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CHAPTER XXIX
THE ELECTION
The day of the nomination at Percycross came at last, and
it was manifest to everybody that there was a very unpleasant feeling in the town. It was not only that party was arrayed against party. That would have been a state of things
not held to be undesirable, and at any rate would have been
natural. But at present things were so divided that there was
no saying which were the existing parties. Moggs was separated from Westmacott quite as absolutely as was Westmacott
from the two Conservative candidates. The old Liberals of
the borough were full of ridicule for poor Moggs, of whom all
absurd stories were told by them both publicly and privately.
But still he was there, the darling of the workmen. It was, indeed, asserted by the members of Mr. Westmacott’s committee that Moggs’s popularity would secure for him but very
few votes. A great proportion of the working men of Percycross were freemen of the borough, — old voters who were on
the register by right of their birth and family connection in
the place, independent of householdership and rates, — and
quite accustomed to the old ways of manipulation. The younger of these men might be seduced into listening to Moggs.
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The excitement was pleasant to them. But they were too well
trained to be led away on the day of election. Moggs would give
them no beer, and they had always been accustomed to their
three half-crowns a head in consideration for the day’s work.
Not a dozen freemen of the borough would vote for Moggs.
So said Mr. Kirkham, Mr. Westmacott’s managing man, and
no man knew the borough quite so well as did Mr. Kirkham.
“They’ll fight for him at the hustings,” said Mr. Kirkham; “but
they’ll take their beer and their money, and they’ll vote for us
and Griffenbottom.”
This might be true enough as regarded the freemen, —
the men who had been, as it were, educated to political
life; — but there was much doubt as to the new voters. There
were about a thousand of these in the borough, and it had
certainly not been the intention of either party that these
men should have the half-crowns. It was from these men
and their leaders, — the secretaries and chairmen and presidents, — that had come the cry for a second liberal candidate, and the consequent necessity of putting forward two
Conservatives. They were equally odious to the supporters of
Westmacott and of Griffenbottom. “They must have the halfcrowns,” Trigger had said to old Pile, the bootmaker. Pile
thought that every working man was entitled to the three
half-crowns, and said as much very clearly. “I suppose old
Griff ain’t going to turn Hunks at this time o’ day,” said Mr.
Pile. But the difficulties were endless, and were much better
understood by Mr. Trigger than by Mr. Pile. The manner of
conveying the half-crowns to the three hundred and twentyfour freemen, who would take them and vote honestly after-
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RALPH THE HEIR
wards for Griffenbottom and Underwood, was perfectly well
understood. But among that godless, riotous, ungoverned and
ungovernable set of new householders, there was no knowing
how to act. They would take the money and then vote wrong.
They would take the money and then split. The freemen were
known. Three hundred and twenty-four would take Griffenbottom’s beer and half-crowns. Two hundred and seventy-two
would be equally complaisant with Mr. Westmacott. But of
these householders nothing was known. They could not be
handled. Some thirty or forty of them would probably have
the turning of the election at the last hour, must then be paid
at their own prices, and after that would not be safe! Mr. Trigger, in his disgust, declared that things had got into so vile
a form that he didn’t care if he never had anything to do with
an election in Percycross again.
And then there was almost as much ill-feeling between
the old-fashioned Griffenbottomites and the Underwooders as
there was between Westmacott’s Liberals and Moggs’s Radicals.
The two gentlemen themselves still eat their breakfasts and
dinners together, and still paraded the streets of Percycross in
each other’s company. But Sir Thomas had made himself very
odious even to Mr. Griffenbottom himself. He was always protesting against beer which he did see, and bribery which he
did not see but did suspect. He swore that he would pay not
a shilling, as to which the cause of the expenditure was not explained to him. Griffenbottom snarled at him, and expressed
an opinion that Sir Thomas would of course do the same as
any other gentleman. Mr. Trigger, with much dignity in his
mien as he spoke, declared that the discussion of any such
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
matter at the present moment was indecorous. Mr. Pile was
for sending Sir Thomas back to town, and very strongly advocated that measure. Mr. Spicer, as to whom there was a story
abroad in the borough in respect of a large order for mustard,
supposed to have reached him from New York through Liverpool by the influence of Sir Thomas Underwood, thought that
the borough should return the two conservative candidates.
Sir Thomas might be a little indiscreet; but, upon the whole,
his principles did him honour. So thought Mr. Spicer, who,
perhaps, believed that the order for the mustard was coming.
We need hardly say that the story, at any rate in so far as it
regarded Sir Thomas Underwood, was altogether untrue. “Yes;
principles!” said Mr. Pile. “I think we all know Sam Spicer’s
principles. All for hisself, and nothing for a poor man. That’s
Sam Spicer.” Of Mr. Pile, it must be acknowledged that he was
not a pure-minded politician. He loved bribery in his very
heart. But it is equally true that he did not want to be bribed
himself. It was the old-fashioned privilege of a poor man to receive some small consideration for his vote in Percycross, and
Mr. Pile could not endure to think that the poor man should
be robbed of his little comforts.
