by R S Surtees
“Great drinker! monstrous great drinker!” added the Duke. “However, my dear Jeems,” continued he, folding up the map of Italy, “we must improve the opportunity — be moving; important event! monstrous important event! Kind of Lookalive to send us the intelligence; monstrous kind of Lookalive to send us the intelligence!” added he, ramming the map back into its case without regard to the folds.
The first thing a great man does is to send for his lawyer. The lawyer is to the mind what the doctor is to the body. The king sends for his chancellor, the duke for his solicitor; accordingly, a messenger was despatched to Sellborough for Mr. Smoothington; and the Marquis was recommended to wipe away all trivial fond records of Rome and Terracina, Capua and Naples, from his mind, and prepare for the great struggle of political life..
Mr. Smoothington, though what is called a man of information — that is to say, a great gossip — a man who knew everybody’s affairs in the county — was rather behindhand in getting the news on the present, occasion; and several people had arrived in breathless haste at the Castle to announce the death of Mr. Guzzlegoose ere it reached Mr. Smoothington’s ears at his office.
Having examined and cross-examined the parties who brought the intelligence, and satisfied himself of the truth of it, he had just sent his clerk footman to order the lofty landaulet, when the Duke’s messenger arrived, requiring his immediate presence.
It needing no conjurer to proclaim what would be wanted, Mr. Smoothington made a hasty selection of popular addresses, and in his best black suit, with a fresh sprinkling of powder, was soon on his way to Donkeyton Castle.
Mr. Smoothington affected the Duke — indeed he was generally called “The Duke.” He powdered his iron-grey locks, and kept the hair at the back of his head as full as possible; had a large crop of whiskers under his chin — now brushed up in full view. He also wore eye-glasses, though not at all short-sighted.
Thus arrayed, he stepped into the lofty landaulet, and sitting well forward, as if fussing in the particular pocket that happened to be next a neighbour’s house, he jolted away to the Castle. As he went, he thought of Guzzlegoose — recalled his start in life, when, at the Marquis’s age, in the bloom of youth, and the plenitude of looks, he was returned for the county. Thought of his maiden speech — his early promise — his maturer standstill — his later failure. Remembered his Grecian nose, when there wasn’t a speck upon it — his waist when it resembled an hour-glass — thought how succeeding sessions had blotched the one and swelled the other — could hardly have believed the pale taper lad of one-and-twenty could have filled into the gross, overgrown, rubicund monster of five-and-forty.
“No constitution, however strong,” said Mr. Smoothington aloud to himself, “can long withstand the united effects of eating and drinking.”
He then looked at his watch — calculated what time he would arrive at Donkeyton — wondered whether the Duke would ask him to dine. If so, whether he would produce any burgundy; and, if not, why not, or how otherwise.
The man of law was so long in getting to Donkeyton that the Duke began to fidget and think he could almost do without him. “Tiresome man — monstrous tiresome man,” said he to the Marquis, as he paced hurriedly up and down the spacious library. “Could do it ourselves — could do it ourselves — do believe we could do it ourselves,” observed he to young hopeful.
Just as they were preparing pens, ink, and paper, and the Duke and Duchess were busy fussing among a drawerful of papers containing the genealogical tree, and the bills and squibs connected with his Grace’s first election for the county, the oracle arrived, and, hat in hand, waved his salaams up the room.
Smoothington was a great courtier — bowed extremely low — tried to back out of rooms, an attempt which generally ended in his tumbling over a footstool, or almost cutting himself in two against an open door. When his hands were disengaged, he employed them in rubbing them one over another as if he were washing them. He had a long, pale, but not unpleasant face, and taking him altogether, he would have commanded five-and-forty or fifty pounds as a butler.
If he had not kept the Duke waiting, his Grace would certainly have shaken hands with him, strongly symptomatic of electioneering, and a compliment he had not paid him since Mr. Smoothington attended with the eight-and-thirty skins of parchment containing his Grace’s marriage settlement. As it was, the Duke exclaimed, “Ah, Mr. Smoothington, come at last! — come at last! — glad you are! — monstrous glad you are — pray be seated! — pray be seated!” — bowing him into a vacant chair in the neighbourhood of the throne.
