BEVERLEY.
Very early in life, very soon after I had become a clerk in St.
Martin's le Grand, when I was utterly impecunious and beginning to
fall grievously into debt, I was asked by an uncle of mine, who was
himself a clerk in the War Office, what destination I should like
best for my future life. He probably meant to inquire whether I
wished to live married or single, whether to remain in the Post
Office or to leave it, whether I should prefer the town or the
country. I replied that I should like to be a Member of Parliament.
My uncle, who was given to sarcasm, rejoined that, as far as he knew,
few clerks in the Post Office did become Members of Parliament. I
think it was the remembrance of this jeer which stirred me up to look
for a seat as soon as I had made myself capable of holding one by
leaving the public service. My uncle was dead, but if I could get a
seat, the knowledge that I had done so might travel to that bourne
from whence he was not likely to return, and he might there feel that
he had done me wrong.
Independently of this, I have always thought that to sit in the
British Parliament should be the highest object of ambition to every
educated Englishman. I do not by this mean to suggest that every
educated Englishman should set before himself a seat in Parliament as
a probable or even a possible career; but that the man in Parliament
has reached a higher position than the man out,--that to serve one's
country without pay is the grandest work that a man can do,--that
of all studies the study of politics is the one in which a man may
make himself most useful to his fellow-creatures,--and that of all
lives, public political lives are capable of the highest efforts. So
thinking,--though I was aware that fifty-three was too late an age at
which to commence a new career,--I resolved with much hesitation that
I would make the attempt.
Writing now at an age beyond sixty, I can say that my political
feelings and convictions have never undergone any change. They are
now what they became when I first began to have political feelings
and convictions. Nor do I find in myself any tendency to modify them
as I have found generally in men as they grow old. I consider myself
to be an advanced, but still a Conservative-Liberal, which I regard
not only as a possible but as a rational and consistent phase of
political existence. I can, I believe, in a very few words, make
known my political theory; and as I am anxious that any who know
aught of me should know that, I will endeavour to do so.
It must, I think, be painful to all men to feel inferiority. It
should, I think, be a matter of some pain to all men to feel
superiority, unless when it has been won by their own efforts. We do
not understand the operations of Almighty wisdom, and are therefore
unable to tell the causes of the terrible inequalities that we
see,--why some, why so many, should have so little to make life
enjoyable, so much to make it painful, while a few others, not
through their own merit, have had gifts poured out to them from a
full hand. We acknowledge the hand of God and His wisdom, but still
we are struck with awe and horror at the misery of many of our
brethren. We who have been born to the superior condition,--for in
this matter I consider myself to be standing on a platform with
dukes and princes, and all others to whom plenty and education and
liberty have been given,--cannot, I think, look upon the inane,
unintellectual, and tost-bound life of those who cannot even feed
themselves sufficiently by their sweat, without some feeling of
injustice, some feeling of pain.
This consciousness of wrong has induced in many enthusiastic but
unbalanced minds a desire to set all things right by a proclaimed
equality. In their efforts such men have shown how powerless they
are in opposing the ordinances of the Creator. For the mind of the
thinker and the student is driven to admit, though it be awestruck by
apparent injustice, that this inequality is the work of God. Make
all men equal to-day, and God has so created them that they shall be
all unequal to-morrow. The so-called Conservative, the conscientious
philanthropic Conservative, seeing this, and being surely convinced
that such inequalities are of divine origin, tells himself that it
is his duty to preserve them. He thinks that the preservation of the
welfare of the world depends on the maintenance of those distances
between the prince and the peasant by which he finds himself to be
surrounded;--and perhaps, I may add, that the duty is not unpleasant,
as he feels himself to be one of the princes.
But this man, though he sees something, and sees that very clearly,
sees only a little. The divine inequality is apparent to him, but
not the equally divine diminution of that inequality. That such
diminution is taking place on all sides is apparent enough; but it is
apparent to him as an evil, the consummation of which it is his duty
to retard. He cannot prevent it; and therefore the society to which
he belongs is, in his eyes, retrograding. He will even, at times,
assist it; and will do so conscientiously, feeling that, under the
gentle pressure supplied by him, and with the drags and holdfasts
which he may add, the movement would be slower than it would become
if subjected to his proclaimed and absolute opponents. Such, I think,
are Conservatives;--and I speak of men who, with the fear of God
before their eyes and the love of their neighbours warm in their
hearts, endeavour to do their duty to the best of their ability.
