Weyman Stanley John
Chippinge Borough

XVII
THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION

The great day on which the Borough of Chippinge was to give its vote, Aye or No, Reform or No Reform, the Rule of the Few or the Rule of the Many, was come; and in the large room on the first floor of the White Lion were assembled a score of persons deeply interested in the issue. Those who had places at the three windows were gazing on what was going forward in the space below; and it was noticeable that while the two or three who remained in the background talked and joked, these were silent; possibly because the uproar without made hearing difficult. The hour was early, the business of the day was to come, but already the hub-bub was indescribable. Nor was that all; every minute some missile, a much enduring cabbage-stalk, or a dead cat in Tory colours, rose to a level with the windows, hovered, and sank-amid a storm of groans or cheers. For the most part, indeed, these missiles fell harmless. But that the places of honour at the windows were not altogether places of safety was proved by a couple of shattered panes, as well as by the sickly hue of some among the spectators.

Nearly all who had attended the Vermuyden dinner were in the room. But, for certain, things which had worn one aspect across the mahogany, wore another now. At the table old and young had made light of the shoving and mauling and drubbing through which they had forced their way to the good things before them; they had even made a jest of the bit of a rub they were likely to have on the polling day. Now, the sight of the noisy crowd which filled the open space, from the head of the High Street to the wall of the Abbey, and from the Vineyard east of it, almost to the West Port-made their bones ache. They looked, even the boldest, at one another. The heart of Dewell, the barber, was in his boots; the rector stared aghast; and Mowatt, the barrister, Arthur Vaughan's ill-found friend, wished for once that he was on the vulgar side.

True, the doors of the White Lion were guarded by a sturdy phalanx of Vermuyden lads; mustered with what difficulty and kept together by what arguments, White best knew. But what were two or three score, however faithful, and however strong, against the hundreds and thousands who swayed and cheered and groaned before the Inn? Who swarmed upon the old town-cross until they hid every inch of the crumbling stonework; who clung to every niche and buttress of the Abbey; and from whose mass as from a sea the solitary church spire rose like some lighthouse cut off by breakers? Who, here, forgetful of their Wiltshire birth cheered the Birmingham tub-thumper to the echo, and there, roared stern assent to the wildest statements of the Political Union?

True, a dozen banners and thrice as many flags gave something of a festive air to the scene. But the timid who tried to draw solace from these retreated appalled by the daring "Death or Freedom!" inscribed on one banner: or the scarcely less bold "The Sovereign People," which bellied above the clothiers. The majority of the placards bore nothing worse than the watchword of the party: "The Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill!" or "Retrenchment and Reform!" or-in reference to the King-"God bless the two Bills!" But for all that, Dewell, the barber-and some more who would not have confessed it-wished the day well over and no bones broken! A great day for Chippinge, but a day on which many an old score was like to be paid, many a justice to hear the commonalty's opinion of him, many a man who had thriven under the old rule, to read the writing on the wall!

Certainly nothing like the spectacle visible from the White Lion windows had been seen in Chippinge within living memory. The Abbey, indeed, which had seen the last of the mitred Abbots pass out-shorn of his strength, and with weeping townsfolk about him in lieu of belted knights-that pile, stately in its ruin, which had witnessed a revolution greater even than this which impended, and more tragic, might have viewed its pair, might have seen its precincts seethe as they seethed now. But no living man. Nor did those who scanned the crowd from the White Lion find aught to lessen its terrors. There were, indeed, plenty of decent, respectable people in the crowd, who, though they were set on gaining their rights, had no notion of violence. But wood burns when it is kindled: and here at the corner of the Heart and Hand, the Whig headquarters, was a spark like to light the fire-Boston, the bruiser, and a dozen of his fellows; men who were, one and all, the idols of the yokels who stood about them and stared. Pybus, who had brought them hither, was not to be seen; he was weaving his spells in the Heart and Hand. But Mr. Williams, White-Hat Williams, the richest man in Chippinge, who, voteless, had only lived of late to see this day-he was here at the head of his clothmen, and as fierce as the poorest. And half-a-dozen lesser men there were of the same kind; sallow Blackford, the Methodist, the fugleman of every dissenter within ten miles; and two or three small lawyers whom the landlords did not employ, and two or three apothecaries who were in the same case. With these were one or two famished curates, with Sydney Smith for their warranty, and his saying about Dame Partington's Mop and the Atlantic on their lips; and a sprinkling of spouters from the big towns-men who had the glories of Orator Hunt and William Cobbett before their eyes. And everywhere, working in the mass like yeast, moved a score of bitter malcontents-whom the old system had bruised under foot-poachers whom Sir Robert had jailed, or the lovers of maids as frail as fair, or labourers whom the Poor Laws had crushed-a score of malcontents whose grievances long muttered in pothouses now flared to light and cried for vengeance. In a word, there were the elements of mischief in the crowd: and under the surface an ugly spirit. Even the most peaceable were grim, knowing it was now or never. So that the faces at the White Lion windows grew longer as their owners gazed and listened.