“Well,” said he, squashing himself into the throne, and wheeling it close up to Mr. Smoothington, “you’ve heard poor Guzzlegoose is dead — sorry for it — monstrous sorry for it — young man — quite young man — sure he would kill himself — ate so much Perigord pie — Perigord pie — continual Perigord pie.”
“Yes, he was extremely fond of Périgord pie, your Grace,” observed Mr. Smoothington, with a broad grin on his face, as he deposited his hat under his chair, and began working his hands.
“Well, now,” continued his Grace, putting a sheet of paper before Smoothington, “the first thing I suppose will be for the Marquis of Bray to issue an address, offering himself to the county.”
“The first thing for the Marquis of Bray to do will be to issue an address offering himself to the county, as your Grace observes,” replied Mr. Smoothington, working away at his hands.
“And, perhaps, the less we put in it the better,” added the Duke. —
“The less we put in it the better,” bowed Mr. Smoothington.
“Then just draw up the form of what you think will do,” rejoined the Duke, handing Mr. Smoothington a pen.
Mr. Smoothington took it — looked at the nib — held it up to the light — took out his knife — pruned the feather — and thus having collected his faculties, drew the roll of precedents from his pocket.
“Whether shall we call them, Freeholders of the county, or Free and Independent Electors; or address them as the Gentry, Clergy, Freeholders, &c., of the county, does your Grace think?” inquired Mr. Smoothington, dipping his pen in ink to obey the Duke’s dictation.
“Freeholders of the county,” replied his Grace.
“Freeholders of the county, I think,” wrote Mr. Smoothington; adding, “we must allude, I suppose, to the death of Mr. Guzzlegoose?”
“Of course,” said the Duke.
Mr. Smoothington then wrote —
“To THE FREEHOLDERS OF THE COUNTY OF —
“GENTLEMEN, — A vacancy having occurred in the representation of our county by the lamented death of Mr. Guzzlegoose, I hasten to offer my humble services in endeavouring to supply the loss that melancholy event has occasioned.”
“Will that do, does your Grace think?” asked Mr. Smoothington, looking up. —
“I think it will,” replied the Duke; adding, “read it over again.” —
Mr. Smoothington read it over again.
“Perhaps we may put in my friend, Mr. Guzzlegoose — lamented death of my friend, Mr. Guzzlegoose,” observed the Duke.
“I think it would be better, your Grace,” observed Mr. Smoothington, inserting the words.
“Looks as if we identified ourselves with his opinions,” added the Duke.
“It does, your Grace,” replied Mr. Smoothington.
“May gain the extreme party,” observed the Duke; adding, “Guzzlegoose went farther than we do.”
“He did, your Grace,” acquiesced Mr. Smoothington; “rather of the whole hog order.”
“We had better deal in generalities now, I think,” observed the Duke.
“I think we had,” agreed Mr. Smoothington.
“Suppose we say, ‘It is, I trust, unnecessary for me to enter into any detailed explanation of the principles by which my public conduct will be governed,’” observed the Duke; “‘ suffice it to say they are those which have been maintained by my family throughout many succeeding genera
tions,’” added he.
“Very good,” observed Mr. Smoothington, reducing the sentence to writing as quick as possible.
“Then,” said the Duke, “we might say, ‘ In those principles I have been educated, and it is upon my sincere attachment to them that I ground my claim to your support.’”
“Admirable!” exclaimed Mr. Smoothington; “nothing can be better,” writing it down.
The Duke then threw himself back in his chair as if overcome with fatigue, his whiskered face turned up to the rich fretwork ceiling.
“Shall we say anything about a personal canvass, do you think?” suggested the man of law.
“Personal canvass!” repeated the Duke; “personal canvass — I don’t know what to say about a personal canvass.”
