QUIET TALKS.
On the day of the public meeting, just as Wentworth had retired to his
head-quarters at the Red Lion, one of the few old-fashioned public-houses
which survive to tell us how truly Shenstone wrote when he told us that
the warmest welcome he found was at an inn—and how wise were men of the
Johnson era in recognising that fact—he heard a tap at the door, after he
had taken off his boots and had lit his cigar.
‘Come in,’ he cried.
The new visitor availed himself of the invitation. He was a tremendous
fellow to look at, with something of an animal expression, with a loud
voice, and a little bloated about the face, as if he took rather more
beer than was good for him. His hands were rather grimy, his clothes
were the worse for wear, and he had a short pipe in his mouth, which he
was about to put out, but did not, as he saw Wentworth was smoking
himself.
‘Your name, sir?’ said Wentworth.
‘My name—you know me well enough. My name is Johnson—I was at your
meeting to-night, and you and I have met before.’
‘Yes, you were there, as you say—one of my noisiest opponents, I
believe—and now I think of it, when I was at Sloville, you were one of
the Chartists who tried to put me down.’
‘You’re right, Mr. Wentworth.’
‘Happy to renew the acquaintance. To what am I indebted for the honour
of this visit?’
‘Well, you see, we are in now for an election, and I flatter myself the
winning candidate will be the man for whom I vote.’
‘Is that so?’
‘True as the Gospel.’
‘Well, you did not seem very favourable to-night.’
‘No, and that’s why I am here. My party won’t think much of me unless I
act an independent part, and there’s a good many of us; we wish to have a
bit of a literary man. It is my belief, as I tells ’em, that there is
nothing like eddication and the gift of the gab.’
‘Upon my word, you’re right, Mr. Johnson, though when one looks at
Ireland and England, too, one is inclined to feel that we may have too
much of a good thing, and that we should be all the better if we had a
little less talk and a little more work.’
‘Capital! that’s the very thing for Sloville, only you must pitch it a
little stronger, and fire away at the lazy parsons and the ’aughty
haristocracy, and say something about the blood-sucking manufacturers who
leave us—who make all their wealth—to starve and die. We’re agin ’em
all, me and my pals.’
‘Well, we will talk of that presently. If I get into Parliament, how am
I to live?’
‘Well, we must have paid members of Parliament; you’ll be all right
then.’
‘Are you fond of professional parsons, Mr. Johnson?’
‘No, I hate ’em like p’ison.’
‘And yet you would have professional politicians. They are as odious to
me as professional parsons. A man may mean well when he first sets out,
but directly his political career becomes to him his bread-and-butter, he
will cease to be an honest man. If he is paid by the people, he will be
their slave, and not their representative. If he is paid by the State,
he will so shape his conduct that he may secure his re-election. He
cannot act honestly. By the necessity of his position he is bound to
keep his place, because he needs his salary. It is as bad and infamous
for a man to make politics his livelihood as religion. In America they
have a class of men known as professional politicians, and what is the
result? that respectable Americans rarely enter public life.’
‘Well, you do surprise me!’ said Johnson, smoking his pipe uneasily. ‘I
knew you were a little crotchety when you came to our Chartist meeting,
but I thought you went the whole hog.’
‘Well, we’ve secured a good deal more for the people than you or I
expected at that time.’
‘Maybe,’ said Johnson doggedly.
‘But what do you want?’
Johnson’s face brightened as he said:
‘That’s coming to the point—we do not want any more Whigs or Tories.’
‘But if a Tory comes to Sloville and offers to give the people land—we
can’t say restore it, for we Anglo-Saxons never had an inch of the soil
of England. If, further, he tell them that they have not had their fair
share of the profits of capital—if he says he will get every one a fair
day’s wages for a fair day’s work—that the working men shall have decent
homes built for them by Government—that every one shall have his three
acres and a cow—that the parent shall be relieved of all responsibility
as regards his children—that, in short, he will bring the
millennium—don’t you think he will get returned whether he calls himself
Whig or Tory?’
‘I believe you,’ said Johnson excitedly, giving the table an emphatic
thump. ‘Leastways, I knows many as will vote for him, and this I knows,
that no one opposed to him would have much chance. There’s none on ’em
dare turn me out of a meetin’, and there’s none of ’em can drown my
voice.’
‘Yes, I had a good proof of that to-night. But don’t you know that any
man coming with such a programme is an impostor?’
