Almost in the rear of this motley cavalcade went the barouche of Sir Telegraph Paxarett, and rolled up to the scene of action amidst the shouts of the multitude.
The heath had very much the appearance of a race-ground; with booths and stalls, the voices of pie-men and apple-women, the grinding of barrel organs, the scraping of fiddles, the squeaking of ballad-singers, the chirping of corkscrews, the vociferations of ale-drinkers, the cries of the ‘last dying speeches of desperate malefactors,’ and of ‘The History and Antiquities of the honourable Borough of Onevote, a full and circumstantial account, all in half a sheet, for the price of one halfpenny!
The hustings were erected in proper form, and immediately opposite to them was an enormous marquee with a small opening in front, in which was seated the important person of Mr. Christopher Corporate, with a tankard of ale and a pipe. The ladies remained in the barouche under the care of Sir Telegraph and Mr. Hippy. Mr. Forester, Mr. Fax, and Sir Oran Haut-ton joined Mr. Sarcastic on the hustings.
Mr. Sarcastic stepped forward amidst the shouts of the assembled crowd, and addressed Mr. Christopher Corporate:
‘Free, fat, and dependent burgess of this ancient and honourable borough! I stand forward an unworthy candidate, to be the representative of so important a personage, who comprises in himself a three-hundredth part of the whole elective capacity of this extensive empire. For if the whole population be estimated at eleven millions, with what awe and veneration must I look on one who is, as it were, the abstract and quintessence of thirty-three thousand six hundred and sixty-six people! The voice of Stentor was like the voice of fifty, and the voice of Harry Gill was like the voice of three; but what are these to the voice of Mr. Christopher Corporate, which gives utterance in one breath to the concentrated power of thirty-three thousand six hundred and sixty-six voices? Of such an one it may indeed be said, that he is himself an host, and that none but himself can be his parallel.
‘Most potent, grave, and reverend signor! it is usual on these occasions to make a great vapouring about honour and conscience; but as those words are now generally acknowledged to be utterly destitute of meaning, I have too much respect for your understanding to say anything about them. The monied interest, Mr. Corporate, for which you are as illustrious as the sun at noonday, is the great point of connection and sympathy between us; and no circumstances can throw a wet blanket on the ardour of our reciprocal esteem, while the fundamental feature of our mutual interests presents itself to us in so tangible a shape? How high a value I set upon your voice, you may judge by the price I have paid for half of it; which, indeed, deeply lodged as my feelings are in my pocket, I yet see no reason to regret, since you will thus confer on mine a transmutable and marketable value which I trust by proper management will leave me no loser by the bargain.’
‘Huzza!’ said Mr. Corporate.
‘People of the city of Novote!’ proceeded Mr. Sarcastic, ‘some of you, I am informed, consider yourselves aggrieved, that while your large and populous city has no share whatever in the formation of the Honourable House, the plural unity of Mr. Christopher Corporate should be invested with the privilege of double representation. But, gentlemen, representation is of two kinds, actual and virtual; an important distinction, and of great political consequence.
‘The Honourable Baronet and myself, being the actual representatives of the fat burgess of Onevote, shall be the virtual representatives of the worthy citizens of Novote; and you may rely on it, gentlemen (with his hand on his heart), we shall always be deeply attentive to your interests, when they happen, as no doubt they sometimes will, to be perfectly compatible with our own.
‘A member of Parliament, gentlemen, to speak to you in your own phrase, is a sort of staple commodity, manufactured for home consumption. Much has been said of the improvement of machinery in the present age, by which one man may do the work of a dozen. If this be admirable, and admirable it is acknowledged to be by all the civilised world, how much more admirable is the improvement of political machinery, by which one man does the work of thirty thousand! I am sure I need not say another word to a great manufacturing population like the inhabitants of the city of Novote, to convince them of the beauty and utility of this most luminous arrangement.
