chancellor was irreverently christened, is characteristically “laying down the law,” for the enlightenment of his comrades in this strangely assorted quartette.

A general and somewhat conventional satire on the possible conduct of candidates before, upon, and after their return, appeared among the “Election Squibs and Crackers for 1830,” “Look on this Picture, and on that.” “General Election—dedicated to Electors in General—the difference between one hour after the return, and one month after.” The voter represented is evidently a prosperous mechanic; he wears the colours of the newly elected one in his hat, and is thus addressed by the member he has contributed to return: “My worthy, my best friend, it will be my constant study to comply with your wishes—how can I serve you? Let me see you often; pray come to the Hall; we shall be so happy to see you.” This overcoloured state of things is strangely altered within a month; the candidate is now a full member, and is evidently studying his own interests to the exclusion of those of his constituents; in his hand is a peremptory Government “whip,” thus worded: “Ministers wishing to pass the measure, your vote will be required.” The legislation in question appears to threaten the welfare of his late enthusiastic supporter, who has ventured to interview his member on the momentous topic: “Sir, there is a Bill about to pass that will quite ruin our trade, and bring our families to beggary. I hope, sir, you will use your influence to throw it out.” The member now wears an indignant expression: “You are an impudent fellow! I don’t know you, and, if I did, do you suppose I should be dictated to, fellow?” This plate was executed by William Heath, and issued by T. McLean, of the Haymarket. Perhaps the most notable feature is an announcement that “Election caricatures can be executed for gentlemen in three hours.” This advertisement, appended to the caricature in question, is curious. Of course, for a not-extravagant consideration, intending candidates could secure the playful services of William Heath for rendering ridiculous or contemptible the persons and principles of their antagonists, and for the exaltation of their own.

Political satirists, happily for themselves, as a rule (with one or two exceptions, such as Sayer and HB) have soared above mere party distinctions; and though it may at first sight strike the observer as indicating a looseness of principles—rather, say, a freedom from prejudices—that each gifted artist seems to lash and laugh at both sides alternately to the best of his abilities, some allowance must be made for the impartiality which enables these latter-day Juvenals to detect the foibles of either faction. As a rule, it may be assumed the old generation of famous caricaturists, taking Gillray, Rowlandson, and George Cruikshank as the most eminent exponents, rather leaned to the popular side of any given question; but, inclination apart, they were just as capable of glorifying “the powers that be,” and of “dusting the jackets” of the would-be reformers. Of this trio, Cruikshank particularly prided himself, as he has himself recorded, upon espousing the side of right against palpable wrong, and of championing the weak against the strong. But, in spite of this pleasing illusion, his caricatures are equally trenchant on either side—to-day the Regent is demolished, to-morrow his unfortunate wife is held up to opprobrium, with happy nonchalance and impartiality. In fact, it may be said of Gillray, as the specimens of his ability in this direction sufficiently demonstrate, that his pictorial satires against Pitt and the Tories were equalled only by his satires directed against Fox and the Whigs, or the youthful Burdett and the Radical reformers of his earlier day.

Apropos of the same general elections, we find our old friends, Sir Francis Burdett and his whilom preceptor and champion, William Cobbett, of Political Register repute, engaged in what the artist delineates as “A Character-istic Dialogue” (September 2, 1830). “Peter Porcupine,” having parliamentary aspirations, is applying to his ancient pupil and ally for a voucher: “Being much in want of a character, I make bold, Sir Francis, to ask you for one; it appearing that your benevolence in this way embraces all sorts of criminals, you cannot consistently refuse me!” Burdett, in spite of this touching reference to his exertions on behalf of the prisoner inmates of Coldbath Fields, is turning a haughty front to the applicant: “I cannot do anything for you; your character is already Registered.” With the reformed parliament, Cobbett was returned for Oldham. In the House he disappointed expectations, and was regarded as somewhat in the light of a failure.

