Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (epub ebook reader .TXT) 📕

no other great country of Europe,

not even in those which are free, has the popular constitution

obtained, as with us, true sovereignty and power of rule. Here it is

so; and when a man lays himself out to be a member of Parliament, he

plays the highest game and for the highest stakes which the country

affords.

 

To some men, born silver-spooned, a seat in Parliament comes as

a matter of course. From the time of their early manhood they

hardly know what it is not to sit there; and the honour is hardly

appreciated, being too much a matter of course. As a rule, they

never know how great a thing it is to be in Parliament; though, when

reverse comes, as reverses occasionally will come, they fully feel

how dreadful it is to be left out.

 

But to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having been

once fortunate have again to fight the battle without assurance of

success, the coming election must be matter of dread concern. Oh, how

delightful to hear that the long-talked-of rival has declined the

contest, and that the course is clear! or to find by a short canvass

that one’s majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over an

unlucky, friendless foe quite secured!

 

No such gratification as this filled the bosom of Mr Moffat on

the morning of the Barchester election. To him had been brought

no positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, Mr

Nearthewinde. It was admitted on all sides that the contest would be

a very close one; and Mr Nearthewinde would not do more than assert

that they ought to win unless things went very wrong with them.

 

Mr Nearthewinde had other elections to attend to, and had not been

remaining at Courcy Castle ever since the coming of Miss Dunstable:

but he had been there, and at Barchester, as often as possible, and

Mr Moffat was made greatly uneasy by reflecting how very high the

bill would be.

 

The two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of their

assertions, that each would on his side conduct the election in

strict conformity to law. There was to be no bribery. Bribery! who,

indeed, in these days would dare to bribe; to give absolute money for

an absolute vote, and pay for such an article in downright palpable

sovereigns? No. Purity was much too rampant for that, and the means

of detection too well understood. But purity was to be carried much

further than this. There should be no treating; no hiring of two

hundred voters to act as messengers at twenty shillings a day in

looking up some four hundred other voters; no bands were to be paid

for; no carriages furnished; no ribbons supplied. British voters were

to vote, if vote they would, for the love and respect they bore to

their chosen candidate. If so actuated, they would not vote, they

might stay away; no other inducement would be offered.

 

So much was said loudly—very loudly—by each party; but,

nevertheless, Mr Moffat, early in these election days, began to have

some misgivings about the bill. The proclaimed arrangement had been

one exactly suitable to his taste; for Mr Moffat loved his money. He

was a man in whose breast the ambition of being great in the world,

and of joining himself to aristocratic people was continually at war

with the great cost which such tastes occasioned. His last election

had not been a cheap triumph. In one way or another money had

been dragged from him for purposes which had been to his mind

unintelligible; and when, about the middle of his first session, he

had, with much grumbling, settled all demands, he had questioned with

himself whether his whistle was worth its cost.

 

He was therefore a great stickler for purity of election; although,

had he considered the matter, he should have known that with him

money was his only passport into that Elysium in which he had now

lived for two years. He probably did not consider it; for when, in

those canvassing days immediately preceding the election, he had

seen that all the beer-houses were open, and half the population

was drunk, he had asked Mr Nearthewinde whether this violation of

the treaty was taking place only on the part of his opponent, and

whether, in such case, it would not be duly noticed with a view to a

possible future petition.

 

Mr Nearthewinde assured him triumphantly that half at least of the

wallowing swine were his own especial friends; and that somewhat

more than half of the publicans of the town were eagerly engaged in

fighting his, Mr Moffat’s battle. Mr Moffat groaned, and would have

expostulated had Mr Nearthewinde been willing to hear him. But that

gentleman’s services had been put into requisition by Lord de Courcy

rather than by the candidate. For the candidate he cared but little.

To pay the bill would be enough for him. He, Mr Nearthewinde, was

doing his business as he well knew how to do it; and it was not

likely that he should submit to be lectured by such as Mr Moffat on a

trumpery score of expense.

 

It certainly did appear on the morning of the election as though some

great change had been made in that resolution of the candidates to be

very pure. From an early hour rough bands of music were to be heard

in every part of the usually quiet town; carts and gigs, omnibuses

and flys, all the old carriages from all the inn-yards, and every

vehicle of any description which could be pressed into the service

were in motion; if the horses and postboys were not to be paid for

by the candidates, the voters themselves were certainly very liberal

in their mode of bringing themselves to the poll. The election

district of the city of Barchester extended for some miles on each

side of the city, so that the omnibuses and flys had enough to do.

