An election was an election, indeed, in those days. It was not merely a
rush to the hustings for a few short hours, and then all over. There was
no getting the lead by ten o’clock in the morning, and winning at once by
making a good start. Votes were then taken by tallies, or tens, each
tally marching to the hustings, with a band of music and colours before
it, and each party bringing up its tally in its regular turn. The
curiosity, and excitement, and suspense, and anxiety were kept up, day
after day, until there was a grand smash at last on one side or the
other; in other words, until “no tally” forthcoming in its turn betrayed
weakness, and proclaimed that it was U P with somebody. An election,
then, in those times, was a great and solemn affair with our jolly old
freemen, who had the vote-market all to themselves, no intrusive
ten-pounders having yet been thrust upon the constituency. How well we
recollect the hurly-burly of some of those old elections. There were two
sections of the Tory party always in the field, the green, or Tarleton
party, and the blue, or Gascoigne and “Townside” party. But, at a pinch,
they always coalesced against the pinks or Reformers. Among the greens
were the Drinkwaters, Hollinsheads, Harpers, etc. Foremost in the ranks
of the blues were the Fosters, Cases, Aspinalls, Gregsons, Branckers,
Clarkes, Leylands, etc. And the pinks also numbered a gallant phalanx to
do battle for them in every struggle, Earles, Lawrences, Croppers,
Rathbones, Roscoes, Curries, Harveys, Mathers, _cum multis aliis_. And
how Jack Backhouse and Corf, the butcher, used to head up the greens on
horseback, in Castle-street, both they and their horses bedizened all
over with ribbons of their favourite hue! And how popular old Tarleton
was with the fishwomen! And then how the Tories would shout for
“Negro-slavery, and no Popery!” And the Reformers had “Civil and
Religious Liberty!” written on their flags. And how well we remember
one, long before the opening of the trade to the East Indies, on which
was inscribed, “The China trade for ever.” This was quite beyond the
geography of the party who carried it; for, supposing it to be an
allusion to a competition between home-made crockery and Dresden china,
they had, by way of illustration, or commentary, hung the flagstaff round
with all sorts of specimens of plates, and dishes, cups and jugs, and so
forth. Many a laugh was raised at their expense, as they marched about
in blessed ignorance of their blunder.
On one occasion, as if foreshadowing events which were to happen
half-a-century later, a big loaf or Free Trade candidate took the field,
to the great delight of all the hungry non-electors. It seems but as
yesterday when, patriotically braving all the pains and penalties
attached to such an audacious proceeding, we escaped from the nursery to
clap our little hands, and set up our little shout, as we followed the
music and yellow banners of the champion of cheapness and plenty to his
house in Kent-square. His name was Chalmer, and he was the father of the
venerable, and worthy, and clever doctor and town councillor of that
name. Sir Isaac Coffin, too, once made his appearance here just before
an election. It was, of course, suspected that he had a design upon the
borough. If he had, the intention died in the egg. No chicken ever was
hatched out of it. Richmond, however, instantly fired at him with a
squib, which opens in this unceremonious fashion:—
“Sir Isaac Coffin’s come to town, not to please the lasses,
But to gull the Whigs, a set of stupid asses.”
A good story is told against Sir Isaac on the other side of the Atlantic.
He once made a bet that he would find a given number of gigantic alderman
lobsters of the weight of thirty pounds each. It happened not to be in
the lobster season, and the monsters were not forthcoming on the
appointed day. Sir Isaac, however, not liking to lose his money, sent in
certain depositions to the stakeholders from fishermen on the coast,
stating that they had frequently met with lobsters of the required
weight; to which this pithy answer was returned, “Depositions are not
lobsters.”
The old freemen of those days were worthy grandsires of their present
worthy grandsons. Some of them were witty rogues in their generation.
One of them, on the eve of an election, when in a state of intoxication,
asked one of the Hope family to give him a five pound note for his vote.
The demand was indignantly rejected. “Then,” rejoined the incorrigible
fellow, “if you will not give it me, lend it me, and you may believe I
will return it on any day you fix.” Mr. Hope shook his head with
resolute incredulity. “Ah,” said the offended elector, staggering away,
“they may call you HOPE, but hang me if you have either _faith_ or
_charity_ in your composition.”
But we must not pass by, without some remarks, the two soldier
representatives who so long sat for Liverpool in the House of Commons.
General Tarleton was a fearless old guerrilla of the American war, in
which his achievements, successful or otherwise, proved him to be as
brave as the sword he wore, and were more like the creations of romance
than the realities they were. He was open, frank, and free, with many
qualities to recommend him to popular favour, but no more fit to
represent the mighty interests of Liverpool, even in those days, than any
child of three years old taken out of the street. He had not one point
of the statesman in his whole character. He was as capriciously selected
as he was capriciously ejected by his friends. He was originally adopted
without a single recommendation. He was finally repudiated without a
fault or failure in addition to those which had marked his career from
the first. We have heard many things laid to the charge of our old
freemen, but they never appeared in so bad a light to us as when, at the
bidding of their employers, or under some other influence, they almost to
a man turned their backs with freezing indifference upon a candidate
towards whom, on all previous occasions, they had affected to feel an
enthusiasm amounting to positive frenzy. Human nature was never
presented to us in so despicable a point of view. Poor old Tarleton. We
never felt a sympathy for him except when he was thus suddenly victimised
by popular caprice, his former worshippers flying from their idol. And
why? Tell it not in Gath, if you like, but we will tell it in Liverpool;
because the rich men of his party had set up another image, and he
presented himself for their votes _in formâ pauperis_. Say not, or we
shall laugh at you, that he was rejected to make way for the brilliant
Canning. Aye, Canning, all honour and glory to his memory, was the most
brilliant of all the brilliant stars that ever shone in this lower world
of ours. But we never loved brilliancy from our hearts in Liverpool. We
have tolerated it at times for the sake of other qualities by which it
has been accompanied, but we were always anxious to get rid of it as soon
as possible. Liverpool looks upon able and clever men as Athens looked
upon Aristides. Mediocrity suits our temper best.
