firmness of character, with no political
wisdom,and with no political convictions, is
a worthless weed on the roadside of
legislation, that may be gathered at any time, for
little or no cost, by any ministry, for any
purpose. But a man with all these advantages,
and many others, can go into the open
market, and boldly ask a heavy price,
commensurate with the importance of that which
he resigns or sells, and secure in the proud
consciousness that he has demanded, and
will obtain his value.

One session passed, and Mr. Snarlington
was declared to be impracticable. One
ministry had expired, and another had come
into existence. Both of these Sir Tomahawk
had supported, because he liked the men.
Both of these Mr. Snarlington had opposed,
because he disliked the measures.

Another session passed, and Mr.
Snarlington was declared to be factious. The
second ministry had gone out, and the first
ministry had been re-instated. Sir Tomahawk
still supported them, because he liked
the men; Mr. Snarlington still opposed them,
because he disliked the measures.

The third session had come, and nearly
gone: the first ministry had again retired, to
be replaced again by the second ministry.
No other government was possible. There
being only two parties, Power played at
see-saw. Sir Tomahawk still supported men;
Mr. Snarlington still opposed bad measures.
Hasty words had often been heard in the
lobbies of the house coming from Sir
Tomahawk, and addressed to Mr. Snarlington,
upon the perverse folly of making Fogmoor a
shadowy nonentity in the State—Fogmoor,
once the envy, now the laughing-stock of
members, who represented rival and happier
boroughs. Sir Tomahawk might as well have
railed at the stone statue of Hampden.

It was during the happy reign of this
fourth ministry, and the period of this third
session of Mr. Snarlington's membership, that
a cry was raised, in and out of the legislature,
for a new system of parliamentary
reform. The ministry, of course—like all
ministries—were averse to change, and
thought the present system absolutely
perfect. There was no discontent in the
country. Bread was eightpence the four pound
loaf. There was a decrease of pauperism
to the extent of ten per cent. Therefore,
the electoral system was absolutely perfect.
If any man got up in that house, and said
that bribery, corruption, and unequal political
privileges existed, with the beneficial operation
of the first Reform Bill staring him in
the face, he was an Obstructive; unfit to dine
at a minister's table; incapable of grasping
any great question.

Sir Tomahawk was very great upon this
question; of course upon the side of the ministers.
If any man said that the possession of
a vote would make a labourer happier, would
whitewash his cottage, paint his street-door,
give him a clean shirt, or a new hat, he only
showed his lamentable ignorance. In Fogmoor
he had never heard any wish expressed
for an extension of the elective franchise. On
the contrary, he knew thirteen men who had
got the privilege, and yet were too lazy to
use it. Mr. Snarlington always smiled grimly
when he heard Sir Tomahawk dilating upon
Fogmoor as the model borough; but he
was a practical man, and never spoke in the
house. If you wanted to know his opinions,
you had to scrutinise his votes.

Ministers, having proved, through Sir
Tomahawk Sternhold, and men of his stamp,
that the present system was absolutely
perfect; they gave the finishing kick to the
little knot of a dozen earnest, sincere
reformers in the house, by putting up the
jocular member to treat the subject with the
contempt that it deserved. The jocular
member, on this occasion, at the given signal,
—obedient as a clown in the circus,—
bounded into the political arena, with a
grimace and a jest. His place was, however,
pre-occupied by a gentleman who had caught
the eye of the Speaker, and who was not a
jocular member, but a feeble member,—a
character that in most cases answered the
same purpose. He did not belong to the
ministry, which was all the better for them:
the necessary laugh was raised without their
having the trouble and responsibility (if any)
of raising it.

The feeble member was not weak in his
limbs: it was his mind that wanted strength.
He was very undecided, and variable. At
times he thought he could trust the people
with anything; but, after leading an account
in the daily papers of a case of wife-beating,
he thought he could trust them with nothing.
Then, reading an account in the evening
papers of a child being nobly and gallantly
saved by a working-man from certain death
at a fire, his confidence revived, to last until
the morning. Next morning, reading of a
man being garotted in broad moonlight in a
busy public thoroughfare, he was again
afflicted with doubts, and walked down to the
house with a shaking head.

When the feeble member stood up on this
occasion, he fumbled nervously, first in one
pocket, and then in another. Now his hand
was in the tails of his coat; now it was deep
in the breast. "God bless my soul!" he said.
"Hum! Dear me! I've got a Reform Bill
about me, somewhere. Very strange. I had
a Reform Bill, I know, when I came out.
No, I hadn't, either. And yet?—I must, too.
And yet I couldn't. I've never dropped it,
I hope? No; here it is. No; it's a newspaper."

Then addressing himself to the Speaker
and the house, the feeble member said:

"Sir: I had a Reform Bill;—in fact, I've
got a Reform Bill,—but unfortunately I've left
it at home on my dressing-table. It's too far
to send; but, I think, if you will allow me, I