"I don't know what's come to the people!" the Rector bawled, turning about to make himself heard by his neighbour. "Eh, what?"

"I'd like to see Lord Grey hung!" answered Squire Rowley, his face purple. "And Lord Lansdowne with him! What do you say, sir?" to Sergeant Wathen.

"Fortunate a show of hands don't carry it!" the Sergeant cried, shrugging his shoulders with an assumption of easiness.

"Carry it? Of course we'll carry it!" the Squire replied wrathfully. "I suppose two and two still make four!"

Isaac White, who was whispering with a man in a corner of the room, wished that he was sure of that; or, rather, that three and two made six. But the Squire was continuing. "Bah!" he cried in disgust. "Give these people votes? Look at 'em! Look at 'em, sir! Votes indeed! Votes indeed! Give 'em oakum, I say!"

He forgot that nine-tenths of those below were as good as the voters at his elbow, who were presently to return two members for Chippinge. Or rather, it did not occur to him, good old Tory as he was, and convinced, that Dewell's vote was Dewell's, or Annibal's Annibal's.

 
'Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about,
 

Meanwhile, "I wish we were safe at the hustings!" young Mowatt shouted in the ear of the man who stood in front of him.

The man chanced to be Cooke, the other candidate. He turned. "At the hustings?" he said irascibly. "Do you mean, sir, that we are expected to fight our way through that rabble?"

"I am afraid we must," Mowatt answered.

"Then it-has been d-d badly arranged!" retorted the outraged Cooke, who never forgot that as he paid well for his seat it ought to be a soft one. "Go through this mob, and have our heads broken?"

The faces of those who could hear him grew longer. "And it wants only five minutes of ten," complained a third. "We ought to be going now."

"D-n me, but suppose they don't let us go!" cried Cooke. "Badly arranged! I should think it is, sir! D-d badly arranged! The hustings should have been on this side."

But hitherto the hustings had been at Chippinge a matter of form, and it had not occurred to anyone to alter their position-cheek by jowl with the Whig headquarters, but divided by seventy yards of seething mob from the White Lion. However, White, on an appeal being made to him, put a better face on the matter. "It's all right, gentlemen," he said, "it's all right! If they have the hustings, we have the returning officer, and they can do nothing without us. I've seen Mr. Pybus, and I have his safe conduct for our party to go to the hustings."

But it is hard to satisfy everybody, and at this there was a fresh outcry. "A safe conduct?" cried the Squire, redder about the gills than before. "For shame, sir! Are we to be indebted to the other side for a safe conduct! I never heard of such a thing!"

"I quite agree with you," cried the Rector. "Quite! I protest, Mr. White, against anything of the kind."

But White was unmoved. "We've got to get our voters there," he said. "Sir Robert will be displeased, I know, but-"

"Never was such a thing heard of!"

"No, sir, but never was such an election," White answered with spirit.

"Where is Sir Robert?"

"He'll be here presently," White replied. "He'll be here presently. Anyway, gentlemen," he continued, "we had better be going down to the hall. In a body, gentlemen, if you please, and voters in the middle. And keep together, if you please. A little shouting," he added cheerfully, "breaks no bones. We can shout too!"

The thing was unsatisfactory, and without precedent; nay, humiliating. But there seemed to be nothing else for it. As White said, this election was not as other elections; Bath was lost, and Bristol, too, it was whispered; the country was gone mad. And so, frowning and ill-content, the magnates trooped out, and led by White began to descend the stairs. There was much confusion, one asking if the Alderman was there, another demanding to see Sir Robert, here a man grumbling about White's arrangements, there a man silent over the discovery, made perhaps for the first time, that here was like to be an end of old Toryism and the loaves and the fishes it had dispensed.