‘No, hang me if I do! I say he is the man for me and the United
Buffaloes, of which I am the president, and who will vote as I do. I
repeat, he is the man for Sloville.’
‘Of course,’ said Wentworth sarcastically, ‘he is, and he is quite safe,
because he knows he promises what he can never perform.’
‘How do you make that?’
‘Let us take the question of the working man not getting his fair share
of the profits. You know Lancashire?’
‘Well, I should think I do.’
‘Well, so do I, and it seems to me that the workmen are pretty well
employed, and pretty well off. They get their weekly wages.’
‘Yes, in course they do.’
‘But is it not a fact that not a brass farthing of profit is being made
in the cotton trades, and that consequently at this time the workman has
quite his fair share of the capital? Look at our great companies, our
railways, our ships, most of them earning no dividends or but small ones,
but who employ millions of men at fair wages. You call the capitalist a
bloodsucker, a vampire.’
‘And so he is.’
‘Well, get rid of his tyranny.’
‘How?’
‘Become a capitalist yourself. As a rule the capitalist is a working man
who has lifted himself out of his class by superior self-denial, or tact,
or skill, or perseverance. Last night when I went to the Town Hall I saw
the name of Brown over a grand shop. When I knew Sloville, Brown’s
father was one of the poorest men in the place, and there was no boy
worse off than poor Brown. I went in and said to him: “I am glad to see
you so flourishing.” “Yes,” said he, “I’ve much to be thankful for.”
“How is it you’ve got on so?” I said. “By minding my own business, and
by not going to the public-house,” he replied.’
‘Yes,’ said Johnson, ‘Brown was allus a pushing boy.’
‘So have all of us to be nowadays. You don’t think we are to sit still,
and open our mouths and shut our eyes, and see what Heaven will give us;
do you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But what? It is in ourselves that lies the secret of success. Look at
Ireland: for ages the people have come to the English Government for aid
to fish, to farm, to manufacture, and what is the result? That now there
are no people so badly off.’
‘Ireland, sir,’ said Johnson angrily, ‘is ruined by the injustice of
England.’
‘Not quite so much as you think. Though Ireland has been shamefully
treated, as much by Irishmen as Englishmen, however, I admit. But to
return to the question of capital, why cannot a workman become an
employer? You can run a cotton-mill if you like to co-operate and put by
your savings. There is no need to ask Parliament to interfere. You want
the landlords abolished. Take to farming yourselves. Land is cheap
enough, and farms are to be had almost for the asking. Don’t ask
Government to take the land and employ all who live in the country on it,
whether they are worth their salt or not. This is a free country, and
any men who have sufficient confidence in each other, and self-reliance,
can become their own employers, as farmers or manufacturers, if they will
join their savings for that purpose. There are no better workmen than
the English, and I want to see them better off.’
‘I am glad to hear that,’ said Johnson; ‘it seemed to me that you were
rather against the working man.’
‘I am against some of his ways,’ said Wentworth. ‘I am against
improvident marriages. In the middle circles of society we can’t marry
till we have a chance of keeping a wife. But almost directly poor lads
or girls—especially in our great cities—are of age, and often before,
they are married, and have families that they can’t keep, and then the
taxpayer, often little better off than themselves, has to pay for their
support. Is that fair?’
‘Well, it do seem rather hard.’
‘As long as that is the case wages must be low, for the supply will be in
excess of the demand. Suppose you get Parliament to come to the aid of
such. The result is you will have more improvident marriages. Then you
tax still more heavily the middle and the upper classes, and the middle
classes become paupers themselves. I see a remedy for this. We shall
have the children of the working classes better educated, and then they
will not think of marrying till they can live in a decent manner. They
will shrink from inflicting hardships on innocent children, as they do
now.’
‘Well, they have to wait a long time.’
‘I fear so. But how is trade at Sloville?’
‘Why, just now very bad.’
‘Shall I tell you one reason?’
‘Just as you please; only, whatever you say I shall report to the United
Buffaloes.’
‘Well, I don’t want to go out of my way to offend them, especially since
they all vote together. But you had a strike here last summer, had you
not?’
‘Yes, and a pretty time of it we had.’
‘It is over now, and what is the result?’
‘Why, that we are going on pretty much as usual.’
‘Not exactly. That strike cost a lot of money.’
