THE DIRECTION OF THE POPULAR BREEZE.
"ONCE upon a time, "says an Eastern sage, "there was a farmer, rich in flocks and herds, which the wolves of the neighbourhood regarded with longing eyes ; but they were too much afraid of the farmer and his men to venture to gratify their hunger. Then certain politic old wolves bethought them of a stratagem. Having placed themselves in ambush near the flocks, they sent one of their number at dead of night to the farmer's door, who shouted loudly, Wolf! wolf !' and then before he was seen ran away. And the farmer and his men jumped out of bed and went to the fold, and found nothing amiss. And the wolves did the same the second night, and again there was nothing amiss ; and so on night after night, till at last the farmer and his men, when they heard the cry of Wolf ! ' only laughed, and turned in their beds, and once more fell asleep. And thereupon the wolves came out of their ambush and fell on the sheep, and worried them, and fed, and fed again." There can be little doubt that the venerable author of this fable intended to foreshadow the recent policy of the Tory party. The old wolves are their wire-pullers. The cry of " Wolf !" represents the cry of a Conservative reaction which we have heard any time the last four years. The farmer and his men are the honest; innocent Liberals, who after a while made fun of the cry, and at last yawned when they heard it. And the ravaged folds are our best con- stituencies—Hertfordshire and Brighton. It is in vain to attempt to conceal it,—we have been outwitted. Like the Turkish General at the battle of Mohacz, the crafty Tory leader has placed his supernumerary forces in the front rank, and when we have spent our strength on a worthless victory, and fancy the struggle at an end, we find ourselves face to face with his battle array. It is all very well to make excuses, and to prove that each successive defeat really means nothing. Perhaps each taken alone does mean nothing, but all taken together mean a great deal. Coventry may have been savage about the French Treaty, and Tamworth may not love Sir Robert Peel, and at Brighton there may have been a split in the camp, and a Liberal may never have a chance for Hertfordshire, except at a general election when there are three vacancies. No doubt these mishaps are all mere accidents, but it would be much pleasanter if such accidents would sometimes happen to the Conservatives. Of course one knows that strange sounds—groanings and creakings—are always heard in old houses ; but when they get very loud and very constant they, nevertheless, portend a fall. Then it is that the inmates begin to clear out, and if we may judge by the votes of certain Liberal members, we should be bound to admit that the present Ministry presents this additional sign of a falling house—that even the rats desert it.
In the House of Commons itself the state of things is not very different. Does any one object to the general policy of the Ministry, either at home or abroad ? Not in the least. Yet no single Minister can make a proposition which com- mands support, or keep himself altogether clear of personal blame. Lord Palmerston, of course, is an exception. He is never wrong ; but this curious result is only attainable by paying him the rather questionable compliment of supposing that, as Prime Minister, he is not in the least responsible for the proceedings of his colleagues. let even these last, even Lord Russell, and Sir George Grey, and the underlings, are not so much wrong as unlucky. They manage so to act as to excite no enthusiasm in their favour, while they tread heavily on the toes of some individual with a crotchet and a bitter tongue, or some section of fanatics which can live only in a squabble. Without conciliating the majority, they outrage the minority. Probably a large majority of the English people in the main approve Lord Russell's Polish policy; yet, by some fatality, he so acted that while the majority regard it with languid indifference, the two extreme parties, the friends of Russia and the friends of Poland, can- not speak on the subject without foaming at the mouth. Sir George Grey is an amiable man, a clever man, a good speaker, and personally popular; but he is always in hot water. But now he has incurred, and justly incurred, general censure for his weakness with reference to the convict Townley, and that, too, will go to the credit of the Tories, probably because the affair would have terminated so very differently in the hands of the imperious and decided Walpole. Then there is Mr. Robert Lowe. Combining the most finished classical education with the rough experience of colonial life, successful beyond most men both in Parliament and in society—here, it would seem, was just the man to con- ciliate everybody while he served the public. It has, as a matter of fact, been his destiny to make many propositions for the reform of our educational system, and every one has been the signal for a hubbub among the clergy, at which the laity were in mere self-defence obliged to stop their ears. We will not pause to comment on what all men recognize, the tact of Mr. Layard and the discretion of Sir Robert Peel. But take the crowning instance of all,—take Mr. Gladstone. His propositions, at least, are no blunders. Never was a more beneficent measure offered to Parliament than the Government Annuities Bill. It opens a future to the labourer—a hope to the only class in this country which has hitherto had no hope —and gives them protection against the fraud or the incom- petency of the noisy agitators who govern the so-called friendly. societies. Has it met with the support it deserves ? Is it even safe from the opposition of a knot of members interested in insurance companies, or fearful of the wrath of the Odd Fellows at the next election ? And yet, unless it be in intro- ducing the Bill a little too quietly and speaking his mind on the motion for going into committee a little too plainly, detraction itself can find no fault with Mr. Gladstone.