Using the term which is now common, and which will be best
understood, I will endeavour to explain how the equally conscientious
Liberal is opposed to the Conservative. He is equally aware that
these distances are of divine origin, equally averse to any sudden
disruption of society in quest of some Utopian blessedness;--but he
is alive to the fact that these distances are day by day becoming
less, and he regards this continual diminution as a series of steps
towards that human millennium of which he dreams. He is even willing
to help the many to ascend the ladder a little, though he knows,
as they come up towards him, he must go down to meet them. What
is really in his mind is,--I will not say equality, for the word
is offensive, and presents to the imaginations of men ideas of
communism, of ruin, and insane democracy,--but a tendency towards
equality. In following that, however, he knows that he must be
hemmed in by safeguards, lest he be tempted to travel too quickly;
and therefore he is glad to be accompanied on his way by the
repressive action of a Conservative opponent. Holding such views,
I think I am guilty of no absurdity in calling myself an advanced
Conservative-Liberal. A man who entertains in his mind any political
doctrine, except as a means of improving the condition of his
fellows, I regard as a political intriguer, a charlatan, and a
conjurer,--as one who thinks that, by a certain amount of wary
wire-pulling, he may raise himself in the estimation of the world.
I am aware that this theory of politics will seem to many to be
stilted, overstrained, and, as the Americans would say, high-faluten.
Many will declare that the majority even of those who call themselves
politicians,--perhaps even of those who take an active part
in politics,--are stirred by no such feelings as these, and
acknowledge no such motives. Men become Tories or Whigs, Liberals or
Conservatives, partly by education,--following their fathers,--partly
by chance, partly as openings come, partly in accordance with the
bent of their minds, but still without any far-fetched reasonings as
to distances and the diminution of distances. No doubt it is so;--and
in the battle of politics, as it goes, men are led further and
further away from first causes, till at last a measure is opposed
by one simply because it is advocated by another, and members of
Parliament swarm into lobbies, following the dictation of their
leaders, and not their own individual judgments. But the principle
is at work throughout. To many, though hardly acknowledged, it is
still apparent. On almost all it has its effect; though there are the
intriguers, the clever conjurers, to whom politics is simply such a
game as is billiards or rackets, only played with greater results. To
the minds that create and lead and sway political opinion, some such
theory is, I think, ever present.
The truth of all this I had long since taken home to myself. I had
now been thinking of it for thirty years, and had never doubted. But
I had always been aware of a certain visionary weakness about myself
in regard to politics. A man, to be useful in Parliament, must be
able to confine himself and conform himself, to be satisfied with
doing a little bit of a little thing at a time. He must patiently
get up everything connected with the duty on mushrooms, and then be
satisfied with himself when at last he has induced a Chancellor of
the Exchequer to say that he will consider the impost at the first
opportunity. He must be content to be beaten six times in order that,
on a seventh, his work may be found to be of assistance to some one
else. He must remember that he is one out of 650, and be content with
1-650th part of the attention of the nation. If he have grand ideas,
he must keep them to himself, unless by chance he can work his way
up to the top of the tree. In short, he must be a practical man.
Now I knew that in politics I could never become a practical man. I
should never be satisfied with a soft word from the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, but would always be flinging my over-taxed ketchup in his
face.
Nor did it seem to me to be possible that I should ever become a good
speaker. I had no special gifts that way, and had not studied the
art early enough in life to overcome natural difficulties. I had
found that, with infinite labour, I could learn a few sentences
by heart, and deliver them, monotonously indeed, but clearly. Or,
again, if there were something special to be said, I could say it
in a commonplace fashion,--but always as though I were in a hurry,
and with the fear before me of being thought to be prolix. But I
had no power of combining, as a public speaker should always do,
that which I had studied with that which occurred to me at the
moment. It must be all lesson,--which I found to be best; or else all
impromptu,--which was very bad indeed, unless I had something special
on my mind. I was thus aware that I could do no good by going into
Parliament,--that the time for it, if there could have been a time,
had gone by. But still I had an almost insane desire to sit there,
and be able to assure myself that my uncle's scorn had not been
deserved.
