Imagine the whole
country filled with the shouts of drunkenness, and the air rent with
mingled huzzas. Represent the broken heads, and the bleeding noses, the
tattered raiment, and staggering bodies of a million of loyal voters. My
lord, will they pretend, that the measure that gives birth to this
glorious scene, is unpopular? We must be very ill versed in the science
of human nature, if we could believe them.
But a more important consideration arises. A general election would be
of little value, if by means of it a majority of representatives were
not to be gained to the aristocratical party. If I were to disadvise a
dissolution, it would be from the fear of a sinister event. It is true,
your lordship has a thousand soft blandishments. You can smile and bow
in the newest and most approved manner. But, my lord, in the midst of a
parcel of Billingsgate fishwomen, in the midst of a circle of butchers
with marrow-bones and cleavers, I am afraid these accomplishments would
be of little avail. It is he, most noble patron, who can swallow the
greatest quantity of porter, who can roar the best catch, and who is the
compleatest bruiser, that will finally carry the day. He must kiss the
frost-bitten lips of the green-grocers. He must smooth the frowzy cheeks
of chandlers-shop women.
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