But we spoke of General Tarleton’s military colleague, the Castor to his
Pollux, General Gascoigne. “The old general,” as the latter was
familiarly called, was a remarkable instance of how little is required to
make a legislator. He had all the unfitness of General Tarleton without
his dashing and brilliant exploits as a soldier, to veneer and varnish
over the preter-pluperfect common-place of his character. He was an
ignorant and illiterate man. This may, perhaps, be ascribed to the early
age at which he had joined the army. At all events, his education must
have been more in the school of Mrs. Malaprop than of Dr. Syntax. His
highest attribute was a species of cunning, which sometimes did for him
what greater talent has failed to do for other persons. He was a man of
intense selfishness. His gratitude was of that peculiar kind which burns
with a white heat glow for benefits to come, but looks with cold and
freezing eyes upon favours received. He treated his friends as he did
his gloves, that is, he wore out both, and then cast them from him. He
constantly forgot his supporters at the last election, to coquet with
those who, he hoped, might help him at the next. But such a game could
not be played for ever.
General Tarleton was, we said, in his summary expulsion from the
representation, the victim of ingratitude. When General Gascoigne’s turn
came, he was justly punished for his ingratitude towards so many of his
best friends. He had most industriously earned the fate which overtook
him. His immediate predecessor in the seat for the borough was his
brother, Bamber Gascoigne, of Childwall-hall, whose only daughter and
heiress married, at a later period, the Marquis of Salisbury. Bamber was
a man of a very different stamp and calibre from his brother. He was a
good specimen of the gentleman of the old school, and very much superior
generally to the country squires of his day. His tastes were refined and
literary. He was a thoroughly educated and well-read person. He was at
once proud and courteous in his manner, and aristocratic in his bearing.
His habits attached him more to his library than to the arena of the
House of Commons, and he, consequently, did not kill himself with toiling
in the cause of his constituents. On some occasion, a deputation of our
merchants waited upon him to remonstrate upon some alleged lack of zeal
in their behalf. The interview was not a pleasant one. The member
received the remonstrants with either too little humility or too little
courtesy. As they grew warmer, he became colder and stiffer. The end of
the matter was that they did not exactly part company in a gale of wind,
but, while they gave him notice to quit, they relented so far that they
told him that, out of respect to a family which had so long represented
the town, they would, in depriving him of his seat, transfer it to his
younger brother, the redoubtable general. It was a pity, for he had
every quality which the other wanted. The thing, however, was done, and
for years Bamber Gascoigne was a stranger to the town for which he had
once sat in parliament. He had received a blow, an insult he deemed it,
which he could never forget, although towards the end of his life he
seems to have forgiven it, and once more, to some small extent, had some
intercourse with Liverpool society. Mrs. Gascoigne, his wife, however,
as excellent and kind-hearted a person as ever lived, always took a most
lively and remarkably fussy interest in our elections. She felt that, if
her husband could not retain the representation of Liverpool, still it
was a prize worth keeping in the family. It may be that her husband
thought so too, but he was too proud and impassive to show it.
But let us return to the “Old General.” In politics he was a Tory,
“thorough and thorough.” He never flinched nor wavered, but followed the
banner of his party “for better and for worse,” through good report and
evil report, to the close of his career. He was once, indeed, dreadfully
puzzled when a schism occurred amongst the leaders of Toryism. On that
occasion he wrote a letter, said to be still in existence, to a leading
friend in Liverpool, in which he thus expressed himself:—“Dear —, I
cannot as yet see my way clearly, or make out which section will prevail,
and obtain the government. Until that is decided, I shall vote
_according to my conscience_.” It is refreshing to discover even these
brief traces of a conscience in a hack politician of the old school. We
have already observed that the education of the General had not been too
carefully cultivated. He once, in the House of Commons, gave a
remarkable proof of his deficiency, to the great delight of the young and
waggish portion of our legislators. In some debate, touching the
extension of political privileges to the dissenters, one of the orators
had dwelt eloquently upon the beauty and loveliness of harmony and union
between different sects. Gascoigne rose to do a bit of bigotry for his
friends, but, being most singular in his notions of the _plural_ of the
word used, thus commenced his reply, “I hate to hear all this cant about
the harmony and union which ought to exist between different _sexes_.”
He got no further. A regular “Hurrah” of laughter burst from every
corner of the House. On it went gathering strength as it advanced,
explosion after explosion, thunderclap after thunderclap, in the wildest
confusion. The younger members shouted with glee and merriment. Grave
old statesmen held their sides, and were nearly thrown into fits in the
vain endeavour to repress their mirth. Mr. Speaker himself, after an
idle attempt to check the row, led the chorus until the very mace danced
upon the table, and every hair of his wig stood on end in horror at the
profanation. Never was such a scene enacted before or since in the House
of Commons; and what gave the greatest zest to the whole thing was, that
the General seemed to be unconsciously innocent and ignorant that he was
the cause of the unusual commotion which was going on. It was the
greatest performance of his life. In parting with him, we may as well
add here, that, from a quality which we have before ascribed to him, he
was called, his name being Isaac, “Cunning Isaac,” both by friends and
foes.
In finishing the chapter, we would remark that subscriptions for
electioneering expenses were raised in those times after a fashion which,
we trust and believe, does not prevail at the present day. The figure
written in the list was understood to be the price of the patronage to be
received in return. There was a regular scale. This was corruption in
its most unblushing and unscrupulous form.