by R S Surtees
“Send Binks here,” said his Grace, as a footman answered the summons.
“Bints is out shooting, your Grace,” replied the man.
“Out shooting!” repeated the Duke; “that’s awkward — want to see him particularly,” his Grace’s wishes increasing as the means of gratifying them diminished.
“Send a groom up to the valet’s covert to desire Binks to come here directly,” said his Grace impatiently.
“Tell Binks to get on to the groom’s horse and ride,” exclaimed the Duke, as the astonished footman vanished like lightning.
“The valet’s covert” was a wood kept exclusively for the amusement of those useful gentry “upper servants,” and there not being many strangers in it in the course of the season, it fell more immediately to the share of Binks and the Castle “gentlemen,” who were now giving the pheasants a rattling. Binks was the Duke’s oracle; he knew, or professed to know, everything.
Great was Binks’s astonishment when the hurrying groom interrupted the “Heigh! cock! cock! cock!” of the beaters, by exclaiming, “Mr. Binks! Mr. Binks! come home directly! come home directly! the Duke wants you! the Duke wants you!”
Out came Binks, all bustle and briars, with a face like a turkey-cock, wondering what had happened.
“Get on to my horse and ride!” exclaimed the groom, jumping off and lengthening the stirrups.
“What’s happened?” inquired Binks, turning deadly pale; “the Duke’s not ill, is he?”
“I don’t know,” replied the groom.
Off went Binks at a gallop.
Arrived at the Castle, he hurried up into the presence, attired as he was, with his whistle dangling at his velveteen jacket button-hole. —
“Binks,” said the Duke, “do you know where Whetstone Park is?” —
“Whetstone Park!” repeated Binks, standing transfixed.
“Whetstone Park, in the County of Middlesex,’ said the Duke.
“Yes, your Grace,” replied Binks; “I should say it’s near Isleworth.”
“Isleworth!” repeated the Duke. “Isleworth! Isleworth! that’s near Sion House.”
“The Duke of Northumberland’s,” replied Binks.
“Do you know anything of a Mr. William Bowker living ‘there?” asked the Duke.
“Mr. William Bowker,” considered Binks—” Mr. William Bowker; can’t say I do. Perhaps he’s a City man,” suggested Binks, as a reason why he should not know him.
“He is” replied the Duke; “the paper here,” holding up old Dozey, “says he’s going to stand for the county.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Binks, in astonishment. “What! oppose the Marquis?” asked he.
“So the paper says,” replied the Duke, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“Must be mad,” said Binks, with a toss of the head.
“I should think so,” rejoined the Duke, with another shrug of the shoulders. “Send for Mr. Smoothington,” added he. —
Binks hurried away to execute the order.
The messenger met Mr. Smoothington at the Gothic lodge. That eminent solicitor had been shocked, on awakening in the morning, at finding his whole front covered with enormous placards, containing Mr. Bowker’s address, and great bills, printed in blue ink, with “BOWKER FOR EVER!” pasted over his nice green door. —
The town of Sellborough was in a perfect ferment — far surpassing anything it had ever seen even in the palmiest days of borough ascendancy. The League didn’t spare paper. Every house-end — every dead wall was covered with their blue bills. A cartload had been put up during the night. As day advanced, a band paraded the streets, and public-houses were freely opened.
Mr. Smoothington was hustled by a party of drunken men, shouting “Bowker for ever!” as he stepped into the rickety landaulet that was again to convey him to Donkeyton Castle. Worse than all, some wicked wag posted a great “BOWKER FOR EVER” placard against the back of the carriage. —
Mr. Smoothington was terror-struck — Whetstone Park had told upon him. A man in his frame of mind was ill calculated to advise the Duke, who was just in a state to be turned either way. If Smoothington had shown a bold front, the Duke, who had seen none of the preparations, would have determined to ‘ show fight; as it was, his own inclination being for temporising, Mr. Smoothington’s advice would determine him that way.
