Vox Meditantis

Thursday, 14th November 1822

Aye, sit thee there, and be still whilst I speak.

The light fails early now, does it not? By half past four the sky bleeds crimson over the western fields, and the crows gather like mourners at a pauper’s grave. I have seen such colour in the dye-houses down at Bristol – madder and cochineal, ground fine and sold by the pound to those who would dress themselves above their station. A man may buy the appearance of a gentleman for the price of a good coat, dyed scarlet as a cardinal’s robe, but the cloth knows what the wearer is beneath. Just as I know.

They ask me – oh, they ask me often enough at the market cross, when the ale has loosened their tongues – “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?” As though a man of sense would pine for foreign shores like some moonstruck boy reading novels. I tell them this: I would live precisely where I do live, here, upon this land that I have made mine own through effort and cunning that they cannot fathom. Let the fools speak of Vienna or Paris, of the grand Congress that meets to carve up nations like Sunday mutton. I read in the Gazette not three days past that the Powers have resolved to meddle in Spain’s affairs, to send French armies marching southward to restore their precious order. What is that to me? Let kings play at their councils. I have built my kingdom here, sixty acres and the farmstead, and the men who work my fields know whose word is law.

Legacy. That is what gnaws at me in the small hours, when even the dogs have ceased their prowling. A man may amass gold, land, livestock – may hold promissory notes from half the county – but what remains when the worms have done their work? I have no son to bear my name forward. The daughters are married off, settled with tradesmen and small farmers, and their children will know nothing of their grandfather save what their mothers whisper by the fire. And what will those whispers say? That I was hard? That I drove bargains that left other men with naught but ruin? Good. Let them say it. Let them remember that I was not to be trifled with, that I took what I required and gave no quarter to the weak or foolish.

There is a tenant – no, I shall not speak his name, for it matters not – who came to me yesterday morning, cap in hand, bleating about the rent. His voice trembled like a plucked string. He spoke of his children, of the harvest, of hardships I care nothing for. I watched him closely as he spoke, studied the grey pallor of his face, the way his hands twisted the brim of his cap until the felt near tore. I said to him, very soft, “You will pay what is owed by Lady Day, or you will find yourself upon the road with all your chattels.” The man wept. I felt nothing save a mild satisfaction, as one feels when a hound finally learns to heel.

Do you understand? This is how a man ensures he is remembered. Not through kindness – kindness is forgotten before the season turns. Not through charity, which breeds only contempt in the recipients and smug satisfaction in the giver. No. A man is remembered through the fear he instils, the respect he commands, the certainty that his will shall be done. When I am laid beneath the stones in the churchyard, let them speak my name with a catch in their throats. Let them say, “There was one who knew his own mind, who bent the world to his purpose.”

The colour has gone from the sky now. All is grey and dwindling. I must see to the locking of the barns ere the night comes full. But mark this well: I shall not fade as that light has faded. My mark is upon this land, upon these people, and it shall endure long after I am dust.

Now get thee gone from my sight, and see that the gate to the lower pasture is secured. I’ll not have the ewes wandering in the dark.

Set in the post-Napoleonic era of the European “Congress system”, this monologue echoes debates at the Congress of Verona (October-December 1822), where the great powers discussed French intervention in Spain to restore King Ferdinand VII’s absolute rule. Convened by members of the former Holy Alliance and their allies, the congress considered how to suppress liberal revolutions, marking growing tension between conservative monarchies and constitutional movements. Its decisions paved the way for France’s 1823 invasion of Spain, the “Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis”, which crushed the liberal regime and ushered in a reactionary period that helped set the stage for the revolutions of 1848.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.