“We, of the Liberal party, generally make a show of canvassing,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“Very true,” replied the Duke, “very true; might promise them one — no occasion to make it, you know — no occasion to make it.”
“Not unless there were symptoms of an opposition.” replied Mr. Smoothington.
“No fear of that,” rejoined the Duke, “no fear of that. We are popular — monstrous popular. Not like as if we were attempting the Tory seat. The seat is ours, you know — the seat is ours. We returned Guzzlegoose.”
“Mr. Guzzlegoose always acknowledged the great obligations he was under to your Grace,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“Might say that he would take the earliest opportunity, consistently with the decorum to be observed on so melancholy an occasion, of paying his personal respects to every elector, and affording them an opportunity of ascertaining the details of his political creed, or something of that sort,” observed the Duke. “It would look as if Jeems intended doing it, and yet not bind him.”
“It would,” replied Mr. Smoothington.
“Canvasses are nasty things,” observed the Duke. “Remember a drunken fish-fag taking me in her arms, and hugging and kissing me before the crowd,” added he, with a shudder.
“It is a season of great freedom,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“Might do the same by Jeems,” continued the Duke; “give him the Scotch-fiddle perhaps, or some such nasty complaint. Nasty business canvassing altogether,” added he;— “should have abolished it with the Reform Bill.
However, there’s no fear of a contest. No one would be fool enough to risk a crusade against our popularity. We are popular — monstrous popular, I suppose?” asked he of the keeper of his popularity.
“Oh, very popular indeed replied Mr. Smoothington, with due emphasis.
“Should think so,” said the Duke—” should think so — have subscribed to two organs, two churches, three races, and. I don’t know what else of late.”
“The Corn-Law League might trouble your Grace perhaps,” suggested Mr. Smoothington.
“I think not,” replied the Duke—” I think not,” repeated he. “They don’t know but Jeems, the Marquis, may be for immediate and total repeal. That address pledges him to nothing — that address pledges him to nothing.”
“It does not, your Grace,” agreed Mr. Smoothington.
“I don’t think we can do better,” added his Grace, after a pause. “Time enough to speak out when we’re pressed — time enough to speak out when we’re pressed.”
“It is so, your Grace,” assented Mr. Smoothington.
“Just run over a fair copy of the address, then,” said the Duke, “and let us hear how it reads. While you are doing it I’ll order you some wine and water, and a biscuit — a cutlet, or anything you would like to have.”
“Not anything, I am much obliged to your Grace,” replied Mr. Smoothington; “I never eat luncheon,” added he, making an effort for a dinner.
He then made the following fair copy: —
“To THE FREEHOLDERS OF THE COUNTY OF —
“GENTLEMEN, — A vacancy having occurred in the representation of our county by the lamented death of my friend Mr. Guzzlegoose, I hasten to offer my humble services in endeavouring to supply the loss that melancholy event has occasioned.
“It is, I trust, unnecessary for me to enter into any detailed explanation of the principles by which my public conduct will be governed. Suffice it to say they are those which have been maintained by my family throughout succeeding generations. In those principles I have been educated, and it is upon my sincere attachment to them that I ground my claim to your support.
“I will take the earliest opportunity, consistently with the decorum to be observed on so melancholy an occasion, of paying my personal respects to every elector; and, in the meantime, I have the honour to subscribe myself, gentlemen, with every sentiment of respect and esteem, your very faithful, humble servant,— “BRAY.”
“DONKEYTON CASTLE.”
His Grace then took and read it.
“That will do very well,” said he, returning it. “And now have the kindness to put it in the printer’s hands immediately, and let it be advertised and placarded about the county. Much obliged to you for your attendance — sorry you can’t stay dinner — hope we shall be more fortunate another time!” With which tantalising politeness his Grace rose to witness Mr. Smoothington’s backward retreat up the room, which he accomplished with a bump against a globe, and upsetting a banner-screen.
That modest body, the “Anti-Corn-Law League,” no sooner saw the Marquis’s address, than they inquired, through their chairman, his lordship’s opinions relative to their pet subject — the Com Laws; an interference that the Duke could not brook from parties unconnected with the county, and therefore desired the Marquis to take no noticé of their application.