‘I believe you.’
‘And that is all thrown away, and to that extent the working men are so
much the poorer. Is not that a fact?’
‘Well, it is no use denying of it; but the masters have suffered as well,
though you get no benefit by their suffering.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
‘The Unions’, I suppose. ‘They were beaten, at any rate.’
‘The Unions. I am glad you mention them, because there is another thing
I have to say. I fear that you can never get good work as long as men
are all paid alike, whether they are good workmen or not.’
‘But that is what we insist on more than anything else.’
‘I am sorry for it. Such a condition is fatal to individual excellence.
Let me illustrate my remarks: I knew a man employed at a printing-office
in connection with printing steel-plates. He was an intelligent, careful
workman, and he did more work and better than the others, and earned more
money. The other men conspired against him, and he found in his absence
his work was spoilt, and his press injured, and he was driven away. Now,
such cases are of constant occurrence. Let me give you another case: A
man was taken into an office at a lesser rate than the others, and they
gave up their work and had to come on the Union. Again, how often is a
good man worried out of his place unless he joins the Union and works as
slowly, and makes a job last as long, as the others! You complain of the
great competition from foreign workmen—how is it that they are in this
country?’
‘Ah! that’s the question.’
‘A question easily answered. Most of them are brought over on the
occasion of a strike, and when they come here they stop here, and add to
the overstocked market. Your regulations for the support of your members
are excellent, and deserve all praise; your Unions also are most
desirable when protection is required against hard and unjust masters,
though the number of them is not so large as you endeavour to make it.
But when you set up to dictate to masters as to whom they shall employ,
you do injustice to respectable men willing to work, whom you compel to
starve, and in the long-run you help to create that depression of trade
of which we all complain.’
‘Have you anything more agin the Unions?’ asked Johnson angrily.
‘Yes; I maintain that when they thus endeavour to control the labour
market they often drive away trade. Why are our shops filled with
American manufactures? For this simple reason: In America the men are
always looking out to improve the processes of manufacture. A workman
who can strike out a new and improved method is rewarded by his masters
and applauded by his fellows. Here masters and men are against him. The
workmen are too conservative. You are not offended, I hope, by my plain
speaking?’
‘Not at all,’ replied the visitor in a sulky tone.
‘Well, I will add that, so far as I can see, they often drive trade away
as well. I will just give you one instance: I was spending an evening
with an eminent judge a little while ago.’
‘Why, the lawyers are the greatest trades unionists going,’ said Johnson
passionately.
‘It may be. I am not a lawyer, and have not much to say on their behalf.
The judge of whom I speak had just been at one of our great Midland
towns, where an order had come for a large supply for a foreign
Government. “But,” said the English firm, “we must have a strike clause
inserted in the agreement, as our men will strike directly they hear
we’ve got the order.” The agent of the foreign Government declined to
agree to such a proposal, and the order was taken to Belgium and executed
there.’
‘Ah, that was an isolated case.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Mr. Wentworth. ‘I can give plenty of other cases
that show how often the British workmen unwittingly drive away trade, and
make us all suffer in consequence.’
‘Well, this is a free country, and the workmen have a right to act as
they think best,’ said Johnson.
‘Undoubtedly; I do not dispute that for an instant. All I say is, don’t
throw all the blame of poverty on the rich; a good deal of it is due to
the poor themselves. Parliament can do little more than it has done. No
Act of Parliament can give permanent employment and good wages to a man
who drinks, or neglects his duty, or who will not work properly and
efficiently.’
‘Ah, there are people who think otherwise.’
‘I fear there are.’
‘According to your way of talk, Mr. Wentworth, Parliament ain’t of much
use.’
‘I fear not. I only defend representative government as the only
possible mode of political life in the absence of a benevolent despotism,
controlled by a free press. The ideal government is that which
interferes least with the people.’
‘Then, what do you recommend?’
‘Moral reform. Do you know,’ continued Wentworth, ‘that Trade Unionism
seems to me essentially one-sided.’
‘That is rather too rich,’ said the visitor. ‘All we seek is justice to
ourselves.’