In the meantime, Sir Thomas himself was in a state of
great misery. From hour to hour he was fluctuating between a desire to run away from the accursed borough, and
the shame of taking such a step. The desire for the seat which
had brought him to Percycross had almost died out amidst
the misery of his position. Among all the men of his party
with whom he was associating, there was not one whom he
did not dislike, and by whom he was not snubbed and contra-
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RALPH THE HEIR
dicted. Griffenbottom, who went through his canvass under
circumstances of coming gout and colchicum with a courage
and pertinacity that were heroic, was painfully cross to every
one who was not a voter. “What’s the use of all that d — — d
nonsense, now?” he said to Sir Thomas the evening before
the nomination day. There were half-a-dozen leading Conservatives in the room, and Sir Thomas was making a final protest against bribery. He rose from his chair when so addressed,
and left the room. Never in his life before had he been so insulted. Trigger followed him to his bedroom, knowing well
that a quarrel at this moment would be absolutely suicidal.
“It’s the gout, Sir Thomas,” said Mr. Trigger. “Do remember
what he’s going through.” This was so true that Sir Thomas
returned to the room. It was almost impossible not to forgive anything in a man who was suffering agonies, but could
still wheedle a voter. There were three conservative doctors
with Mr. Griffenbottom, each of them twice daily; and there
was an opinion prevalent through the borough that the gout
would be in his stomach before the election was over. Sir
Thomas did return to the room, and sat himself down without
saying a word. “Sir Thomas,” said Mr. Griffenbottom, “a man
with the gout is always allowed a little liberty.”
“I admit the claim,” said Sir Thomas, bowing.
“And believe me, I know this game better than you do.
It’s of no use saying these things. No man should ever foul
his own nest. Give me a little drop more brandy, Trigger, and
then I’ll get myself to bed.” When he was gone, they all sang
Griffenbottom’s praises. In staunch pluck, good humour, and
manly fighting, no man was his superior. “Give and take, —
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the English bull-dog all over. I do like old Griffenbottom,” said
Spiveycomb, the paper-maker.
On the day of nomination Griffenbottom was carried up
on the hustings. This carrying did him good in the borough;
but it should be acknowledged on his behalf that he did his
best to walk. In the extreme agony of his attack he had to make
his speech, and he made it. The hustings stood in the marketsquare, and straight in front of the wooden erection, standing at right angles to it, was a stout rail dividing the space for
the distance of fifty or sixty yards, so that the supporters of one
set of candidates might congregate on one side, and the supporters of the other candidates on the other side. In this way
would the weaker part, whichever might be the weaker, be protected from the violence of the stronger. On the present occasion it seemed that the friends of Mr. Westmacott congregated
with the Conservatives. Moggs’s allies alone filled one side of
the partition. There were a great many speeches made that day
from the hustings, — thirteen in all. First the mayor, and then
the four proposers and four seconders of the candidates. During these performances, though there was so much noise from
the crowd below that not a word could be heard, there was
no violence. When old Griffenbottom got up, supporting himself by an arm round one of the posts, he was loudly cheered
from both sides. His personal popularity in the borough was
undoubted, and his gout made him almost a demi-god. Nobody heard a word that he said; but then he had no desire to
be heard. To be seen standing up there, a martyr to the gout,
but still shouting for Percycross, was enough for his purpose.
Sir Thomas encountered a very different reception. He was re-
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ceived with yells, apparently from the whole crowd. What he
said was of no matter, as not a word was audible; but he did continue to inveigh against bribery. Before he had ceased a huge
stone was thrown at him, and hit him heavily on the arm.
He continued speaking, however, and did not himself know
till afterwards that his arm was broken between the shoulder
and the elbow. Mr. Westmacott was very short and good-humoured. He intended to be funny about poor Moggs; — and
perhaps was funny. But his fun was of no avail. The Moggite
crowd had determined that no men should be heard till their
own candidate should open his mouth.
At last Ontario’s turn had come. At first the roar from
the crowd was so great that it seemed that it was to be with
him as it had been with the others. But by degrees, though
there was still a roar, — as of the sea, — Moggs’s words became audible. The voices of assent and dissent are very different, even though they be equally loud. Men desirous of interrupting, do interrupt. But cheers, though they be continuous
and loud as thunder, are compatible with a hearing. Moggs by
this time, too, had learned to pitch his voice for an out-of-door
multitude. He preached his sermon, his old sermon, about
the Rights of Labour and the Salt of the Earth, the Tyranny of
Capital and the Majesty of the Workmen, with an enthusiasm
that made him for the moment supremely happy. He was certainly the hero of the tour in Percycross, and he allowed himself to believe, — just for that hour, — that he was about to
become the hero of a new doctrine throughout England.