No answer was returned. A second and third letter followed with similar success. This nettled the great lawgivers, who pulled the strings in London, and set all their men of weight a going in the county — men in whom the greatness of the leaders was well reflected.
Reports of these meetings were duly brought to the Castle, but the Duke’s cue being known, the parties underrated them as much as possible. “Contemptible! monstrous contemptible!” the Duke said they were.
The next thing was his Grace reading in the Whig paper, The Dozey Independent, or True Blue Patriot, a paragraph announcing that the League had determined upon starting a candidate in the person of “William Bowker, Esq., of Whetstone Park, in the County of Middlesex, a merchant of great weight and respectability in the City of London” — respectability in City parlance meaning money. The reader will be astonished how Bill, the “snuff-shop man,” could have jumped so suddenly from the humble region of Eagle Street into the magnificence of Whetstone Park, in the County of Middlesex. Some may suppose it was with the League money, while others will put it down as an improbability. Let any one, however, take his hat, and a cab (if one can get up), and explore the alley running parallel between High Holborn and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, consisting, as it does, of a heterogeneous collection of stables, with garrets above, joiners’ shops, cobblers’ stalls, and tenement houses; a street or bye street, or back street, a few shades worse than Eagle Street. This wretched alley is dignified by the name of “Whetstone Park,” and thither Mrs. Bowker and her sister had taken refuge when their too frequent visitor, the appraiser, came again to seize for rent and taxes.
It was a lucky turn, however, for Bill, who now called himself a retired merchant living on his property. His League excursions so far had not benefited him much; he was too far gone to rally in a short time, and the more money Mrs. Bowker thought he got, the more brandy she drank, and the more mosaic jewellery she bought.
But to the Duke.
His Grace was dumfoundered when he read this announcement, nor did he recover much when, on turning to the front, or advertisement page, he read Mr. Bowker’s address, announcing that, in compliance with a numerous and highly respectable requisition, he was induced to come forward to endeavour to supply the vacancy caused by the lamented death of Mr. Guzzlegoose. It then proceeded to denounce all rest
rictions upon trade, more especially upon that connected with the food of man, and concluded by announcing Mr. Bowker’s intention of being speedily in the county to make a personal canvass of the electors, and pledging himself to give every man an opportunity of registering his vote in favour of enlightened and rational policy. It concluded, “Believe me to be, gentlemen, with unfeigned esteem, your faithful and sincere friend,
“WM. BOWKER.
“WHETSTONE PARK.”
“God bless us! who ever heard such a thing!” exclaimed the Duke, dropping the paper lifelessly from his hand.
“Who ever heard of such a thing!” repeated he, with a sigh; “bearded in one’s own county by the Lord knows who! These are the blessings of the Reform Bill. To think that I should have lived to see such a thing! Told Grey and Russell, and all of them, that they were going too far. Never thought to get such a return for giving up my boroughs. Oh dear! oh dear! what will the world come to? To think of Jeems being defrauded of his birthright!”
“Shalln’t be the case, though,” added the Duke, boiling with indignation. “Will spend my last shilling before I’ll give up my seat.”
Thereupon his Grace took another look at the hateful address.
“William Bowker!” said he, with a sneer; “wonder who the fellow is. Some millionaire — some opium smuggler — some impudent upstart millowner! Oh, that Jeems should be brought in contact with such a man. Had it been a member of some old county family, with their bigoted pride and Tory prejudices, one could have tolerated it; but to be bearded by William Bowker, of Whetstone Park, in the County of Middlesex — a man of yesterday — a mushroom — a nobody, in fact — it’s disgusting!” Thereupon his Grace threw the paper on the floor.
After a few minutes spent in a reverie, during which the Duke passed rapidly through his mind the political events of his early life, contrasting the comfortable arrangements of those days with the angry struggles of the present, he again roused himself, and determined to do something, though he didn’t know what. A man in that situation generally rings the bell, and his Grace did so.