‘But is not that unjust to the masters? A firm commences a business or
works a mine. It is put to great expense; sinks an enormous amount of
capital, and then because it chooses to employ individuals who have a
right to be employed, who have as much right to earn their own living as
other men, the Union withdraws their men, and the works have to be
stopped, and many a firm has given up business in consequence, and thus
the area of the unemployed and the amount of national poverty and
distress is increased. No man can serve two masters. There must be a
head somewhere, and a firm naturally may claim to be at the head of a
business, and should be left to regulate its own affairs. What would
become of a ship if the crew were to deprive the captain of his command,
and to navigate it themselves?’
‘What would you do, then?’
‘Why, just act according to Christian principles.’
‘Christian principles—what are they?’
‘That man and master should do to each other as to themselves.’
Johnson blackened in his face and whispered something about nonsense.
‘But that is not all.’
‘No, I should think not,’ said Johnson.
‘My next demands are moral reform, and the power of the people.’
‘Ah, now, that’s coming to the point.’
‘But I mean by the power of the people, not a vote at the dictation of a
caucus, but the action of an educated independent people.’
Again Johnson frowned.
‘Well, let me hear what you recommend. The future belongs to you, Mr.
Johnson.’
‘Why, we want State aid against the selfishness of the rich, and State
employment for the poor.’
‘Well, that is rather a reversal of the system which has made England
great by reason of the energy and freedom of her people. The State works
clumsily and ineffectively. Look at the memoirs of officials, or
Government reports, or the revelations of our great establishments, and
you will see for yourself that the State works in a way which, if a
private firm followed, it would soon be in the Bankruptcy Court. In
America things in this respect are as bad as here. The abuses of the
Civil Service there are greater than at home. A distinguished American
writes: “The spoil system, introduced by President Jackson, which is now
stigmatized as ‘the American system,’ imperils not only the purity,
economy, and efficiency of the Government, but it destroys confidence in
the method of popular government by party. It creates a mercenary
political class, an oligarchy of stipendiaries, a bureaucracy of the
worst kind, which controls parties with relentless despotism.” How do
you like that, friend?’
‘Not at all,’ said Johnson.
‘No; we must continue fighting on the old lines. Like Burke, I believe
at this period of the world’s history there is nothing new in politics or
morals. Society has got into the groove which was the only one possible.
It must ever go on the old lines. Upset it, turn it topsey-turvy, as
they did in France, or as the Socialists would do, and a little while
again you will find it on the old lines. Share the wealth of the
country, if you like, between you all; it won’t make much difference to
me, but the next generation will be as badly off as ever—worse off—for
you will have taken from the labourer all motive for exertion.’
‘And is this what I am to tell the United Buffaloes?’
‘If you like.’
‘If I do, not one of us will vote for you.’
‘Then, perhaps the sooner I give up the contest the better.’
‘That is what I think,’ said Johnson, as he took up his hat and departed,
leaving Wentworth to fear that his mission to Sloville was at an end.
Why, even, as he confessed to himself, the Tory programme was more
attractive than his own. Toryism is never particular on the score of
money. Its generosity at the expense of other people is prodigious.
Naturally, we all like a lavish expenditure. There is no one so popular
as a spendthrift, as long as his money lasts, no one so hated as a screw.
When rosy-fingered morning next day dawned on Sloville, there was quite a
crowd of visitors at the hotel patronized by Mr. Wentworth. Everybody is
supernaturally and unusually wise when an election takes place, and,
feeling how uncertain is human life, seems apparently determined to make
the most of it. It is the harvest, if not of the busy bee, at any rate
of the busybody. Before Mr. Wentworth had finished his coffee and bacon
and eggs, while the dry toast in the rack was yet untouched, the aged and
beery waiter announced as how there was a lady outside waitin’ to speak
to him.
‘Show her in,’ said the candidate, and in she walked with that boldness
and self-possession, unpleasant in woman, which marks the advanced
female.
‘I hear, Mr. Wentworth, you are a candidate for our borough. May I ask
what are your views on the subject of Women’s Rights?—a question of vast
importance to our sex. You know our abject and degraded state; how we
are trodden under foot by our lord and master, man.’
The lady was a spinster, or she would not have talked in that style, but
at length she had said all that she wanted, and paused for a reply.
‘I fear,’ said Wentworth, ‘that you and I can never agree. I don’t
believe that man and woman are the same. Nature has made them different.
A woman treads the earth with a lighter step, talks in a feebler voice.