The usual changes of seats had taken place in the course of the elections, and it was hinted that the Wellington-Peel Administration might find it expedient to increase its strength by the infusion of new blood, with a view to the “power-to-add-to-their-numbers” policy. The chiefs still in office are shown by Doyle as visiting “The Noodle Bazaar” (September 9, 1830, Q. and HB delt.). Reviewing the files of various assorted “bustoes,” Wellington, using his eye-glass, is observing to his colleague, “Peel, I am in great want of a few good heads to place in our Cabinet before the opening of the new House in October, and I see some here which I think would answer, if they could be had on reasonable terms.” Peel, alive to the results of the elections, is replying, “I perceive that the places of some have been changed, and their value raised since I last saw them, and pray observe the strange mixture of heads upon the upper shelf.” The Peers who, according to the notification below them, “May be had separately or together,” occupy the upper shelf, and below is a cabinet of busts for sale, ready assorted. The shelved lords offer a motley choice: Lords Grey, Eldon, Holland, Lansdowne, the Duke of Cumberland, etc.,—all statesmen out of work. Below the upper shelf is a platform on which is an assorted ready-made ministry (of busts) arranged in a regular order. “This group is to be sold in one lot. Every head has its price marked on it.” The respective busts represent Huskisson (president of the Board of Trade), Grant (colonies), Palmerston (foreign secretary), Melbourne (home secretary), etc. On a pedestal marked “Yorkshire, to wit,” is the brazen bust of Henry Brougham, the plinth with the word “Rolls” struck out in favour of “Chancery.” The bust of Hume in marble stands on a square and massive pediment, marked “Middlesex.” O’Connell is below in clay; he is thus ticketed: “This head won’t be sold—(until it be bought).” A row of lesser men on a shelf in the distance bears the advertisement, “These small busts may be had remarkably cheap.” The bust of Charles X. is just upset; while, on a high plinth, marked “The People’s Choice—a French pattern of inestimable value,” stands his successor, Louis Philippe. The Dey of Algiers is also thrown aside, while Lords Manners, Redesdale, and Sidmouth are among the “antiques,” obsolete patterns, and “oddments.”

The proverbial independence of John Bull’s character is playfully called in question (September 10, 1830), the national prototype being represented (not for the first or last time) as “The man wot is easily led by the nose.” The Times is the potential leading organ to which John Bull is attached in the way described; he is exclaiming, in happy delusion, “What a glorious thing it is to enjoy the liberty and independence of an Englishman!”

The displacement of the Wellington-Peel Cabinet followed a little later on. We next see the Duke of Cumberland surrendering office: “Resignation and Fortitude; or, the Gold Stick.” The king is seated busied in State affairs, the ex-Gold Stick, handing in the wand of office, is remarking, “I have now only to cut my stick and be off!” William IV., still pen in hand, replies briefly, “Thank ye, brother, thank ye,” being evidently reconciled both to his situation and the enormous sacrifice involved.

Incidentally we find a reference to the general election which was then engaging public attention; Doyle has ingeniously given a novel turn to his view of one of the candidates, by introducing a comparison with a performer who was also enjoying popular notice, “The Rival Candidates” (August 9, 1830). There are two hustings erected, and the crowd of free and independent electors is filling the intervening space. The satire is evidently aimed at Sir Alexander Grant, who, standing in front of his committee, is pointing, with a self-satisfied air, to his chin, of which Doyle has made the most. His rival is Michel Boai, “the musical wonder,” a Tyrolese performer, who “played tunes on his chin” by sheer muscular force. He is shown hammering his nether jaw with his fists, and giving a specimen of his chin-proficiency, supported by another minstrel with a small violin. Boai’s performance has won the sympathies and suffrages of his audience, who have with one accord turned their backs upon Sir A. Grant, and are applauding the new musical marvel. Boai’s agent is skilfully “working the oracle” while drawing attention to the rival booth:—

“The hon^ble Gentleman opposite has certainly a most extraordinary chin, and when he places his claims to your suffrages upon that broad and ample basis, it must be GRANTed that he rests his hopes upon some foundation; but, Gentlemen, the Candidate whom I propose to you possesses such transcendent superiority in this important feature that I feel BOAIed up with confidence, when I claim for him your triumphant preference (cheers); and, Gentlemen, permit me to add that, in the event of his return, which I now consider certain (cheers), few orators in the hon: House will command more attention, or be listened to with so much pleasure.”

