emerged from it in a short time, his wine decanter in his hand, and joined our
little party; and then we fell to talking of old times; and we all remembered a
famous drawing by H. B., of the late Earl of Ringwood, in the old-fashioned
swallow-tailed coat and tight trowsers, on the old-fashioned horse, with the
old-fashioned groom behind him, as he used to be seen pounding along Rotten Row.
"I speak my mind, do I?" says Mr. Bradgate presently. "I know somebody who spoke
his mind to that old man, and who would have been better off if he had held his
tongue."
"Come, tell me, Bradgate," cried Philip. "It is all over and past now. Had Lord
Ringwood left me something? I declare I thought at one time that he intended to
do so."
"Nay, has not your friend here been rebuking me for speaking my mind? I am going
to be as mum as a mouse. Let us talk about the election," and the provoking
lawyer would say no more on a subject possessing a dismal interest for poor
Phil.
"I have no more right to repine," said that philosopher, "than a man would have
who drew number x in the lottery, when the winning ticket was number y. Let us
talk, as you say, about the election. Who is to oppose Mr. Woolcomb?"
Mr. Bradgate believed a neighbouring squire, Mr. Hornblow, was to be the
candidate put forward against the Ringwood nominee.
"Hornblow! what, Hornblow of Grey Friars?" cries Philip. "A better fellow never
lived. In this case he shall have our vote and interest; and I think we ought to
go over and take another dinner at the Ram."
The new candidate actually turned out to be Philip's old school and college
friend, Mr. Hornblow. After dinner we met him with a staff of canvassers on the
tramp through the little town. Mr. Hornblow was paying his respects to such
tradesmen as had their shops yet open. Next day being market day he proposed to
canvass the market-people. "If I meet the black man, Firmin," said the burly
squire, "I think I can chaff him off his legs. He is a bad one at speaking, I am
told."
As if the tongue of Plato would have prevailed in Whipham and against the
nominee of the great house! The hour was late to be sure, but the companions of
Mr. Hornblow on his canvass augured ill of his success after half-an-hour's walk
at his heels. Baker Jones would not promise no how: that meant Jones would vote
for the Castle, Mr. Hornblow's legal aide-de-camp, Mr. Batley, was forced to
allow. Butcher Brown was having his tea,��his shrill-voiced wife told us,
looking out from her glazed back parlour: Brown would vote for the Castle.
Saddler Briggs would see about it. Grocer Adams fairly said he would vote
against us��against us?��against Hornblow, whose part we were taking already. I
fear the flattering promises of support of a great body of free and unbiassed
electors, which had induced Mr. Hornblow to come forward and, were but
inventions of that little lawyer, Batley, who found his account in having a
contest in the borough. When the polling-day came��you see, I disdain to make
any mysteries in this simple and veracious story��Mr. Grenville Woolcomb, whose
solicitor and agent spoke for him, Mr. Grenville Woolcomb, who could not spell
or speak two sentences of decent English, and whose character for dulness,
ferocity, penuriousness, jealousy, almost fatuity, was notorious to all the
world, was returned by an immense majority, and the country gentleman brought
scarce a hundred votes to the poll.
We who were in nowise engaged in the contest, nevertheless, found amusement from
it in a quiet country place where little else was stirring. We came over once or
twice from Periwinkle Bay. We mounted Hornblow's colours openly. We drove up
ostentatiously to the Ram, forsaking the Ringwood Arms, where Mr. Grenville
Woolcomb's Committee Room was now established in that very coffee-room where we
had dined in Mr. Bradgate's company. We warmed in the contest. We met Bradgate
and his principal more than once, and our Montagus and Capulets defied each
other in the public street. It was fine to see Philip's great figure and noble
scowl when he met Woolcomb at the canvass. Gleams of mulatto hate quivered from
the eyes of the little captain. Darts of fire flashed from beneath Philip's
eyebrows as he elbowed his way forward, and hustled Woolcomb off the pavement.