If she succeeds on the platform or in public life, it is because of her
exceptional performance in that character; and owing to her more
excitable temperament and physical peculiarities, and to the duties
devolving on her as wife and mother, I argue that she is unfitted for
public life. Her duty is at home. It is there she reigns a queen, and
where, I ask, can she desire a nobler field? Our men are what their
mothers make them. I say it is to the home that we have to look for the
purification and elevation of our public life; it is to the mothers of
to-day that we look for the great men of the morrow.’
‘And is this all you’ve got to say?’ said the lady, with a somewhat
chap-fallen countenance. ‘I did hope, as a journalist, I might have
heard something more satisfactory. There are many of us in Sloville. We
are affiliated to a society whose headquarters are in London, and we are
determined to vote for no man.’
‘Excuse me, I understood ladies had no votes.’
‘I mean we are determined that no man shall vote for anyone who is not
sound on the question of Women’s Rights.’
‘I am quite ready to give a widow, or any woman housekeeper, or any woman
in business, a vote. As a Liberal I don’t know whether I ought to say as
much. The women will be sure to give a Tory vote. They are sure to vote
as their favourite parson or priest wishes.’
‘Not the emancipated female of the future.’
‘Alas!’ said Wentworth, ‘I don’t know her. I can only talk of woman as
she is—charming, lovely, worthy of all honour, in her own peculiar
sphere.’
‘Thank you,’ said the lady haughtily; ‘we want something more;’ and she
went out of the room to report to her committee that on Women’s Rights
the candidate gave a very uncertain sound.
‘Will you,’ said one other fair enthusiast a little later on, ‘vote for
the repeal of the Vaccination Acts?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Wentworth. ‘Why should I?’
‘Because it is an interference with the freedom of the subject.’
In vain he argued all government, more or less, was that, and that
small-pox was an awful malady, against which it behoved the nation to
take every precaution. He spoke in vain. The anti-vaccinators did not
go so far as to say, as the old opponents did, that vaccination made
children as hairy as bullocks, or that it led them to bellow like bulls.
In our day they have shifted their grounds, but their opposition remains
the same.
The Sabbatarians came next. They were Liberals mostly, with a sprinkling
of Tory Evangelicals, yet rather than see any mitigation in the severity
of the Jewish Sabbath, any attempt made to divert the working man from
the public-house on a Sunday, they declared themselves dead against Mr.
Wentworth. The loafers, of course, were against him. He refused to
treat them to beer. He kept no public-houses open. He did not even
offer to stand glasses round when they called. If he was above obliging
them, why should they put themselves out of their way to oblige him? He
was for purity and independence. Little they cared for either the one or
the other. Every hour it seemed to him that his chance grew less. What
was the good of talking about an improved foreign policy, about the
advancement of the people in political power, about the reduction of
taxation, or free trade in land, or land reform, to such men? According
to one class, an election was simply an excuse for bribery and
corruption. It meant money and beer. A candidate was to be bled to the
uttermost farthing, and he was to repay himself how he could, and as best
he could, when he got into Parliament. According to another class, a
General Election was simply an opportunity for fighting on side issues,
and the ventilation of all sorts of fads.
Musing on these things, the waiter came to him to announce another
visitor. Mr. Wentworth groaned.
‘Not a lady, sir.’
‘Thank God for that!’ he replied.
‘A gentleman this time.’
‘Show him in.’
‘Ah, Mr. Wentworth,’ said the new visitor, ‘I thought I would just run in
and see you.’
‘Happy to see you—take a seat.’
‘I have read your programme, and am delighted with it.’
‘Sir, you flatter me.’
‘Not a bit of it. It is just what I like. I don’t think I could have
done it better myself. You’re the coming man—all Sloville will rally
round you.’
‘It does not seem like it at present,’ said Wentworth gloomily.
‘My dear sir, you astonish me; I should have thought a man of your talent
would have carried everything before him. But I see I am come in the
nick of time—quite providential, as it were. I can promise you entire
success.’
‘Upon what terms?’
‘Well, if you put it in that light, I, of course, expect to be paid. As
a fellow literary man, I would, of course, prefer to work for you for
nothing; but you see, sir, one must live, and the fact is, I have a duty
to discharge to my wife and family. A man who neglects them, you know,
is worse than an infidel. I believe I have Scriptural authority for that
statement?’
‘I believe you have, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, my dear sir, I thought a man of your knowledge and good sense
would admit as much. You know me—my name is Roberts.’
‘I can’t say that I do.’
