The Adventures of Philip

by William Makepeace Thackeray

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