In the hall where the party was reinforced by a crowd of their smaller supporters a man plucked White's sleeve and drew him aside. "She's out now!" he whispered. "Pybus has left two with him and they won't leave him for me. But if you went and ordered them out there's a chance they'd go, and-"

"The doctor's not there?"

"No, and Pillinger's well enough to come, if you put it strong. He's afraid of his wife and they've got him body and soul, but-"

White cast a despairing eye on the confusion about him. "How can I come?" he muttered. "I must get these to the poll first."

"Then you'll never do it!" the man retorted. "There'll be no coming and going, to-day, Mr. White, you take it from me. Now's the time while they're waiting for you in front. You can slip out at the back and bring him in and take him with you. It's the only way, so help me! They're in that temper we'll be lucky if we're all alive to-morrow!"

The man was right; and White knew it, yet he hesitated. If he had had an aide fit for the task, the thing might be done. But to go himself-he on whom everything fell! He reflected. Possibly Arthur Vaughan might not vote for the enemy after all. But if he did, Sir Robert would poll only five to six, and be beaten! Unless he polled Pillinger, when the returning officer's vote, of which he was sure, would give him the election. Pillinger's vote, therefore, was vital; everything turned upon it. And he determined to go. His absence would only cause a little delay, and he must risk that. He slipped away.

He was missed at once, and the discovery redoubled the confusion. One asked where he was, and another where Sir Robert was; while Cooke in tones louder and more irritable than was prudent found fresh fault, and wished to heaven that he had never seen the place. Long accustomed to one-sided contests of which both parties knew the issue, the Tory managers were helpless; they were aware that the hour had struck, and that they were expected, but without White they were uncertain how to act. Some cried that White had gone on, and that they should follow; some that Sir Robert was to meet them at the hustings, others that they might as well be home as waiting there! While the babel without deafened and distracted them. At last, without order given, they found themselves moving out.

Their reception did not clear their brains. Such a roar of execration as greeted them had never been heard in Chippinge: the hair on Dewell, the barber's, head stood up, the Alderman's checks grew pale, Cooke dropped his cane, the stoutest flinched. Changed indeed were the times from those a year or two past when their exit had been greeted by sycophantic cheers, or, at worst, by a little good-humoured jesting! Now the whole multitude in the open, not in one part, but in every part, knew as by instinct of their setting forth, brandished on the instant a thousand arms at them, deafened them with a thousand voices, demanded monotonously "The Bill! The Bill!" Nor had the demonstration stopped there, but for the intervention of a body of a hundred Whig stalwarts who, posting themselves on the flanks of the derided procession, conferred on its slow march an ignoble safety.

No wonder that many a one who found himself thus guarded rubbed his eyes. The times were changed indeed! No more despotism of Squire and Parson, no more monopoly of places, no more nominated members, no more elections that did but mock men who had no share in them, no more "Cripples," no more snug jobs! The Tories might agree with Mr. Fudge and foretell the ruinous outcome of it. But the thing was, the many-headed, the many-handed had them in its grip. They must go meekly, or not at all; with visions of French fish-fags and guillotines before their eyes, and wondering, most of them-as they tried to show a bold front, tried to wave their banners and give some answering shout to the sea that beat upon them-how they would get home again with whole skins!

 
That this passion for roaring had come in of late
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State,
 

Perhaps there was only one of them who never had that thought; though he, alone of them all, was unaware of the precautions taken for his safety. That was Sir Robert Vermuyden, the master of all, the patron, the Borough-monger! Attended by Bob Flixton, who had come with him from Bristol to see the fun-and whose voice it will be remembered Vaughan had overheard at Stapylton the evening before-and by two or three other guests, he had entered the White Lion from the rear; arriving in time to fall in-somewhat surprised at his supporters' precipitation-at the tail of the procession. The moment he was recognised by the crowd he was greeted with a roar of "Down with the Borough-monger!" that fairly appalled his companions. But he faced it calmly, imperturbably, quietly; a little paler, a little prouder, and a little sterner perhaps than usual, but with a gleam in his eyes that had not been seen in them for years. For answer to all he smiled with a curling lip: and it is probable that as much as any hour in his life he enjoyed this hour, which put him to the test before those over whom he had ruled so long. His caste might be passing, the days of his power might be numbered, the waves of democracy might be rising about the system in which he believed the safety of England to lie; but no man should see him falter. No veteran of the old noblesse in days which Sir Robert could remember had gone to his fate more proudly than the English patrician was prepared to go to his, ay, and though worse than the guillotine awaited him.