His Grace rose from his easy-chair as Mr. Smoothington entered’the library, and welcomed him with a shake of the hand.
“Tell us all about it,” exclaimed the Duke, hurrying the man of law into a chair. “Tell us all about it,” repeated he, resuming his own seat, and drawing his chair close to Mr. Smoothington’s. “Who is this Mr. Bowker?” asked the Duke, before his factotum could get out a word.
“Really, your Grace, I don’t know,” replied Mr. Smoothington; “the whole thing has come upon me like a clap of thunder. I certainly did hear that the League people had held meetings in Sellborough; but knowing the parties, I really looked upon them as too contemptible for notice.”
“So did I,” exclaimed the Duke, “so did I — impudent people — monstrous impudent people — wrote to Jeems to know his opinions — took no notice of them — took no notice of them. Tell me now what have they done? what have they done?”
“Your Grace, I presume, has seen Mr. Bowker’s address,” replied Mr. Smoothington, pulling one of the enormous placards out of his pocket, unfolding, and handing it to his Grace. His Grace read ——
“To the gentry, clergy, freeholders, and other electors of the county of —
“GENTLEMEN, — In compliance with a numerous and highly respectable requisition” ——
“Ah, this is the same as we have in Dozey” said the Duke, breaking off; “but tell me now,” said he, laying it down, “has he arrived? Does anybody know anything about him?” —
“He is to make a public entry into Sellborough at three o’clock this afternoon, your Grace,” replied Mr. Smoothington, “and the town was in a perfect uproar when I came away.”
“You don’t say so!” replied the Duke, holding up both hands.
“The country the same,” continued Mr. Smoothington; “all along the road the people kept shouting ‘Bowker for ever!’ even the children in the villages!”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed the Duke.
“Quite true, I assure your Grace. Two or three fellows that overtook me bawled into the chaise ‘Bowker for ever!’ as they passed.”
“You don’t say so?” exclaimed the Duke.
“He is a rich man, I suppose,” observed the Duke, after a long pause.
“I should think so,” replied Mr. Smoothington. “At all events he seems inclined to spare no expense. He’s taken the whole of the ‘Duke’s Head.’
“Why, that’s our house!” exclaimed his Grace. “How could Tucker ever let him in?” —
“There’s dinner ordered for six. Champagne in ice — wax candles and rose-water — saw the order myself,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“Indeed!” said the Duke, with a chuck of the head.
“Feather bed atop of the mattress — seems a most particular gentleman,” added Mr. Smoothington.
“Well, what do you think is best to be done?” asked the Duke, after conning the great placard. “We must do something.”
“Upon my word it’s a critical position,” replied Mr. Smoothington. “A contest’s a disagreeable thing.”
“Monstrous disagreeable!” exclaimed the Duke, with an emphasis.
“This has the appearance of being an expensive one,” observed Mr. Smoothington. “Money seems no object. Public-houses opened, and ale flowing like water.”
“The expense is not the worst of it,” replied the Duke. “I dread the canvass! I dread the canvass!”
“They are nasty things,” replied Mr. Smoothington.
“Jeems is not strong,” said the Duke. “Jeems is not strong; might knock him up — might knock him up.”
“Very true, your Grace,” replied Mr. Sm
oothington.
“Might get insulted,” observed the Duke, thinking of the kissing he got from the fish-fag.
“He might so, your Grace,” assented Mr. Smoothington.
“Do you think we could enlarge upon our address so as to meet the views of the League, and get rid of the opposition?” asked the Duke, after a pause.
“Let me see, your Grace,” said Mr. Smoothington, producing a printed copy of the address.
“You see there’s very little in it,” observed the Duke.
“Very general, your Grace,” replied Mr. Smoothington, conning it over.
“I said we’d put as little in it as possible, you know,” observed the Duke.
“You did so, your Grace,” assented Mr. Smoothington; “and a very prudent and fortunate resolution it was.”
“The least said soonest mended, always,” said his Grace.
“The least said soonest mended,” repeated Mr. Smoothington, working his hands.