‘The duty of a representative of the people, whether actual or virtual, is simply to tax. Now this important branch of public business is much more easily and expeditiously transacted by the means of virtual, than it possibly could be by that of actual representation. For when the minister draws up his scheme of ways and means, he will do it with much more celerity and confidence, when he knows that the propitious countenance of virtual representation will never cease to smile upon him as long as he continues in place, than if he had to encounter the doubtful aspect of actual representation, which might, perhaps, look black on some of his favourite projects, thereby greatly impeding the distribution of secret service money at home, and placing foreign legitimacy in a very awkward predicament.
The carriage of the state would then be like a chariot in a forest, turning to the left for a troublesome thorn, and to the right for a sturdy oak; whereas it now rolls forward like the car of Juggernaut over the plain crushing whatever offers to impede its way.
‘The constitution says that no man shall be taxed but by his own consent; a very plausible theory, gentlemen, but not reducible to practice. Who will apply a lancet to his own arm, and bleed himself? Very few, you acknowledge. Who then, a fortiori, would apply a lancet to his own pocket, and draw off what is dearer to him than his blood — his money? Fewer still, of course; I humbly opine, none. — What then remains but to appoint a royal college of state surgeons, who may operate on the patient according to their views of his case? Taxation is political phlebotomy: the Honourable House is, figuratively speaking, a royal college of state surgeons. A good surgeon must have firm nerves and a steady hand; and, perhaps, the less feeling the better. Now, it is manifest that, as all feeling is founded on sympathy, the fewer constituents a representative has, the less must be his sympathy with the public, and the less, of course as is desirable, his feeling for his patient — the people: — who, therefore, with so much sang froid, can phlebotomise the nation, as the representative of half an elector?
‘Gentlemen, as long as a full Gazette is pleasant to the quidnunc; as long as an empty purse is delightful to the spendthrift; as long as the cry of Question is a satisfactory answer to an argument, and to outvote reason is to refute it; as long as the way to pay old debts is to incur new ones of five times the amount; as long as the grand recipes of political health and longevity are bleeding and hot water — so long must you rejoice in the privileges of Mr. Christopher Corporate, so long must you acknowledge from the very bottom of your pockets the benefits and blessings of virtual representation.’
This harangue was received with great applause, acclamations rent the air, and ale flowed in torrents. Mr. Forester declined speaking, and the party on the hustings proceeded to business. Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet, and Simon Sarcastic, Esquire, were nominated in form. Mr. Christopher Corporate held up both his hands, with his tankard in one, and his pipe in the other; and neither poll nor scrutiny being demanded, the two candidates were pronounced duly elected as representatives of the ancient and honourable borough of Onevote.
The shouts were renewed; the ale flowed rapidly; the pipe and tankard of Mr. Corporate were replenished. Sir Oran Haut-ton, Baronet, M.P., bowed gracefully to the people with his hand on his heart.
A cry was now raised of ‘Chair ’em! chair ’em!’ when Mr. Sarcastic again stepped forward.
‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘a slight difficulty opposes itself to the honour you would confer on us. The members should, according to form, be chaired by their electors; and how can one elector, great man as he is, chair two representatives? But to obviate this dilemma as well as circumstances admit, I move that the “large body corporate of one” whom the Honourable Baronet and myself have the honour to represent, do resolve himself into
a committee.’
He had no sooner spoken, than the marquee opened, and a number of bulky personages, all in dress, aspect, size, and figure, very exact resemblances of Mr. Christopher Corporate, each with his pipe and his tankard, emerged into daylight, who, encircling their venerable prototype, lifted their tankards high in air, and pronounced with Stentorian symphony, ‘HAIL, PLURAL UNIT!’ Then, after a simultaneous draught, throwing away their pipes and tankards, for which the mob immediately scrambled, they raised on high two magnificent chairs, and prepared to carry into effect the last ceremony of the election. The party on the hustings descended. Mr. Sarcastic stepped into his chair; and his part of the procession, headed by Mr. Christopher Corporate, and surrounded by a multiform and many-coloured crowd, moved slowly off towards the city of No vote, amidst the undistinguishable clamour of multitudinous voices.
