The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1762 - 85: Who Is More Handsome, Me or Carter of North City?
"292 votes to 287, the Lower House officially passes the no-confidence motion, Peel Cabinet announces its collapse, the Whig Party makes a comeback"
The Conservative Party claims: The alliance between the Whig Party and the Ireland Radical Party is a collusion among politicians, treating His Majesty the King’s good intentions with contempt.
The Whig Party states: This is a great victory for constitutional liberty, Robert Peel once tried to step onto the red carpet laid by the King, but unfortunately, at the end of the carpet was a trap made of votes. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮
"The Peel government has disappeared so completely that future historians may doubt if it ever really existed"
However, even so, Robert Peel remains the longest-serving Prime Minister of the Conservative Party. But if you include the history of the Tory Party, he would only rank third from the bottom.
"The Conservative Party cried: Peel’s Cabinet died faster than Napoleon’s restoration"
Robert Peel took only five months to fill Britain’s shortcomings, proving to the world that destroying a stable government is not a talent exclusive to the French.
"The Conservative Party charged on Wellington’s laurels, only to fall into the ditch of constitutionalism"
The French once wanted to bury liberty, and now the Conservative Party has been buried by liberty.
"Duke of Wellington’s urgent call: Where is Bruegel?"
Nineteen years ago, he awaited Prussian reinforcements at Waterloo, and nineteen years later, he awaited only a vote of no confidence.
The morning sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the delicate gold edges of the silver coffee pot and the porcelain plates.
Arthur Hastings leaned against the back of his chair at the dining table, draped in a navy blue robe with dark blue trim, holding a stack of freshly delivered newspapers in his left hand and a fork on the plate of buttered fried eggs in his right.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, obviously amused by the newspaper headlines.
"’I will take responsibility for the country’, the full text of Peel’s farewell speech published... hah, here we go again."
The kitchen door creaked open, and the maid Becky tiptoed in, holding a tray of freshly baked Scottish oat cookies and a steaming jug of milk.
"Sir, I was afraid just drinking black coffee would hurt your stomach, so I brought you some milk." She set the tray down and stole a glance at Arthur’s face: "The postman just mentioned that today’s newspaper is selling well, just like when Viscount Melbourne stepped down last time."
"Is that so?" Arthur replied with a smile: "Then you should be thankful that Parliament is not controlled by Fleet Street, otherwise from now on, we would have at least ten new prime ministers every month."
Becky placed the silver knife and honey pot on the table, wiped her apron with her hand, and asked, "Sir, won’t you be affected by this reshuffle?"
Her tone held a hint of caution. Ever since Arthur returned to London last year, his name frequently appeared in the newspapers, whether in connection with some royal theft or entangled in some Foreign Office scandal. At times praised by investors in the Financial City, and at other times criticized by unnamed government officials for his amateur handling of affairs.
All in all, her employer never let anyone have peace of mind.
Arthur was wiping his hands with a napkin and, hearing this, lazily chuckled.
"Me?" He blinked: "Becky, I’m not a Cabinet Minister, nor am I the King’s private secretary, I don’t even count as middle class, how could a government reshuffle have anything to do with a minor figure like me?"
Becky assumed Arthur was joking again, setting aside all else, claiming he wasn’t even middle class was overly modest.
In the maid’s reading club, few enjoyed better conditions than she did, and those were long-serving housekeepers with over twenty years in domestic service.
If Sir Arthur Hastings, chairman of the board at Empire Publishing Company and Dean of Academic Affairs at the University of London, wasn’t middle class, then who could be? Could it be Francis Baring and Lionel Rothschild?
Of course, Becky thought this way because, according to Arthur Hastings’s mentor, Earl of Dalmo, Ambassador to Russia, the income threshold for middle class was forty thousand pounds yearly; by this standard, Arthur could at most be considered a wealthy farmer in Yorkshire.
Becky’s mouth twitched: "But didn’t you just last year..."
Arthur, not waiting for her to finish, knew she was likely referring to the Foreign Office affairs: "That’s all in the past. Besides, if you really want to care about someone, why not pay more attention to Mr. Disraeli? He’s quite anxious at the moment; not long after becoming the Foreign Office Parliamentary Undersecretary, he’s back to being a backbencher in the Lower House."
Becky blinked, looking a bit puzzled at Arthur: "But isn’t it the same? Whether a Parliamentary Undersecretary or a backbencher... they both sound like quite big titles."
She spoke earnestly, without any hint of sarcasm, simply out of a rural girl’s sincere understanding.
To Becky, whether a Parliamentary Undersecretary or a backbencher, weren’t they both well-dressed, speaking in a certain tone, and had carriages at their disposal?
In rural slang, they were "upstairs people," important figures with status.
Arthur chuckled at her words, tossed the newspaper onto the table, and said: "Sounds similar, both wear long trousers, both have journalists chasing them. But if you delve deeper, there’s quite a difference."