“Well, now, what do you think?” asked the Duke, anxious to have something for his three guineas and chaise-hire.
“There will be two points to consider,” observed the man of law, after a pause; “first, whether Mr. Bowker wants a seat in Parliament independently of the Corn Laws; and secondly, whether, by the Marquis of Bray declaring himself against the Corn Laws, he might’ not stir up an opposition from the landed interest.”
“Ha!” said the Duke, “I see. The first will be the difficulty — getting rid of Bowker; I’m not afraid of an opposition among ourselves. Who’s to do it? Who’s to do it? We are popular — monstrous popular! I suppose, ar’nt we?” —
“Very popular indeed” replied Mr. Smoothington.
“I think if we could enlarge our liberality so as to satisfy the League, we might get rid of the opposition,” observed the Duke. “I really do” added he.
Smoothington now saw which way the wind blew, and prepared to trim his sail accordingly.
“If it hadn’t been the League, we shouldn’t have had an opposition,” observed he.
“Very true,” replied the Duke, “very true.”
“Get rid of the League — get rid of the opposition,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“Perfectly correct,” said the Duke; adding, “accurate view — monstrous accurate view!”
“No time should be lost,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“No time should be lost,” repeated the Duke.
“The thing is how to set about it,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“There’s the difficulty,” said the Duke.
“If one knew anybody who knew this Bowker that one could set to sound him,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“That would be the way,”. said the Duke, “but I’m afraid that’s not possible. London man — not likely to have any acquaintance down here.”
“You might go to him,” said the Duke, “with another address — similar to the one now in circulation, with the addition of a reference to Free Trade, and pretend that the omission was accidental, and say that you hope, as the Marquis of Bray and himself are quite of the same way of thinking, he will bow to his Lordship’s superior claims, and let him in without a contest.”
“Very good,” replied Mr. Smoothington, looking at the Marquis’s address, saying, “where shall we add it?”
“Here in the second paragraph,” said the Duke, reading—” ‘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 — the liberal improvements of our institutions, the enlargement and removal of every obstacle to the extension of our commercial prosperity,’” said the Duke. “Don’t name the Com Laws,” said he; “put it generally, and then the farmers won’t be frightened. Then go on again as before. ‘In those principles I have been educated, and it is upon my sincere attachment to them that I ground my claim to your support,’” concluded the Duke.
“I understand your Grace,” said Mr. Smoothington. “Then I must wait upon Mr. Bowker with a copy of it?”
“Just so,” said the Duke. “Tell him either that the omission was accidental, or that we left it out for brevity’s sake.”
“I’ll do as your Grace desires,” observed Mr. Smoothington.
“Be civil to the man, you know,” added the Duke.
“Certainly, your Grace.”
“The sooner it is done the better,” observed the Duke, applying his hand to the bell, saying at the same time—” Would you like a little refreshment?”
“Not any, I am much obliged to your Grace,” replied Mr. Smoothington, tying up his papers.
“Then order Mr. Smoothington’s carriage,” said the Duke, as the servant answered the summons.
“Despatch a messenger the moment you have anything to tell,” said his Grace, shaking hands with Mr. Smoothington, as that gentleman took his leave.
Two shakes in one day.
CHAPTER XLII.
WHEN CREEPING MURMUR, and the poring dark,
Fill the wide vessel of the universe.”
IT was turning dusk as Mr. Smoothington reached the hill above Sellborough on his way back from Donkeyton Castle, but the wind setting towards him, sounds of music and drunken revelry were borne on its wings.
Mr. Bowker had made a grand entry into the town at three o’clock, amid the most enthusiastic demonstrations from the populace. They met his carriage at the turnpike gate, on what had been the London, but was now called the Smoke Station road, and, having taken the four panting posters from it, had drawn him through all the principal streets, preceded by numerous splendid banners, and two bands of music.