Sir Oran Haut-ton watched the progress of his precursor, as his chair rolled and swayed over the sea of heads, like a boat with one mast on a stormy ocean; and the more he watched the agitation of its movements, the more his countenance gave indications of strong dislike to the process; so that when his seat in the second chair was offered to him, he with a very polite bow declined the honour. The party that was to carry him, thinking that his repugnance arose entirely from diffidence, proceeded with gentle force to overcome his scruples, when not precisely penetrating their motives, and indignant at this attempt to violate the freedom of the natural man, he seized a stick from a sturdy farmer at his elbow, and began to lay about him with great vigour and effect. Those who escaped being knocked down by the first sweep of his weapon ran away with all their might, but were soon checked by the pressure of the crowd, who, hearing the noise of conflict, and impatient to ascertain the cause, bore down from all points upon a common centre, and formed a circumferential pressure that effectually prohibited the egress of those within; and they, in their turn, in their eagerness to escape from Sir Oran (who like Artegall’s Iron Man, or like Ajax among the Trojans, or like Rodomonte in Paris, or like Orlando among the soldiers of Agramant, kept clearing for himself an ample space in the midst of the encircling crowd), waged desperate conflict with those without; so that from the equal and opposite action of the centripetal and centrifugal forces, resulted a stationary combat, raging between the circumferences of two concentric circles, with barbaric dissonance of deadly feud, and infinite variety of oath and execration, till Sir Oran, charging desperately along one of the radii, fought a free passage through all opposition; and rushing to the barouche of Sir Telegraph Paxarett, sprang to his old station on the box, from whence he shook his sapling at the foe with looks of mortal defiance. Mr. Forester, who had been forcibly parted from him at the commencement of the strife, had been all anxiety on his account, mounted with great alacrity to his station on the roof; the rest of the party was already seated; the Honourable Mrs. Pinmoney, half-fainting with terror, earnestly entreated Sir Telegraph to fly: Sir Telegraph cracked his whip, the horses sprang forward like racers, the wheels went round like the wheels of a firework. The tumult of battle, lessening as they receded, came wafted to them on the wings of the wind; for the flame of discord having been once kindled, was not extinguished by the departure of its first flambeau — Sir Oran; but war raged wide and far, here in the thickest mass of central fight, there in the light skirmishing of flying detachments. The hustings were demolished, and the beams and planks turned into offensive weapons: the booths were torn to pieces, and the canvas converted into flags floating over the heads of magnanimous heroes that rushed to revenge they knew not what, in deadly battle with they knew not whom. The stalls and barrows were upset; and the pears, apples, oranges, mutton-pies, and masses of gingerbread, flew like missiles of fate in all directions. The sanctum sanctorum of the ale was broken into, and the guardians of the Hesperian liquor were put to ignominious rout. Hats and wigs were hurled into the air, never to return to the heads from which they had suffered violent divorce. The collision of sticks, the ringing of empty ale-casks, the shrieks of women, and the vociferations of combatants, mingled in one deepening and indescribable tumult; till at length, everything else being levelled with the heath, they turned the mingled torrent of their wrath on the cottage of Mr. Corporate, to which they triumphantly set fire, and danced round the blaze like a rabble of village boys round the effigy of the immortal Guy. In a few minutes the ancient and honourable borough of Onevote was reduced to ashes; but we have the satisfaction to state that it was rebuilt a few days afterwards, at the joint expense of its two representatives, and His Grace the Duke of Rottenburgh.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE COUNCIL OF WAR
THE COMPASSIONATE READER will perhaps sympathise in our anxiety to take one peep at Lord Anophel Achthar and the Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub, whom we left perched on the summit of the rock where Sir Oran had placed them, looking at each other as ruefully as Hudibras and Ralpho in their ‘wooden bastile,’ and falling by degrees into as knotty an argument, the quaeritur of which was, how to descend from their elevation — an exploit which to them seemed replete with danger and difficulty. Lord Anophel, having, for the first time in his life, been made acquainted with the salutary effects of manual discipline, sate boiling with wrath and revenge; while the Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub, who in his youthful days had been beaten black and blue in the capacity of fag (a practice which reflects so much honour on our public seminaries), bore the infliction with more humility.