That the interests of the Wellington Cabinet were in jeopardy is pictorially conveyed. “The Unsuccessful Appeal” (September 25, 1830) shows John Bull arm-in-arm with the king, while Wellington is pointing to a distant movement amongst the crowd, and asking Mr. Bull’s protection against his political foes. “My good old friend, I want your assistance against these fellows, who are about to unite for the purpose of overpowering me by numbers.” The inimical confederates are Brougham and Lords Holland, Durham, Grey, etc., on the one side, who are fraternizing with Lord Eldon, the Duke of Cumberland, and others, on the other. Johnny is thus responding to the old campaigner’s appeal:—

“I should be sorry to see you defeated by such an unholy alliance after all the battles we have fought and won together; but the fact is, I feel so oppressed with the glory of so many victories, that I must beg to be excused from interfering any more for the present in the disputes of others. There are, however, plenty of clever fellows to be had, who are able and willing enough to assist you, but when you again meet with such, let me advise you not to be too ready to quarrel with them!”

William IV. is quite at one with his friend, the last speaker—“Whatever you say, John, I will agree to; for your will is my pleasure.”

Before the new parliament assembled, the Cabinet received some damaging assaults from the press. The nature of this concealed warfare is explained by HB in his sketch of “A Masked Battery” (October 4, 1830). The assailant is Henry Brougham: in his legal guise, entrenched behind the “Result of the General Election,” with the Edinburgh Review for a screen, he is bespattering his opponents, the beleaguered “Ins,” with ink. The Tory Cabinet is suffering severely: Wellington is to the front, trying to ward off the shower from Brougham’s inkstand-battery; in his hand is a damaging attack on paper,—“The Duke of Wellington and the Whigs.” Sir Robert Peel is endeavouring to shelter himself behind his chief. Lords Bathurst, Ellenborough, Lyndhurst, and Aberdeen are all suffering from the assault.

When the House met, we get a prospect of the prime minister reviewing his forces—“A Cabinet Picture” (November 5, 1830). Wellington, with his colleagues, Lords Aberdeen, Lyndhurst, Bathurst, Rosslyn, Melville, and others, whom the chief is thus addressing:—

“Having been obliged to recognize the King of the French, we must, as a set-off—acknowledge our friend Miguel. The Belgians—poor people!—not knowing how to take care of themselves, must be protected from the evils of independence! So much for foreign affairs, now for domestic. I say that our present system is the very perfection of systems, and consequently admits of no improvement; I will go further, and say that, while I have power, no species of reform shall take place! and now—having said it—if Peel will but manage the new Police, Hardinge Ireland, Goulburn [Chancellor of the Exchequer] abstain from projects of finance, and Ellenborough hold his tongue, we may manage to keep our seats for another session.”

After the elections it was evident that things out-of-doors were moving antagonistically to the interests of the Wellington Cabinet, but the “Old Campaigner” still hoped by stratagem to keep in power, although resolute in asserting that while he kept office no species of reform should take place. The premier’s optimist confidence “that his ministry might keep their places for another session” is shown to be misplaced, for the defeat of his ministry was clearly foreshadowed: “Guy Fawkes, or the Anniversary of the Popish Plot” (November 9, 1830), shows that destruction was abroad; and this cartoon is a late exemplification of the old British institution of burning in effigy a minister when out of favour. The political Guy is, of course, Wellington, the hero of a hundred fights, reproduced in straw, tied to a rickety chair, and is gaily borne to the bonfire by a rejoicing mob of statesmen, his political antagonists. Lord Lansdowne leads the way, with a blazing torch to fire the fatal pyre; the bearers are the Duke of Cumberland and Prince George (Duke of Cambridge), Lords Holland, Sidmouth, Eldon, etc.; Aberdeen, Stanhope, and the Duke of Newcastle bring up the rear in a high state of exaltation;—these were the peers who “sapped the Tory defences.”

