With the speech in his pocket, Mr. Donaldson, accompanied by his friend Edwards, posted down to the borough. But, to their horror, on arriving, they found that a candidate of the opposite party had dared to contest the borough with the nobleman's nominee, and had commenced his canvass the day before. But what was worse than all, they were told that he bleed freely, and his friends were distributing gooseberries right and left.
"What is the meaning of all this?" said Mr. Donaldson, "have I not paid for the borough, and is it not mine? I shall punish him for daring to poach upon my grounds."
And, breaking away from Captain Edwards and his friends, he hurried out in quest of the mayor, to request advice from him. Nor had he gone far, till, addressing a person who was employed in thatching a house—
"Holloa, friend!" cried he, "can you inform me where I shall find the right worshipful the mayor?"
"Whoy, zur!" replied the thatcher, "I be's the mayor!"[3]
Andrew looked at him. "Heaven help us!" thought he, "you the mayor!—you!—a thatcher!—well may I be a Member of Parliament!" But, without again addressing his worship, he hastened back to his friends; and with them he was made sensible, that, although he had given a consideration for the borough, yet, as opposition had started—as the power of the patron was not omnipotent—as the other candidate was bleeding freely—as he was keeping open houses and giving yellow gooseberries—there was nothing for it but that Mr. Donaldson should do the same.
"But, oh! how much will it require?" again inquired the candidate, in a tone of anxiety.
"Oh, merely a thousand or two!" again cooly rejoined Captain Edwards.
"A thousand or two!" ejeculated Mr. Donaldson, for his thousands were becoming few. But, like King Richard, he had "set his fate upon a cast," and he "would stand the hazard of the die." As to his landed qualification, if elected, the patron was to provide for that; and, after a few words from his friend Edwards, "Richard was himself again"—his fears vanished—the ocean of his ambition opened before him—he saw golden prospects for himself and for his family—he could soon, when elected, redeem a few thousands; and he bled, he opened houses, he gave gooseberries as his opponent did.
But the great, the eventful, the nomination day arrived. Mr. Donaldson—Andrew Donaldson, the labourer that was—stood forward to make his speech—the speech that his son Paul, student in the University of Edinburgh, had written. He got through the first sentence, in the tone and after the manner of the village clergyman, whom he had attended for forty years; but there he stuck fast; and of all his son Paul had written—short, sententious, patriotic as it was—he remembered not a single word. But, though gravelled from forgetfulness of his son's matter, and though he stammered, hesitated, and tried to recollect himself for a few moments, he had too high an idea of his own consequence to stand completely still. No man who has a consequential idea of his own abilities will ever positively stick in a speech. I remember an old schoolmaster of mine used to say, that a public speaker should regard his audience as so many cabbage-stocks.[4] But he had never been a public speaker, or he would have said no such thing, Such an advice may do very well for a precentor to a congregation; but, as regards an orator addressing a multitude, it is a different matter. No, sir; the man who speaks in public must neither forget his audience nor overlook them; he must regard them as his equals, but none of them as his superiors in intellect; he should regard every man of them as capable of understanding and appreciating what he may say; and, in order to make himself understood, he should endeavour to bring his language and his imagery down to every capacity, rather than permit them to go on stilts or to take wings. Some silly people imagine that what they call fine language, flowery sentences, and splendid metaphors, are oratory. Stuff!—stuff! Where do you find them in the orations of the immortal orators of Greece or Rome? They used the proper language—they used effective language—