Chippinge Borough

by Stanley John Weyman

“Ay, for your party! But if you choose to straggle in one by one, we can’t be answerable for every single voter,” with a wink. “Nor for any of you getting back again! No, no, White.

“Beneath the ways of Ministers, and it’s the truth I tell, You’ve bought us very cheap, good White, and you’ve sold us very well!

But that’s over! That’s at an end to-day! But—what’s this?”

This, was Sir Robert stepping forward to propose his candidates: or rather, it was the roar, mocking and defiant, which greeted his attempt to do so. It was a roar that made speech impossible. No doubt, among the crowd which filled the space through which he had driven so often with his four horses, the great man, the patron, the master of all, there were some who still respected, and more who feared him; and many who would not have insulted him. For if he had used his power stiffly, he had not used it ill. But there were also in the crowd men whose hearts were hot against the exclusiveness which had long effaced them; who believed that freedom or slavery hung on the issue of this day; who saw the prize of a long and bitter effort at stake, and were set on using every intimidation, ay, and every violence, if victory could not be had without them. And, were the others many or few, these swept them away, infected them with recklessness, gave that stern and mocking ring to the roar which continued and thwarted Sir Robert’s every effort to make himself heard.

He stood long facing them, waiting, and never blenching. But after a while his lip curled and his eyes looked disdain on the mob below him: such disdain as the old Duke in after days hurled at the London rabble, when for answer to their fulsome cheers he pointed to the iron shutters of Apsley House. Sir Robert Vermuyden had done something, and thought that he had done more, for the men who yelped and snarled and snapped at him. According to his lights, acting on his maxim, all for the people and nothing by the people, he had treated them generously, granted all he thought good for them, planned for them, wrought for them. He had been master, but no task-master. He had indeed illustrated the better side of that government of the many by the few, of the unfit by the fit, with which he honestly believed the safety and the greatness of his country to be bound up.

And this was their return! No wonder that, seeing things as he saw them, he felt a bitter contempt for them. Freedom? Such freedom as was good for them, such freedom as was permanently possible—they had. And slavery? Was it slavery to be ruled, wisely and firmly, by a class into which they might themselves rise, a class which education and habit had qualified to rule. In his mind’s eye, as he looked down on this fretting, seething mass, he saw that which they craved granted, and he saw, too, the outcome; that most cruel of all tyrannies, the tyranny of the many over the few, of the many who have neither a heart to feel nor a body to harm!

Once, twice, thrice one of his supporters thrust himself forward, and leaning on the rail, appealed with frantic gestures for silence, for a hearing, for respect. But each in turn retired baffled. Not a word in that tempest of sound was audible. And no one on the other side intervened. For they were pitiless. They in the old days had suffered the same thing: and it was their turn now. Even Vaughan stood with folded arms and a stern face: feeling the last contempt for the howling rabble before him, but firmly determined to expose himself to no second slight. At length Sir Robert saw that it was hopeless, shrugged his shoulders with quiet scorn, and shouting the names of his candidates in a clerk’s ear, put on his hat, and stood back.

The old Squire seconded him in dumb show.

Then the Sergeant stood forward to state his views. He grasped the rail with both hands and waited, smiling blandly. But he might have waited an hour, he might have waited until night. The leaders for the Bill were determined to make their power felt. They were resolved that not a word on the Tory side should be heard. The Sergeant waited, and after a time, still smiling blandly, bowed and stood back.

It was Mr. Cooke’s turn. He advanced. “Shout, and be hanged to you!” he cried, apoplectic in the face. An egg flew within a yard of him, and openly shaking his fist at the crowd he retired amid laughter.