Wellington was evidently losing popularity, and the lustre he gained in the field was being clouded in the Cabinet; John Bull has to come to his rescue against the rabble, and the valiant captain is once more shown sheltered under the king’s mantle. It appears the lord mayor’s banquet was threatened with a hostile demonstration, and the city magistrate, “Don Key,” was thrown into a deadly state of apprehension by the alleged prospect of being received with “cold indifference.” This cartoon is entitled “The False Alarm; or, Much Ado about Nothing.”

The Wellington tenure of power was doomed, and, like Cæsar’s, his fatal stab was to come from the hand of a colleague, on the inopportune revival of the Eastern Question. “Scene from the suppressed Tragedy, entitled the Turco-Greek Conspiracy,” shows the minister (wearing his well-earned laurels) done to death by the Peers at the foot of Canning’s statue in the forum; the Senators being armed with deadly speeches wherewith to accomplish this tragic immolation. “Et tu Brute” are the hero’s closing words addressed to his past comrade, Lord Londonderry, who is giving the coup de grâce.

W. Heath, who was employed by McLean at the time Doyle’s sketches were making their appearance, has given many versions of events during George IV.’s somewhat oppressive reign. At the close of 1830, with the advent to the throne of a more constitutionally-minded sovereign, the artist sums up the dismissal of a Cabinet whose actions he had frequently criticized from a pictorially satirical point of view. In the version of “His Honour the Beadle Driving the Wagabonds Out of the Parish,” November 28, 1830, Heath has impressed Sir David Wilkie’s well-known picture of “The Parish Beadle” into the service of parody. King William IV., as the Bumble of the situation, is making a clean sweep of the relics of the past reign: “Come, be off: no hangers behind—out with you all! I’ll let you see I represent the aristocracy of the parish!” John Bull, who may be considered to have generally endorsed his friend William’s policy with hearty goodwill, is giving his approval: “That’s right, Master Beadle, do your duty and clear the parish of the varments; they’ve been a pest ever since they’ve been here.” The chancellor Lyndhurst, Lord Ellenborough, Goulburn (late chancellor of the exchequer), and the rest, are making a hasty retreat. Peel, dragging his “new police” monkey attached to a string, is hardly reconciled to his banishment from office: “Vell, ve did all ve could to kick up a row afore ve vent!” Wellington, as the “hurdy-gurdy” woman, dressed in the faded splendours of an old soldier’s coat, is making all the noise of which the instrument is capable while retreating with his face to the foe.

The results of the general election of 1830 culminated within a month of the reassembling of parliament in the substitution of a Whig for a Tory ministry, and William IV.’s tenure of the throne was inaugurated by the early adoption of that liberal progress which developed into the larger measure of reform within two years, the most memorable act of his reign. Doyle shows the ensuing distribution of offices, and sketches one of the intrigues for place—Henry Brougham, as “The Coquet,” being tempted by Lord Grey to a political allegiance, and courted on the woolsack with the bait of the chancellor’s wig. After the preliminary skirmishing and cementing of necessary alliances, the end was short, sharp, and decisive, and is embodied by HB with his customary point and felicity, as “Examples of the Laconic Style” (November 26, 1830). The king is “standing at attention;” he has sent for Lord Grey. “Your conditions?” The coming premier answers, “Retrenchment, Reform, and Peace.” “Done!” says the king, holding out his hand on the bargain. The Duke of Wellington, on the left, is stepping off the scene, while John Bull, to the right, is not reluctantly giving his late commander the order, “Right about face, march!”

With the advent of the powerful Whig party came such sweeping reforms that minds accustomed to the old order of things began to take fright. It seemed that national institutions, and those fabled landmarks, “The bulwarks of the constitution,” bid fair to be swept away within six months, and another appeal to the constituencies was imminent. The Tory views of the new order of things were embodied by Doyle (April 4, 1831) in “A Very Prophetical and Pathetical Allegory,” in which it was foreshadowed that the institutions of the country could not survive reform, but must succumb within ten years. This vision conjures up a deserted cemetery, wherein, in woeful anticipation, is erected the tomb of departed greatness: “Here lyeth the British Constitution, which, after a rapid decline of ten years, departed this world, 1841.—I was well; wishing to be better, here I am. Sic transit gloria mundi.” The Duke of Wellington, as a widowed and ancient crony in deep sables, is shedding a tear, and depositing a wreath on the family vault, which is presumed to contain such honoured dust.