In 1867 it had been suggested to me that, in the event of a
dissolution, I should stand for one division of the county of Essex;
and I had promised that I would do so, though the promise at that
time was as rash a one as a man could make. I was instigated to this
by the late Charles Buxton, a man whom I greatly loved, and who was
very anxious that the county for which his brother had sat, and with
which the family were connected, should be relieved from what he
regarded as the thraldom of Toryism. But there was no dissolution
then. Mr. Disraeli passed his Reform Bill, by the help of the
Liberal member for Newark, and the summoning of a new Parliament
was postponed till the next year. By this new Reform Bill Essex was
portioned out into three instead of two electoral divisions, one of
which--that adjacent to London--would, it was thought, be altogether
Liberal. After the promise which I had given, the performance of
which would have cost me a large sum of money absolutely in vain, it
was felt by some that I should be selected as one of the candidates
for the new division,--and as such I was proposed by Mr. Charles
Buxton. But another gentleman, who would have been bound by previous
pledges to support me, was put forward by what I believe to have been
the defeating interest, and I had to give way. At the election this
gentleman, with another Liberal, who had often stood for the county,
were returned without a contest. Alas! alas! They were both unseated
at the next election, when the great Conservative reaction took
place.
In the spring of 1868 I was sent to the United States on a postal
mission, of which I will speak presently. While I was absent the
dissolution took place. On my return I was somewhat too late to
look out for a seat, but I had friends who knew the weakness of my
ambition; and it was not likely, therefore, that I should escape
the peril of being put forward for some impossible borough as to
which the Liberal party would not choose that it should go to the
Conservatives without a struggle. At last, after one or two others,
Beverley was proposed to me, and to Beverley I went.
I must, however, exculpate the gentleman who acted as my agent, from
undue persuasion exercised towards me. He was a man who thoroughly
understood Parliament, having sat there himself,--and he sits there
now at this moment. He understood Yorkshire,--or at least the East
Riding of Yorkshire, in which Beverley is situated,--certainly better
than any one alive. He understood all the mysteries of canvassing,
and he knew well the traditions, the condition, and the prospect
of the Liberal party. I will not give his name, but they who knew
Yorkshire in 1868 will not be at a loss to find it. "So," said he,
"you are going to stand for Beverley?" I replied gravely that I was
thinking of doing so. "You don't expect to get in?" he said. Again
I was grave. I would not, I said, be sanguine, but nevertheless
I was disposed to hope for the best. "Oh no!" continued he, with
good-humoured raillery, "you won't get in. I don't suppose you really
expect it. But there is a fine career open to you. You will spend
£1000, and lose the election. Then you will petition, and spend
another £1000. You will throw out the elected members. There will be
a commission, and the borough will be disfranchised. For a beginner
such as you are, that will be a great success." And yet, in the teeth
of this, from a man who knew all about it, I persisted in going to
Beverley!
The borough, which returned two members, had long been represented by
Sir Henry Edwards, of whom, I think, I am justified in saying that
he had contracted a close intimacy with it for the sake of the seat.
There had been many contests, many petitions, many void elections,
many members, but, through it all, Sir Henry had kept his seat,
if not with permanence, yet with a fixity of tenure next door to
permanence. I fancy that with a little management between the parties
the borough might at this time have returned a member of each colour
quietly;--but there were spirits there who did not love political
quietude, and it was at last decided that there should be two Liberal
and two Conservative candidates. Sir Henry was joined by a young man
of fortune in quest of a seat, and I was grouped with Mr. Maxwell,
the eldest son of Lord Herries, a Scotch Roman Catholic peer who
lives in the neighbourhood.
When the time came I went down to canvass, and spent, I think, the
most wretched fortnight of my manhood. In the first place, I was
subject to a bitter tyranny from grinding vulgar tyrants. They were
doing what they could, or said that they were doing so, to secure me
a seat in Parliament, and I was to be in their hands for at any rate
the period of my candidature. On one day both of us, Mr. Maxwell and
I, wanted to go out hunting. We proposed to ourselves but the one
holiday during this period of intense labour; but I was assured,
as was he also, by a publican who was working for us, that if we
committed such a crime he and all Beverley would desert us. From
morning to evening every day I was taken round the lanes and by-ways
of that uninteresting town, canvassing every voter, exposed to the
rain, up to my knees in slush, and utterly unable to assume that air
of triumphant joy with which a jolly, successful candidate should be
invested. At night, every night I had to speak somewhere,--which was
bad; and to listen to the speaking of others,--which was much worse.
