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1847
Discussion of politics is to
be avoided, but that need not exclude a good story now and again, which
does not touch any political question, though relating to public life. As a
boy I saw the unopposed election of the present Duke of Buccleuch when he
stood for Midlothian. Of course it was before the days of the ballot; the
first step in an election taking place by show of hands at the open meeting on the
hustings. There being no opposition there was no excitement, and as it appeared
to me, the Earl, who was not heard much beyond the reporters' table, spoke into
his hat, if indeed he was not speaking out of his hat. But the election of
the old days which I remember best was the contested election in 1847, when
Thomas Babington Macaulay was candidate for the city. In those days, as the
numbers were posted on the booths throughout the day at intervals, it was
soon seen who was heading the poll. When a candidate's name and figures
attached indicated failure, in half an hour a poster would be out: "There
is time yet, rush to the poll and vote for Holdfast, the supporter of Church
and State." And when it was seen that a candidate had. no chance, the votes
which would have gone to him were transferred to a candidate who was less
unacceptable than the man who was for the time looking dangerous. The glorious uncertainty until 11
P.M., or even till next day, of the ballot vote
was not then part of the excitements of an election.
Mr. Macaulay, whose eloquence
was well known, made, I doubt not, an impressed, he
probably was not so successful. My father told of him that he received a
deputation of postal employees, who probably had some cause for pressing
their views, as the penny postage system developed, and threw extra work
yearly upon the staff. He evidently gave them little satisfaction. The day
following the address by the deputation, our letter-carrier was asked by
the maid who took in the letters in the morning how they had been received. "A' weel"
he said, "he was pulie; oh, he talkit fine, an' constant. Bit we had nae
chance: he talkit and talk*t, an he booed us in an he booed us oot"; and then,
in bitter tone: "He's a tonguey cratur, but, eh, he's haaley ' (hollow).
How well this letter-carrier
tersely and incisively described his parliamentary member may be gauged by
quoting Lord Cockburn's opinion, expressed at length in his journal:
"The truth is that Macaulay,
with all his admitted knowledge, talent, eloquence, and worth, is not
popular. He cares more for his history than for the jobs of his
constituents, and answers letters irregularly, and with a brevity deemed
contemptuous; and above all other defects, he suffers severely from the vice of over-talking, and consequently under-listening. A deputation goes to London
to enlighten their representative. They are full of their own matter, and
their chairman has a statement, bottled and ripe, which he s anxious to draw
and decant, but instead of being listened to, they no sooner enter the
audience-chamber than they find themselves all superseded by the restless
ability of their eloquent member, who besides mistaking speaking for hearing
has the indelicate candour not even to profess being struck by the
importance of the affair."
The most exciting event in
Edinburgh in my school-days was the development of the Chartist riots in
1848. Of course I was not permuted to go near the scene of the conflicts,
but the combatants when in want of ammunition came down to the streets
below, which were still macadamised. The house I lived in then was in Heriot
Row, and men were seen running down from Princes Street, filling their pockets full of stones, and rushing up the hill to expend their
relay ammunition. I had seen the Yeomanry being paraded in the Riding
School in Lothian Road to be at the command of the Magistrates, should they
be required—and they were required—as well as the cavalry regiment from
PiershJl. I heard at the fine of the Lord Provost and Magistrates being
timid, and wishing to put the responsibi1;;ty upon the officer n command. He
declined, saying, "Whatever you order me to do, I will do, and
will undertake to clear the street at once." At last the authority was
given. The moment it was seen that the cavalry were advancing the gallant
rioters fled incontinently, and in five minutes not a soul was left in
Princes Street. There was only one trilling casualty, and it is almost
needless to say that only the flat sides of the sabres were used.
Speaking of the Yeomanry
induces me to tell a story which relates to a day before I was born, but
which I heard from my father, who was a sergeant: in the Edinburgh squadron.
In the Radical Riots of an earlier date, the corps was sent to Glasgow, and
on a certain morning they were assembling from their respective stables at
a certain rendezvous. One of the privates was Mr. Hugh Bruce, an advocate,
whom I knew well by sight when I was a lad. He had a strange look, from one
eye bulging out, and from his not seeing equally with both eyes, I suppose,
he held his head curiously to one side, which led to his being spoken of in
a comic poem thus:
"And Hugo Bruce,
Like to a
goose
Into a bottle keeking,"
which describes well his
sidelong stare. Add to this that he was very round in the shoulders, and it
can be understood what a queer figure he was in a gay Yeomanry uniform. On
the morning in question he was riding down a Glasgow street leading to George Square to
fall in with his squadron, when the sound of a trumpet was heard from afar.
His horse being an old cavalry charger knew the call well, and knew h s
duty, and began endeavouring to hurry in the direction of the trumpet-sound,
Hugh with difficulty restraining him from bolting. On reaching the Square,
the old horse saw a squadron of cavalry nearly formed, and in spite of all
his rider could do forced his way sideways up to the ranks, and pushed so
determinedly, that the troopers drew back one after the other, and he routed
the squadron from end to end; Bruce all the time, jogging and pulling at the
bridle in vain, with his head well down over the withers, while the crowd
looking on shouted with glee, crying, "Bravo! weel din, soor dook!' Those
who remember him—few, I fear —will realise how ludicrous the scene was. My
father could never recall it without a hearty laugh. |