The gloomy forebodings of the Tories are further illustrated with much spirit in the guise of an expected game of “Leap-Frog down Constitution Hill,” April 13, 1831, in which the Whigs are flying over the heads of the opposition. On Constitution Hill stand Burdett, O’Connell, Hunt, and other advanced politicians, crying, “Go it, my boys; we shall soon have it our own way;” the game is proceeding swimmingly down the slope. Lord King has brought down an archbishop—the head of the Church; Lord Althorp is sweeping down the judges; Lord Lansdowne has upset Lord Eldon; Lord Durham directs the tall Duke of Cumberland to stoop his head; Lord Brougham, in his chancellor’s robes, has alighted on the shoulders of the Duke of Wellington; William IV. has “tucked in his head” and “made a back” for Lord Grey; but the premier, in his flying leap, has failed to clear the crown, which is sent spinning. “D—n it,” says the king, “didn’t you tell me you wouldn’t touch the Crown?”

The coming appeal to the country was preceded by the usual political meetings; this circumstance is made the subject of a felicitous parody, “Anticipated Radical Meeting” (April 20, 1831). In one of Hunt’s Matchless (Blacking) carts stands the glib-tongued Radical in the full tide of his harangue; “Hunt, the Matchless Reformer,” is surrounded by the Tory party; the opposition consists of the ex-ministers, and includes Sugden, Peel, Horace Twiss, Wetherell, Goulburn, Ellenborough, Wellington, Aberdeen, and others, who are ironically welcoming and encouraging the oration. Hunt’s speech is thus reported:—

“Will the Bill, I ask, do away with places and pensions? (Cheers.) Will it abolish tithes and taxes? (Cheers.) In a word, will it make the poor rich and happy? (Great cheering.) No! It will do none of these! therefore I say this Bill is all a delusion! (Tremendous cheering and waving of hats.)”

Old Eldon, mounted on the shoulders of his ally, the Duke of Cumberland, is vociferously calling for “One cheer more!”

The House dissolved on the 22nd of April, and the fresh elections took place in May. The nature of John Bull’s complaint and the respective views of the rival practitioners who were called in for consultation are set forth by HB (May 2, 1831) as “Hoo-Loo-Choo—alias John Bull and the Doctors.” The national prototype is seated in an arm-chair; his huge corporation seems to have become utterly unwieldy and inconvenient; he occupies the centre of the picture. His doctors “in and out of place,” are on the respective sides. John Bull is addressing Lord Grey:—

“I can’t say that my bodily health was ever better, or that I ever felt stronger, tho’ to be sure I am not growing younger; but then every one is telling me how deformed I am grown of late, and this tumour—which I have had from my infancy—is all a mass of Corruption.”

Grey, while indicating his colleagues, Althorp and Russell, says in reply, “This deformity is quite inconsistent, believe me, with the nature of your Constitution, and therefore must be got rid of. I will undertake, with your approbation, to remove it, and my assistant, Doctor Russell here, will prepare you for the operation.”

Russell is observing, “I once thought that a case of this description ought to be treated with great caution, and even wrote, as well as talked, a great deal about it, but now I am quite of a different opinion. I think there is nothing like cutting away thro’ thick and thin!”

Sir Robert Peel, one of the dismissed doctors, on mature consideration, is inclined to question his past policy: “Yet I begin to think we could have done better, when we found him determined to think that his Constitution was impaired, to have tried, just in the way of soothing, a gentle alternative course.”

Dr. Wellington is still of his old opinion: “I say that the man has no defect in his Constitution, and that what they call Corruption is necessary to his existence; but now, because he would not believe me, but chose rather to submit to the experiments of those rash operators, Wharncliffe, who is a sensible man, lays all the blame on me.”