Beer was to be had at the public-houses, almost without question, by

all who chose to ask for it; and rum and brandy were dispensed to

select circles within the bars with equal profusion. As for ribbons,

the mercers’ shops must have been emptied of that article, as far as

scarlet and yellow were concerned. Scarlet was Sir Roger’s colour,

while the friends of Mr Moffat were decked with yellow. Seeing what

he did see, Mr Moffat might well ask whether there had not been a

violation of the treaty of purity!

 

At the time of this election there was some question whether England

should go to war with all her energy; or whether it would not be

better for her to save her breath to cool her porridge, and not

meddle more than could be helped with foreign quarrels. The last view

of the matter was advocated by Sir Roger, and his motto of course

proclaimed the merits of domestic peace and quiet. “Peace abroad and

a big loaf at home,” was consequently displayed on four or five huge

scarlet banners, and carried waving over the heads of the people. But

Mr Moffat was a staunch supporter of the Government, who were already

inclined to be belligerent, and “England’s honour” was therefore the

legend under which he selected to do battle. It may, however, be

doubted whether there was in all Barchester one inhabitant—let alone

one elector—so fatuous as to suppose that England’s honour was in

any special manner dear to Mr Moffat; or that he would be a whit more

sure of a big loaf than he was now, should Sir Roger happily become a

member of the legislature.

 

And then the fine arts were resorted to, seeing that language fell

short in telling all that was found necessary to be told. Poor Sir

Roger’s failing as regards the bottle was too well known; and it was

also known that, in acquiring his title, he had not quite laid aside

the rough mode of speech which he had used in his early years. There

was, consequently, a great daub painted up on sundry walls, on which

a navvy, with a pimply, bloated face, was to be seen standing on a

railway bank, leaning on a spade holding a bottle in one hand, while

he invited a comrade to drink. “Come, Jack, shall us have a drop of

some’at short?” were the words coming out of the navvy’s mouth; and

under this was painted in huge letters,

 

“THE LAST NEW BARONET.”

 

But Mr Moffat hardly escaped on easier terms. The trade by which his

father had made his money was as well known as that of the railway

contractor; and every possible symbol of tailordom was displayed in

graphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city. He was

drawn with his goose, with his scissors, with his needle, with his

tapes; he might be seen measuring, cutting, stitching, pressing,

carrying home his bundle, and presenting his little bill; and under

each of these representations was repeated his own motto: “England’s

honour.”

 

Such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people of

Barchester greeted the two candidates who were desirous of the honour

of serving them in Parliament.

 

The polling went on briskly and merrily. There were somewhat above

nine hundred registered voters, of whom the greater portion recorded

their votes early in the day. At two o’clock, according to Sir

Roger’s committee, the numbers were as follows:—

 

Scatcherd 275

Moffat 268

 

Whereas, by the light afforded by Mr Moffat’s people, they stood in a

slightly different ratio to each other, being written thus:—

 

Moffat 277

Scatcherd 269

 

This naturally heightened the excitement, and gave additional delight

to the proceedings. At half-past two it was agreed by both sides that

Mr Moffat was ahead; the Moffatites claiming a majority of twelve,

and the Scatcherdites allowing a majority of one. But by three

o’clock sundry good men and true, belonging to the railway interest,

had made their way to the booth in spite of the efforts of a band

of roughs from Courcy, and Sir Roger was again leading, by ten or a

dozen, according to his own showing.

 

One little transaction which took place in the earlier part of the

day deserves to be recorded. There was in Barchester an honest

publican—honest as the world of publicans goes—who not only was

possessed of a vote, but possessed also of a son who was a voter.

He was one Reddypalm, and in former days, before he had learned to

appreciate the full value of an Englishman’s franchise, he had been a

declared Liberal and an early friend of Roger Scatcherd’s. In latter

days he had governed his political feelings with more decorum, and

had not allowed himself to be carried away by such foolish fervour as

he had evinced in his youth. On this special occasion, however, his

line of conduct was so mysterious as for a while to baffle even those

who knew him best.

 

His house was apparently open in Sir Roger’s interest. Beer, at any

rate, was flowing there as elsewhere; and scarlet ribbons going

in—not, perhaps, in a state of perfect steadiness—came out more

unsteady than before. Still had Mr Reddypalm been deaf to the voice

of that charmer, Closerstil, though he had charmed with all his

wisdom. Mr Reddypalm had stated, first his unwillingness to vote at

all:—he had, he said, given over politics, and was not inclined to

trouble his mind again with the subject; then he had spoken of his

great devotion to the Duke of Omnium, under whose grandfathers his

grandfather had been bred: Mr Nearthewinde had, as he said, been

with him, and proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would

show the deepest ingratitude