Baldwin the Jacobite

Stanley Baldwin, prime minister of Britain on several occasions in the period between the First and Second World Wars, liked to claim association with the Scottish Jacobite rebels of the eighteenth century. His mother was Louisa Macdonald, descended from the Skye branch of the family, whose forbears settled near Eniskillen in Northern Ireland after the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745.

On one occasion Baldwin even gave details of his Jacobite ancestry in a speech in the House of Commons;

My mother's family fled from the Highlands after having been out with Prince Charles in 1745. I remember that, in my early days, it was with great difficulty that we could stand up when the band was playing God Save the King, because we had a Hanoverian and not a Jacobite King.

I rather suspect that there was quite a lot of romantic embellishment in the stories related to young Stanley by his mother. What she clearly neglected to tell him was that her branch of the clan, the Macdonalds of Sleat, remained loyal to George II, while the rest of Clan Donald followed Charlie across the heather. Well, never mind; at least he managed to chase one Hanoverian from the throne!

Decline and Fall

The present manoeuvring in the Labour Party calls to mind an episode in the history of the Roman Empire known as the Crisis of the Third Century. There were a number of elements to this but an avaricious desire for the imperial purple was of singular importance.

You see, it was a time when just about any ambitious general thought he could do a better job than the incumbent emperor, and when to be emperor was to face ever multiplying plots and conspiracies. An example was set when one man succeeded to the throne by assassinating his predecessor, and so it went down a predictable and depressing path

So, there he is, the old tired emperor, Augustus Gordianus, having assumed the imperial diadem by disloyalty and plotting against his predecessor, Caesar Antoninus not so very Pius. He set the example; others now look to follow. How can he call for loyalty, when he has a commendable record of disloyalty? But there are so many likely successors, each more than anxious to steal a march over their rivals.

There is, of course, Ed Balls, no doubt the preferred choice for Gordianus, but with his record of disloyalty to the old regime and toadying to the new he is not exactly a welcome choice among the legions. It’s worth remembering, as The Spectator points out, that the trigger for the cabinet crisis last June was the old emperor’s attempt to crown darling Ed as Chancellor. That little storm was only headed off by Senator Mandelson. People may despair of Gordianus, but they clearly loath Balls.

Now, what about the praetorian prefects? Who among them can expect a loyal following, a crowning by acclimation? There is, of course, David ‘I’m no Heseltine’ Miliband, who rather like Claudius, hid not once but twice behind the curtain when the guard looked to dethrone the emperor. Not a man, one would have thought, with a tremendous amount of backbone. He is hungry for power, yes, but he prefers to wait for history rather than make history; he is the ‘come and get me man.’ In the end that curtain may never be pulled aside. There is Harriet Harperson, also noted for lukewarm loyalty and who probably rivals Balls as the least popular person in the parliamentary Labour Party.

When one thinks about it this is Gordianus’s great strength; this is what has kept him on his shaky throne through financial plagues and barbarian invasions: there really is no credible alternative; there is no Diocletian waiting in the wings. He is the destiny this wretched government cannot escape. Now a little bit of Waugh comes to mind, appropriately enough from Decline and Fall- “And the only interest about him arises from the unusual series of events of which his shadow was witness”

A Great Tactitian

Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington, continues to be perceived in rather simplistic terms, as a good soldier and a political reactionary. But as always the picture is much more complex.

In many ways the political career of Wellington is not that different from the military: in both he sought to preserve the existing order of things from dissolution and chaos; but just as a good general knows when to advance and when to retreat, so too does a good politician.

In political terms he was a Tory, by both instinct and conviction, anxious to preserve the old order in both church and state, and deeply suspicious of all suggestions for radical reform. The political divisions in Lord Liverpool's cabinet between the admirers and opponents of George Canning, the Foreign Secretary, placed Wellington firmly on the anti-Canning right. Canning was in favour of Catholic Emancipation and Wellington was against it, because of the dangers this presented to the 'Protestant Ascendancy' in Ireland, of which the Iron Duke was a part. The contest between tradition and reform saw Wellington emerge as the champion of tradition, resigning when Canning emerged as Prime Minister in 1827. In the political confusion that followed Canning's early death Wellington himself became Prime Minister at the beginning of 1828.

Wellington now held all the keys; but unlike a true reactionary he sought to manage change, rather than resist it altogether. This became apparent when the issue of Catholic Emancipation could no longer be set to one side after Daniel O'Connell, a Catholic, won the County Clare by-election in July 1828. With British authority in Ireland in some doubt, the Duke brought an Emancipation Bill before Parliament, though he tried to mitigate the full effects of the measure by raising the property qualifications for voting. He likened the passage of the Emancipation Bill through Parliament to a military campaign, the political equivalent of the Battle of Waterloo. And for this operation none was better placed that the Duke. He persuaded George IV to accept the measure, and he drew on the Parliamentary support of the Whig opposition against the die-hard Tories who refused to fall into line. His notorious indifference to public opinion, usually harmful for any politician, was of distinct benefit; for he simply put the deluge of anti-Catholic petitions to one side.

Later, while in opposition, he was strongly opposed to Whig attempts to extend the franchise in the Reform Bill. But even here pragmatism came before principle. When Earl Grey, the Whig Prime Minister, threatened to push the disputed Bill through the House of Lords, where the Tories were in the majority, by obliging William IV to create a large number of new peers, Wellington withdrew his opposition, rather than have the King face this humiliation.

As the 1830s developed Wellington gave his full support to Robert Peel, now the Tory leader, in his attempts to give the party a more modern face. Peel's Tamworth Manifesto, which saw the beginnings of the modern Conservative party, would never have succeeded but for Wellington's assistance. In the Lords, moreover, Wellington continued to act as a restraining influence to his fellow Tory peers, who sought to oppose every item of Whig legislation, thus further assisting Peel in winning over moderate opinion in the country at large. Later, when Peel became Prime Minister, he was ably assisted by the Duke in the Lords, despite his advancing years. Both men sought to subordinate party interest to the interest of the country as a a whole. Wellington even went so far as to support Peel over the highly-contentious repeal of the Corn laws, though he was personally unconvinced by the economic arguments. It was only by Wellington's influence that the Corn Law Bill made it through the Upper House. He may not have been the greatest statesman in English history, but to the end of his life he preserved all of the qualities that made him a great tactician.