His contemptuous attitude, his fearless bearing, impressed the crowd, appreciative at bottom, of courage. And presently, where he turned his cold, smiling eyes they gaped instead of hissing: and one here and there under the magic of his look doffed hat or carried hand to forehead, and henceforth was mute. And so great is the sympathy of all parts of a mob that this silence spread quickly, mysteriously, at last, wholly. So that when he, last of his party, stepped on the hustings, there was for a moment a complete stillness; a stillness of expectation, while he looked round; such a stillness as startled the leaders of the opposition. It could not be-it could not be, that after all, the old lion would prove too much for them!

White-Hat Williams roared aloud in his rage. "Up hats and shout, lads," he yelled, "or by G-d the d-d Tories will do us after all! Are you afraid of them, you lubbers! Shout, lads, shout!"

XVIII
THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION (Continued)

The beast that was in the crowd answered to the spur. "Ye've robbed us long enough, ye old rascal!" a harsh Midland voice shrieked over the heads of the throng. "We'll have our rights now, you blood-sucker!" And "Boo! Boo!" the lower elements of the mob broke forth. And then in stern cadence, "The Bill! The Bill! The Bill!"

"Out of Egypt, and out of the House of Bondage!" shrieked a Methodist above the hub-bub.

"Ay, ay!"

"Slaves no longer!"

"No! No! No!"

"Hear that, ye hoary tyrant!" in a woman's shrill tones. "Who jailed my man for a hare?"

A roar of laughter which somewhat cleared the air followed this. Sir Robert smiled grimly.

The hustings, a mere wooden platform, raised four feet above the ground, rested against the Abbey gateway. It was closed at the rear and at each end; but in front it was guarded only by a stout railing. And so public was it, and so exposed its dangerous eminence, that the more timid of the unpopular party were no sooner upon it than they yearned for the safe obscurity of the common level. Of the three booths into which the interior was divided, the midmost was reserved for the returning officer and his staff.

Bob Flixton, who kept close to Sir Robert's elbow, looked down on the sea of jeering faces. "I tell you what it is," he said. "We're going to have a confounded row!"

Mowatt, at some distance from him, was of the same opinion, but regarded the outlook differently. "It's my belief," he muttered, "that we shall all be murdered."

And "D-n the Bill!" the old Squire ejaculated. "The people are off their heads! Jack as good as his master, and better too!"

These four, with the candidates, were in the front row. The Rector, the Alderman, and one or two of the neighbouring gentry shared the honour; and faced as well as they could the hooting and yelling, and the occasional missile. In the front of the other booth were White-Hat Williams and Blackford, the minister, Mr. Wrench, the candidate, wreathed in smiles, a pair of Whig Squires from the Bowood side, a curate of the same colour, Pybus-and Arthur Vaughan!

A thrill ran through Sir Robert's supporters when they saw his young kinsman on the other side; actually on the other side and arrayed against them. Their hearts, already low, sank a peg lower. Of evil omens this seemed the worst; sunk is the cause the young desert! And many were the curious eyes that searched the renegade's features and strove to read his thoughts.

But in vain. His head high, his face firmly composed, Vaughan looked stonily before him. Nor was it possible to say whether he was really unmoved, was stolidly indifferent, or merely masked agitation. Sir Robert on his side never looked at him, nor betrayed any sense of his presence. But he knew. He knew! And with the first bitter presage of defeat-for he was not a man to be intimidated by noise-he repeated his vow: "Not a pound, nor a penny! Never! Never!" This public renunciation, this wanton defiance-he would never forgive it! Henceforth, it must be war to the knife between them. No thousands, no compensation, no compromise! As the young man was sowing, so he should reap. He who, in its darkest hour not only insulted but abandoned his family, what punishment was too severe for him?

Vaughan could make a good guess at the proud autocrat's feelings: and he averted his eyes with care. The proceedings here opened, and he listened laughingly; until midway in the reading of some document which no one heeded-the crowd jeering and flouting merrily-he caught a new note in the turmoil. The next moment he was conscious of a swirling movement among those below him, there was a rush of the throng to his right, and he looked quickly to see what it meant.