Mr. Philip never disguised any sentiment of his. Hate the little ignorant,
spiteful, vulgar, avaricious beast? Of course I hate him, and I should like to
pitch him into the river. Oh, Philip! Charlotte pleaded. But there was no
reasoning with this savage when in wrath. I deplored, though perhaps I was
amused by, his ferocity.
The local paper on our side was filled with withering epigrams against this poor
Woolcomb, of which, I suspect, Philip was the author. I think I know that fierce
style and tremendous invective. In the man whom he hates he can see no good; and
in his friend no fault. When we met Bradgate apart from his principal, we were
friendly enough. He said we had no chance in the contest. He did not conceal his
dislike and contempt for his client. He amused us in later days (when he
actually became Philip's man of law) by recounting anecdotes of Woolcomb, his
fury, his jealousy, his avarice, his brutal behaviour. Poor Agnes had married
for money, and he gave her none. Old Twysden, in giving his daughter to this
man, had hoped to have the run of a fine house; to ride in Woolcomb's carriages,
and feast at his table. But Woolcomb was so stingy that he grudged the meat
which his wife ate, and would give none to her relations. He turned those
relations out of his doors. Talbot and Ringwood Twysden, he drove them both
away. He lost a child, because he would not send for a physician. His wife never
forgave him that meanness. Her hatred for him became open and avowed. They
parted, and she led a life into which we will look no farther. She quarrelled
with parents as well as husband. "Why," she said, "did they sell me to that
man?" Why did she sell herself? She required little persuasion from father and
mother when she committed that crime. To be sure, they had educated her so well
to worldliness, that when the occasion came she was ready.
We used to see this luckless woman, with her horses and servants decked with
Woolcomb's ribbons, driving about the little town, and making feeble efforts to
canvass the townspeople. They all knew how she and her husband quarrelled.
Reports came very quickly from the Hall to the town. Woolcomb had not been at
Whipham a week when people began to hoot and jeer at him as he passed in his
carriage. "Think how weak you must be," Bradgate said, "when we can win with
this horse! I wish he would stay away, though. We could manage much better
without him. He has insulted I don't know how many free and independent
electors, and infuriated others, because he will not give them beer when they
come to the house. If Woolcomb would stay in the place, and we could have the
election next year, I think your man might win. But, as it is, he may as well
give in, and spare the expense of a poll." Meanwhile Hornblow was very
confident. We believe what we wish to believe. It is marvellous what faith an
enthusiastic electioneering agent can inspire in his client. At any rate, if
Hornblow did not win this time, he would at the next election. The old Ringwood
domination in Whipham was gone henceforth for ever.
When the day of election arrived, you may be sure we came over from Periwinkle
Bay to see the battle. By this time Philip had grown so enthusiastic in
Hornblow's cause��(Philip, by the way, never would allow the possibility of a
defeat)��that he had his children decked in the Hornblow ribbons, and drove from
the bay, wearing a cockade as large as a pancake. He, I, and Ridley the painter,
went together in a dog-cart. We were hopeful, though we knew the enemy was
strong; and cheerful, though ere we had driven five miles the rain began to
fall.
Philip was very anxious about a certain great roll of paper which we carried
with us. When I asked him what it contained, he said it was a gun; which was
absurd. Ridley smiled in his silent way. When the rain came, Philip cast a cloak
over his artillery, and sheltered his powder. We little guessed at the time what
strange game his shot would bring down.
When we reached Whipham, the polling had continued for some hours. The
confounded black miscreant, as Philip called his cousin's husband, was at the
head of the poll, and with every hour his majority increased. The free and
independent electors did not seem to be in the least influenced by Philip's
articles in the county paper, or by the placards which our side had pasted over
the little town, and in which freemen were called upon to do their duty, to
support a fine old English gentleman, to submit to no Castle nominee, and so
forth. The pressure of the Ringwood steward and bailiffs was too strong. However
much they disliked the black man, tradesman after tradesman, and tenant after
tenant, came up to vote for him. Our drums and trumpets at the Ram blew loud
defiance to the brass band at the Ringwood Arms. From our balcony, I flatter
myself, we made much finer speeches than the Ringwood people could deliver.