What, then, is the meaning of these signs and portents ? They mean that there is a Conservative re-action. All these little petty mistakes, all this want of tact, a few years back would have signified nothing. All Governments are always open to the same sort of fault-finding. But in the youth of a party, when its leaders first seat themselves on the stools of office, it is full of life and hope, and no one cares to criticize captiously. Small faults are readily overlooked, and every proposition wears a roseate hue. If the Opposition open their lips, a thousand tongues are ready to defend thafinistry. The malcontents are out-talked, out-voted, ridiculed, and cowed. A few years go by, and there is a change. Supporters are languid. Some men have got what they want, and some men see they are not likely to get it. The measures on which the party were agreed are passed, and on what should be done next there are differences of opinion. Then the Opposition gathers courage. Its attacks arc less vigorously repulsed, and conse- quently are more vigorously plied. Hope passes over to its side. When hope is gone, faith is sure soon to follow her sister, and governments cannot found themselves on charity alone. Then men begin to recognize the end is near. It is not that the Tories are one jot better orators, or statesmen, or administrators, or that the Liberals are one jot worse than they were formerly. But the supporters of the former are uniting more closely, while the latter party are disintegrating slowly under the influence of their own prosperity.
Believing this to be the true state of the case, we, as Liberals, see no use in denying it, no use in making excuses when the Premier's near relative is beaten for his own county, no use in crying, " Peace! Peace!" when there is no peace. It is better to get out of a fools' paradise. Nothing keeps us is office but the popularity of Lord Palmerston, and even
that may fail us any day. So far as the real Liberals are concerned, the men who care less for power than
for progress, they will lose nothing. Tho wholesome chill of opposition will stimulate their energies, and drive them to exertion for life and warmth. The trimmers and time-servers will be pruned away. The Tories, on the other hand, with the sweets will taste the embarrassments of power. If places of twelve hundred a year were multi- plied by twenty there would not be enough for the crowd of obscure supporters who have not only claims, but have had, one time or another, a nod from Tadpole or a wink from Taper, and the more eager the expectation the keener the disappointment. Out of office for seventeen years, the party have no administrators, and they cannot cover administrative blunders by a bold policy, for their opposition is merely criti- cal, like Peel's, which Mr. Disraeli lampooned and copies. Then at last the public, which after all is not Tory, will, perhaps, begin to see that rest is not always a thing to be thankful for. John Bull will rouse himself and want to move on, and if it will hasten so desirable a consummation let us have a Tory Government by all means. At present he re- sembles an old gentleman who is plethorically drowsy after dinner. In vain does his wife shake him—he rouses but for an instant, and then sinks back again with a stertorous snore. In his lethargy he is not a graceful spectacle, but for the mo- ment it is useless to resist, he must have his sleep out. Mean- while this stupor, this Conservative reaction, should be made the most of by its admirers, for it is a sort of thing that does not last long, and is usually followed by a rather restless night.
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