The honourable gentleman had made a most favourable impression. He was dressed in the height of the fashion — a mulberry-coloured frock-coat with a rolling velvet collar, and a velvet waistcoat of a few shades brighter colour than the coat; an extensive flowered satin cravat, with massive electrotype chained pins, fawn-coloured leathers, and Hessian boots. His touring excursions having supplied him with an abundant stock of health, he presented a very different appearance to what the generality of country people imagine a London merchant to be like.
Altogether, he created an indescribable sensation; and as he passed along, standing up in his barouche, bowing gracefully to the ladies, they waved their handkerchiefs, and declared he was “a most charming man.” Then, when he got to the “Duke’s Head,” he appeared in the balcony of the drawing-room, and addressed them on the importance of the privilege they would soon be called upon to exercise. After alluding touchingly to the lamented death of Mr. Guzzlegoose, he called upon them to exercise the elective franchise in such a way as would be beneficial to themselves, their posterity, and their country at large, when the elegance of his manner, and the graceful flourishes of his lavender-colour kidded hand, carried all before it, and men, women, and children hurrahed, and shouted “Bowker for ever!”
But when he came to expatiate on their wrongs, pointed out the injury they sustained by the operation of the Corn Laws, exposed their exclusive workings for the benefit of the landlords, and called upon them to support a candidate favourable to their immediate and total repeal, the enthusiasm of the mob knew no bounds, and every hand was held up in favour of Mr. Bowker—” Big-loaf Bowker,” as he christened himself.
After partaking of some light refreshment, he then commenced his canvass, amid the ringing of bells, the rolling of drums, the twanging of horns, and the shouts of the populace; and if unregistered promises could have brought him in, Mr. Bowker would certainly have been member for the county.
Thus he spent the day — shaking hands — praising and admiring the children, chucking damsels under the chin — promising all things to all men. At length, tired of the din and flurry of the proceedings, Mr. Bowker was glad when five o’clock came; and with his old friend Mr. St. Julien Sinclair, and his committee, Mr. Lishman, a bankrupt baker, Mr. Grace, an insolve
nt painter, Mr. Moss, a radical schoolmaster, and Mr. Noble, a sold-off farmer, he left the streets to enjoy the evening repast at the “Duke’s Head.” The landlord, Mr. Tucker, in a white waistcoat, followed by his waiter and boots in their best apparel, met the distinguished guests at the door, and conducted them to the drawingroom.
Mr. Bowker, after begging to be excused a few minutes while he went and washed his hands (a thing his committee never thought of doing), retired to his bedroom, and made a perfect revision of his costume. When he returned he was in an evening dress, smart blue coat with club buttons and velvet collar and cuffs, white neckcloth, superbly embroidered waistcoat, with black silk tights, and buckled shoes. He dangled a pair of primrose-coloured kid gloves in his hand. —
“We may as well ring for dinner,” observed the florid swell, entering the drawing-room, and surveying the seedy crew sitting round. He gave a pull that sounded through the house.
The dinner was quickly served, and as quickly despatched by the hungry guests, several of whom had not tasted meat for a week. Champagne, hock, claret, sparkled on the board, and was swallowed by some whose stomachs were much more accustomed to beer.
As evening shades made the sherry indistinguishable from the port or claret, and Mr. Tucker, in obedience to the Squire of Whetstone Park’s summons, was bearing a branching candelabra through the passage on his way upstairs, Mr. Smoothington arrived at the door of the hotel, and begged Mr. Tucker to carry his card up to Mr. Bowker.
Accordingly that functionary did so.
“Smoothington!” said Bill, glancing at the gilt-edged pasteboard with the easy indifference of a man accustomed to callers. “Smoothington! who is he?” —
“Smoothington!” exclaimed the bankrupt baker and sold-off farmer, each of whom were undergoing Mr. Smoothington’s polite attentions.
“Is he an elector?” inquired Bill, considering whether he should see him.
“He’s the Duke of Donkeyton’s solicitor,” replied mine host. —
“Indeed!” observed Mr. Bowker; adding, “show him into a room, and I’ll ring and let you know when it’s convenient for me to see him.”