Hornblow was a popular man in the county. When he came forward to speak, the
market-place echoed with applause. The farmers and small tradesmen touched their
hats to him kindly, but slunk off sadly to the polling-booth and voted according
to order. A fine, healthy, handsome, redcheeked squire, our champion's personal
appearance enlisted all the ladies in his favour.
"If the two men," bawled Philip, from the Ram window, "could decide the contest
with their coats off before the market-house yonder, which do you think would
win��the fair man or the darkey?" (Loud cries of "Hornblow for iver!" or, "Mr.
Philip, we'll have yew.") "But you see, my friends, Mr. Woolcomb does not like a
fair fight. Why doesn't he show at the Ringwood Arms and speak? I don't believe
he can speak��not English. Are you men? Are you Englishmen. Are you white slaves
to be sold to that fellow?" Immense uproar. Mr. Finch, the Ringwood agent, in
vain tries to get a hearing from the balcony of the Ringwood Arms. "Why does not
Sir John Ringwood��my Lord Ringwood now��come down amongst his tenantry and back
the man he has sent down? I suppose he is ashamed to look his tenants in the
face. I should be, if I ordered them to do such a degrading job. You know,
gentlemen, that I am a Ringwood myself. My grandfather lies buried��no, not
buried��in yonder church. His tomb is there. His body lies on the glorious field
of Busaco!" ("Hurray!") "I am a Ringwood." (Cries of "Hoo��down. No Ringwoods
year. We wunt have un!") "And before George, if I had a vote, I would give it
for the gallant, the good, the admirable, the excellent Hornblow. Some one holds
up the state of the poll, and Woolcomb is ahead! I can only say, electors of
Whipham, the more shame for you!" "Hooray! Bravo!" The boys, the people, the
shouting are all on our side. The voting, I regret to say, steadily continues in
favour of the enemy.
As Philip was making his speech, an immense banging of drums and blowing of
trumpets arose from the balcony of the Ringwood Arms, and a something resembling
the song of triumph called, "See the Conquering Hero comes," was performed by
the opposition orchestra. The lodge-gates of the park were now decorated with
the Ringwood and Woolcomb flags. They were flung open, and a dark green chariot
with four grey horses issued from the park. On the chariot was an earl's
coronet, and the people looked rather scared as it came towards us, and
said��"Do'ee look now, 'tis my lard's own postchaise!" On former days Mr.
Woolcomb and his wife, as his aide-de-camp, had driven through the town in an
open barouche, but, to-day being rainy, preferred the shelter of the old
chariot, and we saw, presently, within, Mr. Bradgate, the London agent, and by
his side the darkling figure of Mr. Woolcomb. He had passed many agonizing
hours, we were told subsequently, in attempting to learn a speech. He cried over
it. He never could get it by heart. He swore like a frantic child at his wife
who endeavoured to teach him his lesson.
"Now's the time, Mr. Briggs!" Philip said to Mr. B., our lawyer's clerk, and the
intelligent Briggs sprang downstairs to obey his orders. "Clear the road there!
make way!" was heard from the crowd below us. The gates of our inn courtyard,
which had been closed, were suddenly flung open, and, amidst the roar of the
multitude, there issued out a cart drawn by two donkeys, and driven by a negro,
beasts and man all wearing Woolcomb's colours. In the cart was fixed a placard,
on which a most undeniable likeness of Mr. Woolcomb was designed: who was made
to say, "Vote for me! Am I Not a Man and a Brudder?" "This cart trotted out of
the yard of the Ram, and, with a cort�ge of shouting boys, advanced into the
market-place, which Mr. Woolcomb's carriage was then crossing."
Before the market-house stands the statue of the late earl, whereof mention has
been made. In his peer's robes, a hand extended, he points towards his park
gates. An inscription, not more mendacious than many other epigraphs, records
his rank, age, virtues, and the esteem in which the people of Whipham held him.