He spoke for over half an hour, while poor Griffenbottom,
seated in a chair that had been brought to him, was suffering
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almost the pains of hell. During this speech Sir Thomas, who
had also suffered greatly, but had at first endeavoured to conceal that he was suffering, discovered the extent of his misfortune, and allowed himself to be taken out from the hustings to
his inn. There was an effort made to induce Mr. Griffenbottom to retire at the same time; but Mr. Griffenbottom, not
quite understanding the extent of his colleague’s misfortune,
and thinking that it became him to remain and to endure,
was obdurate, and would not be moved. He did not care for
stones or threats, — did not care even for the gout. That was
his place till after the show of hands, and there he would remain. The populace, seeing this commotion on the hustings,
began to fear that there was an intention to stop the oratory of
their popular candidate, and called loudly upon Moggs to go
on. Moggs did go on, — and was happy.
At last there came the show of hands. It was declared to
be in favour of Moggs and Westmacott. That it was very
much in favour of Moggs, — in favour of Moggs by five to one,
there was no doubt. Among the other candidates there was
not perhaps much to choose. A poll was, of course, demanded
for the two Conservatives; and then the mayor, complimenting the people on their good behaviour, — in spite of poor Sir
Thomas’s broken arm, — begged them to go away. That was all
very well. Of course they would go away; but not till they had
driven their enemies from the field. In half a minute the dividing rail, — the rail that had divided the blue from the yellow, — was down, and all those who had dared to show themselves there as supporters of Griffenbottom and Underwood
were driven ignominiously from the market-place. They fled
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at all corners, and in a few seconds not a streak of blue ribbon
was to be seen in the square. “They’ll elect that fellow Moggs
to-morrow,” said Mr. Westmacott to Kirkham.
“No a bit of it,” said Kirkham. “I could spot all the ringleaders in the row. Nine or ten of them are Griffenbottom’s
old men. They take his money regularly, — get something
nearly every year, join the rads at the nomination, and vote for
the squire at the poll. The chaps who hollow and throw stones
always vote t’other side up.”
Mr. Griffenbottom kept his seat till he could be carried
home in safety through the town, and was then put to bed.
The three conservative doctors, who had all been setting Sir
Thomas’s arm, sat in consultation upon their old friend; and
it was acknowledged on every side that Mr. Griffenbottom
was very ill indeed. All manner of rumours went through
the town that night. Some believed that both Griffenbottom
and Sir Thomas were dead, — and that the mayor had now no
choice but to declare Moggs and Westmacott elected. Then
there arose a suspicion that the polls would be kept open on
the morrow on behalf of two defunct candidates, so that a further election on behalf of the conservative party might be
ensured. Men swore that they would break into the bedrooms of the Standard Inn, in order that they might satisfy
themselves whether the two gentlemen were alive or dead.
And so the town was in a hubbub.
On that evening Moggs was called upon again to address his
friends at the Mechanics’ Institute, and to listen to the speeches of all the presidents and secretaries and chairmen; but by
ten o’clock he was alone in his bedroom at the Cordwainers’
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Arms. Down-stairs men were shouting, singing, and drinking, — shouting in his honour, though not drinking at his
expense. He was alone in his little comfortless room, but felt
it to be impossible that he should lie down and rest. His heart
was swelling with the emotions of the day, and his mind was
full of his coming triumph. It was black night, and there was
a soft drizzling rain; — but it was absolutely necessary for his
condition that he should go out. It seemed to him that his
very bosom would burst, if he confined himself in that narrow space. His thoughts were too big for so small a closet.
He crept downstairs and out, through the narrow passage, into
the night. Then, by the light of the solitary lamp that stood
before the door of the public-house, he could still see those
glorious words, “Moggs, Purity, and the Rights of Labour.”
Noble words, which had sufficed to bind to him the whole
population of that generous-hearted borough! Purity and
the Rights of Labour! Might it not be that with that cry, well
cried, he might move the very world! As he walked the streets of
the town he felt a great love for the borough grow within his
bosom. What would he not owe to the dear place which had
first recognised his worth, and had enabled him thus early in
life to seize hold of those ploughshares which it would be
his destiny to hold for all his coming years? He had before
him a career such as had graced the lives of the men whom
he had most loved and admired, — of men who had dared to
be independent, patriotic, and philanthropical, through all
the temptations of political life. Would he be too vain if he
thought to rival a Hume or a Cobden? Conceit, he said to
himself, will seek to justify itself. Who can rise but those who
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