A man-one of a group of three or four who appeared to be trying to push their way through the crowd-was being hustled and flung to and fro amid jeers and taunts. He was striving to gain the hustings, but was still some way from it; and his chance of reaching it with his clothes on his back seemed small. Vaughan saw so much; then the man lost his temper, and struck a blow. It was returned-and then, not till then, Vaughan saw that the man was Isaac White. He cried "Shame!" – and had passed one leg over the barriers to go to the rescue, when he saw that another was before him. Sir Robert's tall, spare figure was down among the crowd-which opened instinctively before his sharp command. His eyes, his masterful air still had power; the press opened instinctively before his sharp command. He had reached White, had extricated him, and turned to make good his retreat, when it seemed to strike the more brutal element in the crowd-mostly strangers to him-that here was the prime enemy of the cause, on foot amongst them, at their mercy! A rush was made at his back. He turned undaunted, White and two more at his side; the rabble recoiled. But when he wheeled again, a second rush was made, and they were upon him, and hustled him before he could turn. A man with a long stick struck off his hat, another-a lout with a cockade of amber and blue, the Whig colours-tried to trip him up. He stumbled, at the same moment a third man knocked White down.

"Yah! Down with him!" roared the crowd, "Down with the Borough-monger!"

But Vaughan, who had anticipated rather than seen the stumble, was over the rail, and cleaving the crowd, was at his side. He reached him a little in front of Bob Flixton, who had descended to the rescue from the other end of the booth. Vaughan hurled back the man who had tripped Sir Robert and who was still trying to throw him down; and the sight of the amber and blue which the new champion wore checked the assailants, and gave White time to rise.

Vaughan was furious. "Back, you cowards!" he cried fiercely. "Would you murder an old man? Shame on you! Shame!"

"Ay, you bullies!" cried Flixton, hitting one on the jaw very neatly-and completely disposing of that one for the day. "Back with you!"

As Vaughan spoke, half-a-dozen of his Tory supporters surrounded the baronet and bore him back out of danger. Though Sir Robert was undaunted, he was shaken; and breathing quickly, he let his hand rest for support on the nearest shoulder. It was Vaughan's, and the next instant he saw that it was; and he withdrew the hand as if he had let it rest on a hot iron.

"Mr. Flixton," he said-and the words reached a dozen ears at least, "your arm, if you please? I would rather be without this gentleman's assistance."

Vaughan's face flamed. But neither the words nor the action took him unawares. He stepped back with dignity, slightly touched his hat, and so returned to his side of the hustings.

But he was wounded and very angry. Alone of his party he had intervened-and this was his reward. When Pybus pushed his way to his side and stooped to his ear, talking quickly and earnestly, he did not repel him.

Episode as it was, the affray startled Sir Robert's friends: and White in particular took it very seriously. If violence of this sort was to rule, if even Sir Robert's person was not respected, he saw that he would not be able to bring his voters to the poll. They would run some risk of losing their lives, and one or two for certain would not dare to vote. The thing must be stopped, and at once. With this in view he made his way to the passage at the back of the hustings, which was common to all three booths, and heated and angry-his lip was cut by the blow he had received-he called for Pybus. But the press at the back of the hustings was great, and one of White-Hat Williams's foremen, who blocked the gangway, laughed in his face.

"I want to speak to Pybus," said White, glaring at the man, who on ordinary days would have touched his hat to him.

"Then want'll be your master," the other retorted, with a wink. And when White tried to push by him, the man gave him the shoulder.

"Let me pass," White foamed. No thought of Cobbett now, had the agent! These miserable upstarts, their insolence, their certainty of triumph fired his blood. "Let me pass!" he repeated.

"See you d-d first!" the other answered bluntly. "Your game's up, old cock! Your master has held the pit long enough, but his time's come."

"If you don't-"

"If you put your nose in here, we'll pitch you over the rail!" the other declared.

White almost had a fit. Fortunately White-Hat Williams himself appeared at this moment: and White appealed to him.

"Mr. Williams," he said, "is this your safe conduct?"

"I gave none," with a grin.

"Pybus did."

"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.

Then White-Hat Williams, who had looked forward to this as to the golden moment of his life and had conned his oration until he knew its thunderous periods by heart, stepped forward to nominate the Whig candidates. He took off his hat; and as if that had been the signal for silence, such a stillness fell on all that his voice rang above the multitude like a trumpet.

"Gentlemen," he said, and smiling looked first to the one side and then to the other. "Gentlemen-"