‘Well, that is a good one! Did you never read my poem on the death of
Prince Albert?’
‘I can’t say that I have.’
‘Don’t you remember my celebrated speech at Little Pedlington in favour
of the Society for the Equal Diffusion of Capital?’
‘I can’t say that I ever heard of it.’
‘Well, you do surprise me! How true it is that the world knows nothing
of its greatest men! Surely you must have heard of my celebrated
discussion with the great O’Toole in the Town Hall of Mudford on the
rights of man, of which the _Mudford __Observer_ remarked that I
demolished my unfortunate antagonist with the brilliancy of Macaulay,
with the philosophy of a Burke, with the wit of a Sheridan, and with a
native originality indicative of the rarest genius. Why, it was the talk
of the whole town for weeks. Do you really mean to tell me, Mr.
Wentworth, that you never heard of that?’
‘Never,’ said Wentworth dryly.
‘Well, that’s a good one! I thought you gentlemen of London kept your
eye on everybody and everything. But you know the Temple Forum?’
‘Oh, certainly I do.’
‘Ah! I am glad to hear that, because I am one of the leading lights of
that select assembly.’
‘Well, I am very unfortunate. I cannot remember to have heard you even
there; but I must own I seldom went near the place.’
‘Ah, if you had you would have known me well. Many is the speech I have
made there. But perhaps you will kindly glance at this?’ taking out of
his hat a dilapidated and somewhat greasy paper.
Reluctantly Mr. Wentworth took it.
‘It is an account of one of my lectures before the Minerva Institute at
Bullock Smithy.’
‘Bullock Smithy—never heard of that.’
‘Come, Mr. Wentworth, you are a bit of a wag, I see.’
‘Not a bit of it. Never heard of Bullock Smithy in my life.’
‘Why, it is a rising watering-place in Blankshire, and I had the public
hall to lecture in, with the head notable in the chair, and all the
_élite_ of the place present; and I assure you, as the _Bullock Smithy
Observer_ remarks, it was quite a treat I gave ’em. “Feast of reason,
flow of soul,” they call it. I am to give ’em another lecture next
summer.’
‘I am delighted to hear it.’
‘Yes, I knew you would be. We men of genius always recognise each other.
And now I’ll tell you why I am here. I’ve come to offer you my services
as a public speaker. I was at your meeting the other night, and I saw
what was wanted immediately. “Clever fellow,” said I to myself; “but too
modest and retiring—not enough bounce and brag to fetch the general
public.” Says I to myself: “I will do it for him; I am the boy for that
kind of work; I am used to it.” Many a man has got into Parliament
through me. Indeed, I have never known anyone fail who has secured my
services, and you shall have ’em cheap. Five pounds for the week and
board and lodging, and I make a speech for you every night. That’s what
I call a fair offer. You hesitate. Well, suppose we say two pounds ten.
I never made so low an offer before, but you are a man and a brother, and
I would do for you what I would not do for anyone else.’
‘I am afraid, Mr. Roberts,’ said Wentworth—‘I fear I must dispense with
your services.’
‘No, don’t say that; don’t stand in your own light, man. You don’t know
what you’re refusing. I can almost guarantee your election. Let me
begin to-night. Send the crier round to say that Mr. Roberts, the
celebrated orator of the Temple Forum, will speak at your meeting. If I
don’t astonish ’em I’ll eat my hat.’ A very battered one, by-the-bye,
which it would have required rather a strong stomach to digest.
‘The fact is, Mr. Roberts,’ continued Wentworth, ‘I consider an election
is purely a matter between a candidate and his constituents, and no one
else has a right to interfere. I should be glad of all the local
strength I could get. That would show the electors we’re in earnest in
the matter; but as to getting strangers down from town to dazzle the
people with rhetorical fireworks, I really don’t care about it. I really
should not care to gain my election by such means. I think it great
presumption even for a London committee, whether sitting at the Carlton
or the Liberal Club, to seek to control the electors. It is something
very serious to me, the freedom of election and the independence of the
voters.’
‘Sir, you take matters too seriously. We all know electioneering is
humbug, and the biggest humbug wins.’
‘I fear you and I could not agree, Mr. Roberts, and perhaps you had
better take your talents to another quarter.’
‘And you mean to say, then, that you have no occasion for my services?’
said the collapsing Roberts, who seemed to become smaller every minute.
‘I do, indeed.’