The lively proceedings while the returns were preparing were fittingly epitomized by HB as “May Day” (May 4, 1831), setting forth as a “Jack-in-the-Green” performance the new revels of the revisers of the constitution. The king occupies the green, which is topped by a crown, and bears the word “Reform;” the face of William IV. is peeping through the aperture. Earl Grey is “My Lord;” Sir Francis Burdett is almost equally conspicuous. Hobhouse, Hume, and O’Connell are making a good deal of rough music with shovels, and Russell has the Pandean pipes and big drum, on which he is vigorously performing. Lord Brougham, as “My Lady,” is going round with the ladle; he is interrogated by the Duke of Cumberland and Lord Eldon as to the “Man in the Green.” The Duke of Gloucester and Lord Londonderry, among the audience, are regarding “My Lady” with suspicion.

The second portion of the new tactics is developed as “Leap-Frog on a Level; or, Going Headlong to the Devil” (May 6, 1831). The turn of the Reformers has come, and the Radicals are making them submit to the same process as they lately inflicted on the Tories. Carlile is rolling over a churchman to the place of torment, having leaped a trifle too far; the Evil One, as he declares in person, “has come to end your games.” “The Devil you are,” says the author of the tracts. Sir Francis Burdett is unwillingly giving a back, “Have I stooped for this?” His old ally, “Porcupine” Cobbett, is leaping heavily on to the baronet’s shoulders, “My turn now, old Glory.” Grey is staggering while Hunt is “overing” him: “I begin to think this is a very disorderly game.” The mob are shouting, “Go it, Hunt,” which is displeasing to the now elevated orator: “D—— the Rabble, they take me for one of themselves.” Brougham is brought to his knees: “Hullo! you’ll have off my wig;” O’Connell, firmly seated on the chancellor’s back, is crying, “Oh! never mind; I’ll take care of that!” The king is brought to the earth; “This is the levelling system with a vengeance.” He is overturned by Hume, who is exclaiming, “This summing-up is the tottle of the whole.”

The House had dissolved on the 22nd of April, 1831, and the elections which ensued were remarkable for spirit. A quantity of literature, in the shape of broadsides, songs, and squibs of a startling character, was produced on this occasion, in such abundance that even for small constituencies in out-of-the-way places these jeux d’esprit form huge volumes. A number of parodies appeared on the great question of the Reform Bill, imitations of scripture among others. Of the ballads published over the border, the one most descriptive of the constitutional struggle is found in a parody of “Chevy Chase.”

“THE NEW CHEVY CHASE.

This view of the situation is followed up by a cartoon aimed at the opposition tactics, “Votaries at the Altar of Discord” (April 20, 1831). Hunt is the high priest fanning the incendiary flame at the Altar of Discord, before which Sir Robert Peel, who seems to have relinquished power reluctantly, as the mouthpiece of his kneeling followers, is offering this invocation: “Powerful Goddess, deign to hear our prayers; deserted in this, our great extremity, by justice and wisdom, we fly to thee as a last refuge.” The other devotees are Horace Twiss, Goulburn, Dawson, Sadler, Sir E. Sugden, Sir C. Wetherell, Earl Carnarvon, and the Dukes of Wellington and Newcastle. The opposition in the Upper Chamber was in a highly excited state, an example of this is given in “Peerless Eloquence” (April 25, 1831). Lord Londonderry is boiling with indignation: “Is it to be endured, I ask, that we should be called things—things with Human pretensions? What was the fish-woman’s virtuous indignation at being called ‘an individual’ to this? Nothing!” Brougham, on the woolsack, remains calm under the torrent; Lords Aberdeen and Wharncliffe, with the Duke of Wellington, are placidly surveying the outraged senator.

The slaughter of the innocents is figuratively told (May, 1831) in a novel edition of the “Niobe Family.” Lord Grey is the destroyer, his arrows are marked “Reform.” The Niobe of this version is the Duke of Newcastle; the smitten are Sir Charles Wetherell, Attwood, Sadler, and others, whose constituencies were threatened with extinction under the Reform Bill.

The motion for reform, then in full swing, is summed up from a Tory standpoint (May 13, 1831); the legend of “John Gilpin” is pressed into the service of the caricaturist.