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

may you never be without

a drop to wet your whistle.”

 

“They say I’m the last new baronet. Well, I ain’t ashamed of that;

not a bit. When will Mr Moffat get himself made a baronet? No man

can truly say I’m too proud of it. I have never stuck myself up; no,

nor stuck my wife up either: but I don’t see much to be ashamed of

because the bigwigs chose to make a baronet of me.”

 

“Nor, no more thee h’ant, Roger. We’d all be barrownites if so be we

knew the way.”

 

“But now, having polished off this bit of picture, let me ask you who

Mr Moffat is? There are pictures enough about him, too; though Heaven

knows where they all come from. I think Sir Edwin Landseer must have

done this one of the goose; it is so deadly natural. Look at it;

there he is. Upon my word, whoever did that ought to make his fortune

at some of these exhibitions. Here he is again, with a big pair

of scissors. He calls himself ‘England’s honour;’ what the deuce

England’s honour has to do with tailoring, I can’t tell you: perhaps

Mr Moffat can. But mind you, my friends, I don’t say anything against

tailoring: some of you are tailors, I dare say.”

 

“Yes, we be,” said a little squeaking voice from out of the crowd.

 

“And a good trade it is. When I first knew Barchester there were

tailors here could lick any stone-mason in the trade; I say nothing

against tailors. But it isn’t enough for a man to be a tailor unless

he’s something else along with it. You’re not so fond of tailors that

you’ll send one up to Parliament merely because he is a tailor.”

 

“We won’t have no tailors. No; nor yet no cabbaging. Take a go of

brandy, Roger; you’re blown.”

 

“No, I’m not blown yet. I’ve a deal more to say about Mr Moffat

before I shall be blown. What has he done to entitle him to come here

before you and ask you to send him to Parliament? Why; he isn’t even

a tailor. I wish he were. There’s always some good in a fellow who

knows how to earn his own bread. But he isn’t a tailor; he can’t even

put a stitch in towards mending England’s honour. His father was a

tailor; not a Barchester tailor, mind you, so as to give him any

claim on your affections; but a London tailor. Now the question is,

do you want to send the son of a London tailor up to Parliament to

represent you?”

 

“No, we don’t; nor yet we won’t either.”

 

“I rather think not. You’ve had him once, and what has he done for

you? Has he said much for you in the House of Commons? Why, he’s so

dumb a dog that he can’t bark even for a bone. I’m told it’s quite

painful to hear him fumbling and mumbling and trying to get up a

speech there over at the White Horse. He doesn’t belong to the city;

he hasn’t done anything for the city; and he hasn’t the power to do

anything for the city. Then, why on earth does he come here? I’ll

tell you. The Earl de Courcy brings him. He’s going to marry the

Earl de Courcy’s niece; for they say he’s very rich—this tailor’s

son—only they do say also that he doesn’t much like to spend his

money. He’s going to marry Lord de Courcy’s niece, and Lord de Courcy

wishes that his nephew should be in Parliament. There, that’s the

claim which Mr Moffat has here on the people of Barchester. He’s Lord

de Courcy’s nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand and

foot, heart and soul, to Lord de Courcy, had better vote for him.

Such men have my leave. If there are enough of such at Barchester to

send him to Parliament, the city in which I was born must be very

much altered since I was a young man.”

 

And so finishing his speech, Sir Roger retired within, and recruited

himself in the usual manner.

 

Such was the flood of eloquence at the Dragon of Wantly. At the White

Horse, meanwhile, the friends of the de Courcy interest were treated

perhaps to sounder political views; though not expressed in periods

so intelligibly fluent as those of Sir Roger.

 

Mr Moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to what

proficiency in the Parliamentary gift of public talking he might yet

attain; but hitherto his proficiency was not great. He had, however,

endeavoured to make up by study for any want of readiness of speech,

and had come to Barchester daily, for the last four days, fortified

with a very pretty harangue, which he had prepared for himself in

the solitude of his chamber. On the three previous days matters

had been allowed to progress with tolerable smoothness, and he had

been permitted to deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence with

few other interruptions than those occasioned by his own want of

practice. But on this, the day of days, the Barchesterian roughs were

not so complaisant. It appeared to Mr Moffat, when he essayed to

speak, that he was surrounded by enemies rather than friends; and in

his heart he gave great blame to Mr Nearthewinde for not managing

matters better for him.

 

“Men of Barchester,” he began, in a voice which was every now and

then preternaturally loud, but which, at each fourth or fifth word,

gave way from want of power, and descended to its natural weak tone.