The mulatto who drove the team of donkeys was an itinerant tradesman who brought
fish from the bay to the little town; a jolly wag, a fellow of indifferent
character, a frequenter of all the alehouses in the neighbourhood, and rather
celebrated for his skill as a bruiser. He and his steeds streamed with Woolcomb
ribbons. With ironical shouts of "Woolcomb for ever!" Yellow Jack urged his cart
towards the chariot with the white horses. He took off his hat with mock respect
to the candidate sitting within the green chariot. From the balcony of the Ram
we could see the two vehicles approaching each other; and Yellow Jack waving his
ribboned hat, kicking his bandy legs here and there, and urging on his donkeys.
What with the roar of the people, and the banging and trumpeting of the rival
bands, we could hear but little: but I saw Woolcomb thrust his yellow head out
of his chaise-win
dow��he pointed towards that impudent donkey-cart, and urged,
seemingly, his postilions to ride it down. Plying their whips, the postboys
galloped towards Yellow Jack and his vehicle, a yelling crowd scattering from
before the horses, and rallying behind them, to utter execrations at Woolcomb.
His horses were frightened, no doubt; for just as Yellow Jack wheeled nimbly
round one side of the Ringwood statue, Woolcomb's horses were all huddled
together and plunging in confusion beside it, the fore-wheel came in abrupt
collision with the stonework of the statue railing: and then we saw the vehicle
turn over altogether, one of the wheelers down with its rider, and the leaders
kicking, plunging, lashing out right and left, wild and maddened with fear. Mr.
Philip's countenance, I am bound to say, wore a most guilty and queer
expression. This accident, this collision, this injury, perhaps death of
Woolcomb and his lawyer, arose out of our fine joke about the Man and the
Brother.
We dashed down the stairs from the Ram��Hornblow, Philip, and half-a-dozen
more��and made a way through the crowd towards the carriage, with its prostrate
occupants. The mob made way civilly for the popular candidate��the losing
candidate. When we reached the chaise, the traces had been cut: the horses were
free: the fallen postilion was up and rubbing his leg: and, as soon as the
wheelers were taken out of the chaise, Woolcomb emerged from it. He had said
from within (accompanying his speech with many oaths, which need not be
repeated, and showing a just sense of his danger), "Cut the traces, hang you!
And take the horses away: I can wait until they're gone. I'm sittin' on my
lawyer; I ain't goin' to have my head kicked off my those wheelers." And just as
we reached the fallen postchaise he emerged from it, laughing, and saying, "Lie
still, you old beggar!" to Mr. Bradgate, who was writhing underneath him. His
issue from the carriage was received with shouts of laughter, which increased
prodigiously when Yellow Jack, nimbly clambering up the statue-railings, thrust
the outstretched arm of the statue through the picture of the Man and the
Brother, and left that cartoon flapping in the air over Woolcomb's head.
Then a shout arose, the like of which has seldom been heard in that quiet little
town. Then Woolcomb, who had been quite good-humoured as he issued out of the
broken postchaise, began to shriek, curse, and revile more shrilly than before;
and was heard, in the midst of his oaths and wrath, to say, "He would give any
man a shillin' who would bring him down that confounded thing!" Then, scared,
bruised, contused, confused, poor Mr. Bradgate came out of the carriage, his
employer taking not the least notice of him.
Hornblow hoped Woolcomb was not hurt, on which the little gentleman turned
round, and said, "Hurt? no; who are you! Is no fellah goin' to bring me down
that confounded thing? I'll give a shillin', I say, to the fellah who does!"
"A shilling is offered for that picture!" shouts Philip, with a red face, and
wild with excitement. "Who will take a whole shilling for that beauty?"
On which Woolcomb began to scream, curse, and revile more bitterly than before.
"You here? Hang you, why are you here? Don't come bullyin' me. Take that fellah
away, some of you fellahs. Bradgate, come to my committee room. I won't stay
here, I say. Let's have the beast of a carriage, and��Well, what's up now?"
While he was talking, shrieking, and swearing, half a dozen shoulders in the
crowd had raised the carriage up on its three wheels. The panel which had fallen
towards the ground had split against a stone, and a great gap was seen in the
side. A lad was about to thrust his hand into the orifice, when Woolcomb turned
upon him.
"Hands off, you little beggar!" he cried, "no priggin'! Drive away some of these
The Adventures of Philip Page 78
