ENGLISH ELECTIONS.

THE representative system of Great Britain in its present form dates only from the year 1832. Before that period the right of voting was very unequally distributed in England. The elective franchise indeed remained the same, but practically it had undergone a complete change. The progress of commerce and industry within the last fifty years had brought about prodigious metamorphoses in the social condition of the country; villages scarcely peopled had been transformed into flourishing cities; small boroughs had become great industrial centres; while towns formerly important had dwindled into insignificance. Many, indeed, were reduced to a few houses, like that of Old Sarum and Gatton; others depended on a very small number of proprietors, and were, consequently, entirely under their control; yet all sent one or two members to Parliament, while Birmingham and Manchester sent none. It will readily be conceived how favourable was such a system to the preponderance of the aristocracy. It had certainly its good side the rotten boroughs, as they were called, served as a training-school to some of the most celebrated orators and statesmen which England has ever produced-to Pitt, Fox, Burke, and Sheridan. Thanks to noble and wealthy protectors, these illustrious statesmen were able to enter political life at an early age, and to devote all

their time and talent to the service of their country. But it is not from their accidental but from their habitual results, that laws and Governments must be judged. An exception cannot establish a rule; and the abuses of the old electoral system were too flagrant not to strike all honest and clear-sighted men. The French would have had recourse to a revolution. The English adopted measures less violent, but more certain to attain the end desired. In France, the nation always begins by pulling down the edifice from the roof to the foundation-stone, in order to construct something superior in beauty and regularity. That half the inhabitants should be buried beneath the ruins is, of course, inevitable; but that is of no importance. The building will be superb; there will be people enough to fill it by-and-bye. The English set about matters in quite a different style. Thoroughly practical, they laugh at the Utopian, who at a single stroke would sweep away the time-honoured institutions and habits of a nation, to give them a social system all of a piece. They love and respect that venerable edifice, the English constitution—that old and noble fortress, which has served as a rampart to liberty in days of peril, and behind which their fathers had often found refuge when attacked by kings and princes. True, that fortress, beaten as it has been by so many a tempest, battered and worn by the hand of time, might be in many respects no longer fitted to meet the wants and exigencies of the present epoch. It evidently required to be repaired and enlarged. So the nation set to work, with right good-will indeed, but with reverent and careful hand. What they desired was to make the necessary alterations, not only without shaking the foundations, but while preserving as far as possible the general structure. This was not an easy

matter. There were violent debates within the walls of

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Parliament, fierce denunciations, stormy meetings, and dark threats from men whose passions were roused by interested demagogues and unreflecting patriots. There was a moment, too, when worse things seemed at hand; when mobs and incendiaries disturbed the public peace, and England seemed menaced by the horrors of a revolution. But mingled firmness, mildness, and concessions made with dignity, and, above all, made in time, saved the country from the threatened danger. The Reform Bill was passed; though very far from perfect, it removed the most flagrant abuses, and the time-honoured fabric of the English constitution remained intact and unshattered.

The elections which have just terminated have presented a singular spectacle and valuable lesson to all observers. There might be seen that order in the midst of excitement, that liberty of word and action, that respect for ancient laws and customs, which is the leading characteristic of the English nation.

The important day arrives. A committee is formed to direct the electoral proceedings. It meets every day in a house hired by the candidate; covers the walls of the town with a declaration of his political creed, and holds numerous preparatory meetings, either at the Town Hall or elsewhere, in which he sets forth his opinions, and replies to all the questions that may be addressed to him on all possible subjects. He must also pay visits to his constituents, to ask their suffrages, and to offer his thanks to those who have already pronounced in his favour. At length the lists are opened, and every man who has a vote inscribes his name. The evening before the election the show of hands takes place. Sometimes there is but a single candidate, and then the election is carried by acclamation; in short, the candidate walks the field. But in the contrary case, the show of hands is a mere

formality; it is the poll which takes place the following day which is to decide. Still, the show of hands, though not definitive, since it cannot be subjected to any proper control, is by no means unimportant; it flatters the nonelectors with a show of power, which is almost as good as the reality. An immense wooden stage, or hustings, as it is called, is erected in front of the Town Hall, and there the members of the various committees assemble, each wearing at his button-hole the colours of his candidate. A crowd of men and youths, the great part nonelectors, fill the space below, and accept without a murmur a line of demarcation which in France would revolt the general sentiment of equality. Above, on the hustings, is an assembly in great-coats and broadcloths; beneath, a mob in shirt-sleeves and fustian; and yet between these crowds, so different in outward appearance, in garb and station, exist those bonds of union which act most powerfully on the human mind, reverence for the institutions which have ever formed the strength and glory of England, the love of country and respect for the law. At the windows of the surrounding houses stand the wives, daughters, and friends of the rival candidates, who are likewise recognisable by the colour of their ribbons. The mayor or sheriff opens the great business of the day by a speech which may not inaptly be compared to the discourses with which the exhibitors of curiosities at fairs precede the exhibition of their shows, only here the auditors are themselves the actors. Frequently a clown, hoisted on the shoulders of one of his comrades, pronounces a long discourse before the official speeches commence, and elicits roars of laughter. The mayor is followed by a proposer, who presents one of the candidates, and by a seconder, who supports him. Then the candidate himself addresses the mob, and waving of hands

and hats, cheers and hisses, interrupt and follow his speech.

The scene is at once curious and characteristic. The partisans of the speaker, who have grouped themselves together preparatory to action, do their best to get close to him, and push and elbow their way till they achieve their end. As soon as he has concluded, the friends of the adverse candidate advance in their turn to drive the others back, and the struggle gives rise to the strangest and most extraordinary scenes imaginable. Sometimes the crowd bends backward and forward in one direction, like a field of corn when a gust of wind sweeps over it; sometimes it surges to and fro like the ocean in a storm. All at once-and perhaps amidst an apparent calm, and at the very moment the orator is in the midst of an eloquent discourse on religious liberty, or the excellent schools with which he will endow the country if he is chosen member-there is a sudden and simultaneous movement in the crowd beneath; every man turns round upon his neighbour, and exchanges with him a round of fisticuffs, for which it is difficult to assign any particular reason; then, after a few minutes of this general boxingmatch, the pugilists shake themselves and turn quietly round towards the orator, who continues his speech as if nothing had occurred, until again interrupted by a new event of the same nature. Sometimes the mob does not content itself with this mode of proceeding, hard blows with sticks are exchanged, and a good many heads broken; but neither poniards or fire-arms are ever used. times, as at Brighton, a shower of sand is flung by one of the opposing parties in the eyes of the other, and this rather cowardly expedient clears the ground as if by magic, though, of course, for an instant only.

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Now what is at the bottom of this show of hands?