“Men of Barchester—electors and non-electors—”

 

“We is hall electors; hall on us, my young kiddy.”

 

“Electors and non-electors, I now ask your suffrages, not for the

first time—”

 

“Oh! we’ve tried you. We know what you’re made on. Go on, Snip; don’t

you let ‘em put you down.”

 

“I’ve had the honour of representing you in Parliament for the last

two years and—”

 

“And a deuced deal you did for us, didn’t you?”

 

“What could you expect from the ninth part of a man? Never mind,

Snip—go on; don’t you be out by any of them. Stick to your wax and

thread like a man—like the ninth part of a man—go on a little

faster, Snip.”

 

“For the last two years—and—and—” Here Mr Moffat looked round to

his friends for some little support, and the Honourable George, who

stood close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like a

brick.

 

“And—and I went through it like a brick,” said Mr Moffat, with the

gravest possible face, taking up in his utter confusion the words

that were put into his mouth.

 

“Hurray!—so you did—you’re the real brick. Well done, Snip; go it

again with the wax and thread!”

 

“I am a thorough-paced reformer,” continued Mr Moffat, somewhat

reassured by the effect of the opportune words which his friend had

whispered into his ear. “A thorough-paced reformer—a thorough-paced

reformer—”

 

“Go on, Snip. We all know what that means.”

 

“A thorough-paced reformer—”

 

“Never mind your paces, man; but get on. Tell us something new. We’re

all reformers, we are.”

 

Poor Mr Moffat was a little thrown back. It wasn’t so easy to tell

these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment; so

he looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint.

“Say something about their daughters,” whispered George, whose own

flights of oratory were always on that subject. Had he counselled Mr

Moffat to say a word or two about the tides, his advice would not

have been less to the purpose.

 

“Gentlemen,” he began again—“you all know that I am a thorough-paced

reformer—”

 

“Oh, drat your reform. He’s a dumb dog. Go back to your goose,

Snippy; you never were made for this work. Go to Courcy Castle and

reform that.”

 

Mr Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered

by such facetiæ as these, when an egg,—and it may be feared not a

fresh egg,—flung with unerring precision, struck him on the open

part of his well-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechless

despair.

 

An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered;

but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man’s eloquence, or

to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above

described. Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be

stopped even by such an argument as this; but Mr Moffat was not one

of them. As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat,

he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their

votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was

for that occasion denied to him. He could not be self-confident,

energetic, witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg drying through

his clothes. He was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadly

disconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had been

standing.

 

It was in vain that the Honourable George, Mr Nearthewinde, and Frank

endeavoured again to bring him to the charge. He was like a beaten

prize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he

stands up, only stands up to fall. Mr Moffat got sulky also, and when

he was pressed, said that Barchester and the people in it might be

d–-. “With all my heart,” said Mr Nearthewinde. “That wouldn’t have

any effect on their votes.”

 

But, in truth, it mattered very little whether Mr Moffat spoke,

or whether he didn’t speak. Four o’clock was the hour for closing

the poll, and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions had

been made about half-past three, by a safe emissary sent from

Nearthewinde, to prove to Mr Reddypalm that all manner of contingent

advantages would accrue to the Brown Bear if it should turn out that

Mr Moffat should take his seat for Barchester. No bribe was, of

course, offered or even hinted at. The purity of Barchester was not

contaminated during the day by one such curse as this. But a man, and

a publican, would be required to do some great deed in the public

line; to open some colossal tap; to draw beer for the million; and no

one would be so fit as Mr Reddypalm—if only it might turn out that

Mr Moffat should, in the coming February, take his seat as member for

Barchester.

 

But Mr Reddypalm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions soared

no higher than this—that his little bills should be duly settled. It

is wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety.

An account, with a respectable total of five or six pounds, is

brought to you, and you complain but of one article; that fire in the

bedroom was never lighted; or that second glass of brandy and water

was never called for. You desire to have the shilling expunged, and

all your host’s pleasure in the whole transaction is destroyed. Oh!

my friends, pay for the brandy and water, though you never drank it;

suffer the fire to pass, though it never warmed you. Why make a good

man miserable for such a trifle?

 

It became notified to Reddypalm with sufficient clearness that his

bill for the past election should be paid without further question;

and, therefore, at five o’clock the Mayor of Barchester proclaimed

the results of the contest in the following figures:—

 

Scatcherd 378

Moffat 376

 

Mr Reddypalm’s two votes had decided the question. Mr Nearthewinde

immediately went up to town; and the dinner party at Courcy Castle

that evening was not a particularly pleasant meal.

 

This much, however, had been absolutely decided before the