When, on one Sunday, I proposed to go to the Minster Church, I was
told that was quite useless, as the Church party were all certain to
support Sir Henry! "Indeed," said the publican, my tyrant, "he goes
there in a kind of official profession, and you had better not allow
yourself to be seen in the same place." So I stayed away and omitted
my prayers. No Church of England church in Beverley would on such
an occasion have welcomed a Liberal candidate. I felt myself to be
a kind of pariah in the borough, to whom was opposed all that was
pretty, and all that was nice, and all that was--ostensibly--good.
But perhaps my strongest sense of discomfort arose from the
conviction that my political ideas were all leather and prunella
to the men whose votes I was soliciting. They cared nothing for
my doctrines, and could not be made to understand that I should
have any. I had been brought to Beverley either to beat Sir Henry
Edwards,--which, however, no one probably thought to be feasible,--or
to cause him the greatest possible amount of trouble, inconvenience,
and expense. There were, indeed, two points on which a portion of my
wished-for supporters seemed to have opinions, and on both these two
points I was driven by my opinions to oppose them. Some were anxious
for the Ballot,--which had not then become law,--and some desired the
Permissive Bill. I hated, and do hate, both these measures, thinking
it to be unworthy of a great people to free itself from the evil
results of vicious conduct by unmanly restraints. Undue influence
on voters is a great evil from which this country had already done
much to emancipate itself by extended electoral divisions and by an
increase of independent feeling. These, I thought, and not secret
voting, were the weapons by which electoral intimidation should be
overcome. And as for drink, I believe in no Parliamentary restraint;
but I do believe in the gradual effect of moral teaching and
education. But a Liberal, to do any good at Beverley, should have
been able to swallow such gnats as those. I would swallow nothing,
and was altogether the wrong man.
I knew, from the commencement of my candidature, how it would be.
Of course that well-trained gentleman who condescended to act as
my agent, had understood the case, and I ought to have taken his
thoroughly kind advice. He had seen it all, and had told himself
that it was wrong that one so innocent in such ways as I, so utterly
unable to fight such a battle, should be carried down into Yorkshire
merely to spend money and to be annoyed. He could not have said more
than he did say, and I suffered for my obstinacy. Of course I was
not elected. Sir Henry Edwards and his comrade became members for
Beverley, and I was at the bottom of the poll. I paid £400 for my
expenses, and then returned to London.
My friendly agent in his raillery had of course exaggerated the cost.
He had, when I arrived at Beverley, asked me for a cheque for £400,
and told me that that sum would suffice. It did suffice. How it came
to pass that exactly that sum should be required I never knew, but
such was the case. Then there came a petition,--not from me, but from
the town. The inquiry was made, the two gentlemen were unseated, the
borough was disfranchised, Sir Henry Edwards was put on his trial for
some kind of Parliamentary offence and was acquitted. In this way
Beverley's privilege as a borough and my Parliamentary ambition were
brought to an end at the same time.
When I knew the result I did not altogether regret it. It may be
that Beverley might have been brought to political confusion and
Sir Henry Edwards relegated to private life without the expenditure
of my hard-earned money, and without that fortnight of misery; but
connecting the things together, as it was natural that I should do,
I did flatter myself that I had done some good. It had seemed to me
that nothing could be worse, nothing more unpatriotic, nothing more
absolutely opposed to the system of representative government, than
the time-honoured practices of the borough of Beverley. It had come
to pass that political cleanliness was odious to the citizens. There
was something grand in the scorn with which a leading Liberal there
turned up his nose at me when I told him that there should be no
bribery, no treating, not even a pot of beer on one side. It was a
matter for study to see how at Beverley politics were appreciated
because they might subserve electoral purposes, and how little it
was understood that electoral purposes, which are in themselves a
nuisance, should be endured in order that they may subserve politics.
And then the time, the money, the mental energy, which had been
expended in making the borough a secure seat for a gentleman who
had realised the idea that it would become him to be a member of
Parliament! This use of the borough seemed to be realised and
approved in the borough generally. The inhabitants had taught
themselves to think that it was for such purposes that boroughs were
intended! To have assisted in putting an end to this, even in one
town, was to a certain extent a satisfaction.