‘Then, sir, I am sorry for you,’ said the indignant orator. ‘I came out
of friendship; but I am a professional man, and I shall be under the
unpleasant necessity of going to some other party. I believe Sir Watkin
Strahan will be only too glad of my assistance.’
‘By all means try him,’ said Wentworth.
And the itinerant orator retreated, having first secured a trilling loan
on the plea that his journey down to Sloville had quite cleaned him out,
and that he had been disappointed of a remittance.
No sooner had the orator departed than another arrival was announced.
‘A gentleman from London.’
The Hon. Algernon Smithson, a fellow-member with Wentworth of the
Mausoleum Club, was his name. In he rushed, protesting that he had
called at the club, that he had gone to Clifford’s Inn, that he had come
on to Sloville, just to see how his friend was getting on.
‘And is that all?’ asked Wentworth.
‘Well, now you mention it, I don’t mind telling you,’ was the reply,
‘that our party are rather uncomfortable about the state of things here,
and Twiss, of the Treasury, asked me if I could not have five minutes’
chat with you, and so, you see,’ said the Honourable, with a jolly laugh,
or, rather, an attempt at it, ‘like the good-natured donkey that I am,
I’ve let the cat out of the bag. Perhaps that is bad policy; but, then,
you and I, Wentworth, are men of the world, and I like to be
straightforward.’
In most quarters it was considered that the Hon. Smithson was rather a
cunning old fox.
‘The fact is, you Government people don’t want an independent candidate.
Is not that so?’ asked Wentworth.
‘Why, you see, my dear friend, the circumstances of the case are somewhat
peculiar. We are rather hard pushed, as you know, in the House; parties
are evenly balanced. Now, Sir Watkin has a good chance here, and his
connections are very numerous in this part of the world. He is of an old
Whig family.’
‘Yes, I understand; he is to win the borough, and then to be repaid by a
Government appointment. And if I throw him out?’
‘Why, then we lose a safe man. You are a very good fellow, Wentworth,
but, then, you are only to be depended on when the Government is right.
You would desert us to-morrow if we went wrong.’
‘I believe I should.’
‘And if you go to the poll you let in a Tory. Think of that. Our party
will never forgive you. There will be a mark against your name as long
as you live.’
‘I have an idea that there is something more important than the triumph
of a party.’
‘What is that?’
‘The triumph of principle.’
‘Ah, that is so like you, Wentworth!’ said the Hon. Smithson, laughing.
‘Men like you are always in the clouds. We wire-pullers are the only
practical men.’
‘And a pretty mess you’ve made of it. Now you’ve a Liberal Government on
its last legs that four years ago had nearly a majority of a hundred.’
‘I own it—and I own it with sorrow. But I am here on business. I have a
proposition to make.’
‘What is that?’
‘That you arbitrate.’
‘I am quite willing; but the question is, how to arbitrate, and that is
rather a difficult one.’
‘Not at all; it is the easiest thing in the world. Get a public meeting,
admit an equal number of the supporters of each candidate, and abide by
the result.’
‘Which, if there has been fair play—if one party has not taken a mean
advantage of the other—will leave matters just as they are.’
‘Well, then, let the meeting be an open one, and let the best man win.’
‘That won’t do. The richer man will be sure to pack it with his
supporters.’
‘Well, then, refer it to a London committee.’
‘A committee of wealthy men, who are sure to favour the wealthiest
candidate, with whom, possibly, they may be on friendly terms; and a rich
man, with the deceitful returns of his paid canvassing, can always make
out a more plausible case than a poor man. I have a plan,’ continued the
speaker, ‘which might solve the difficulty.’
‘What is it?’
‘Let as many candidates go to the poll as like. Let them be ranged as
Liberal or Conservative—for we have in reality no Tories now—let the
votes all together be cast up, and let the man who has the highest number
of votes on the winning side be the elected candidate. One advantage of
such a system would be that it would create more interest in an election.
The difficulty is at present to get people to take an intelligent
interest in politics at all.’
‘Very good; but that is a question for the future.’
‘In the meanwhile,’ said Wentworth, ‘arbitration is a farce.’
Just before the visitor could ransack his brain for a fitting reply, the
waiter (he was an Irishman and a comic genius in his way), in a tone of
awe and eagerness, interrupted the _tête-à-tête_ by announcing the
arrival of Father O’Bourke.