Lord Anophel Achthar (rubbing his shoulder). This is all your doing, Grovelgrub — all your fault, curse me!
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. Oh, my Lord! my intention was good, though the catastrophe is ill. The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.
Lord Anophel Achthar. But the battle was to the strong in this instance, Grovelgrub, curse me! though from the speed with which you began to run off on the first alarm, it was no fault of yours that the race was not to the swift.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. I must do your Lordship the justice to say, that you too started with a degree of celerity highly creditable to your capacity of natural locomotion; and if that ugly monster, the dumb Baronet, had not knocked us both down in the incipiency of our progression —
Lord Anophel Achthar. We should have escaped as our two rascals did, who shall bitterly rue their dereliction. But as to the dumb Baronet, who has treated me with gross impertinence on various occasions, I shall certainly call him out, to give me the satisfaction of a gentleman.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. Oh, my Lord.
Though with pistols ’tis the fashion
To satisfy your passion;
Yet where’s the satisfaction,
If you perish in the action?
Lord Anophel Achthar. One of us must perish, Grovelgrub, ‘pon honour. Death or revenge! We’re blown, Grovelgrub. He took off our masks; and though he can’t speak, he can write, no doubt, and read too, as I shall try with a challenge.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. Can’t speak, my Lord, is by no means clear. Won’t speak, perhaps; none are so dumb as those who won’t speak. Don’t you think, my Lord, there was a sort of melancholy about him — a kind of sullenness? Crossed in love, I suspect. People crossed in love, Saint Chrysostom says, lose their voice.
Lord Anophel Achthar. Then I wish you were crossed in love, Grovelgrub, with all my heart.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. Nay, my Lord, what so sweet in calamity as the voice of the spiritual comforter? All shall be well yet, my Lord. I have an infallible project hatching here; Miss Melincourt shall be ensconced in Alga Castle, and then the day is our own.
Lord Anophel Achthar. Grovelgrub, you know the old receipt for stewing a carp: ‘First, catch your carp.’
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. Your Lordship is pleased to be facetious; but if the carp be not caught, let me be devilled like a biscuit after the second bottle, or a turkey’s leg at a twelfth night supper. The carp shall be caught.
Lord Anophel Achthar. Well, Grovelgrub, only take notice that I’ll not come
again within ten miles of dummy.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. You may rely upon it, my Lord, I shall always know my distance from the Honourable Baronet. But my plot is a good plot, and cannot fail of success.
Lord Anophel Achthar. You are a very skilful contriver, to be sure; this is your contrivance, our perch on the top of this rock. Now contrive, if you can, some way of getting to the bottom of it.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. My Lord, there is a passage in Aeschylus very applicable to our situation, where the chorus wishes to be in precisely such a place.
Lord Anophel Achthar. Then I wish the chorus were here instead of us, Grovelgrub, with all my soul.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. It is a very fine passage, my Lord, and worth your attention: the rock is described as
That is, my Lord, a precipitous rock, inaccessible to the goat — not to be pointed at (from having, as I take it, its head in the clouds), where there is the loneliness of mind, and the solitude of desolation, where the vulture has its nest, and the precipice testifies a deep and headlong fall.
Lord Anophel Achthar. I’ll tell you what, Grovelgrub; if ever I catch you quoting Aeschylus again, I’ll cashier you from your tutorship — that’s positive.
The Rev. Mr. Grovelgrub. I am dumb, my Lord.
Lord Anophel Achthar. Think, I tell you, of some way of getting down.
Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock Page 24