A SHORT SIDELOOK AT THE ELECTION
The brisk Election-day, unlike that wearisome but instructive canvass of
the Englishman in his castle vicatim, teaches little; and its humours are
those of a badly managed Christmas pantomime without a columbine--old
tricks, no graces. Nevertheless, things hang together so that it cannot
be passed over with a bare statement of the fact of the Liberal-Radical
defeat in Bevisham: the day was not without fruit in time to come for him
whom his commiserating admirers of the non-voting sex all round the
borough called the poor dear commander. Beauchamp's holiday out of
England had incited Dr. Shrapnel to break a positive restriction put upon
him by Jenny Denham, and actively pursue the canvass and the harangue in
person; by which conduct, as Jenny had foreseen, many temperate electors
were alienated from Commander Beauchamp, though no doubt the Radicals
were made compact: for they may be the skirmishing faction--poor
scattered fragments, none of them sufficiently downright for the other;
each outstripping each; rudimentary emperors, elementary prophets,
inspired physicians, nostrum-devouring patients, whatsoever you will;
and still here and there a man shall arise to march them in close
columns, if they can but trust him; in perfect subordination, a model
even for Tories while they keep shoulder to shoulder. And to behold such
a disciplined body is intoxicating to the eye of a leader accustomed to
count ahead upon vapourish abstractions, and therefore predisposed to add
a couple of noughts to every tangible figure in his grasp. Thus will a
realized fifty become five hundred or five thousand to him: the very
sense of number is instinct with multiplication in his mind; and those
years far on in advance, which he has been looking to with some fatigue
to the optics, will suddenly and rollickingly roll up to him at the
shutting of his eyes in a temporary fit of gratification. So, by looking
and by not looking, he achieves his phantom victory--embraces his cloud.
Dr. Shrapnel conceived that the day was to be a Radical success; and he,
a citizen aged and exercised in reverses, so rounded by the habit of them
indeed as to tumble and recover himself on the wind of the blow that
struck him, was, it must be acknowledged, staggered and cast down when he
saw Beauchamp drop, knowing full well his regiment had polled to a man.
Radicals poll early; they would poll at cockcrow if they might; they
dance on the morning. As for their chagrin at noon, you will find
descriptions of it in the poet's Inferno. They are for lifting our clay
soil on a lever of Archimedes, and are not great mathematicians. They
have perchance a foot of our earth, and perpetually do they seem to be
producing an effect, perpetually does the whole land roll back on them.
You have not surely to be reminded that it hurts them; the weight is
immense. Dr. Shrapnel, however, speedily looked out again on his vast
horizon, though prostrate. He regained his height of stature with no
man's help. Success was but postponed for a generation or two. Is it so
very distant? Gaze on it with the eye of our parent orb! 'I shall not
see it here; you may,' he said to Jenny Denham; and he fortified his
outlook by saying to Mr. Lydiard that the Tories of our time walked, or
rather stuck, in the track of the Radicals of a generation back. Note,
then, that Radicals, always marching to the triumph, never taste it; and
for Tories it is Dead Sea fruit, ashes in their mouths! Those Liberals,
those temporisers, compromisers, a concourse of atoms! glorify
themselves in the animal satisfaction of sucking the juice of the fruit,
for which they pay with their souls. They have no true cohesion, for
they have no vital principle.
Mr. Lydiard being a Liberal, bade the doctor not to forget the work of
the Liberals, who touched on Tory and Radical with a pretty steady swing,
from side to side, in the manner of the pendulum of a clock, which is the
clock's life, remember that. The Liberals are the professors of the
practicable in politics.
'A suitable image for time-servers!' Dr. Shrapnel exclaimed, intolerant
of any mention of the Liberals as a party, especially in the hour of
Radical discomfiture, when the fact that compromisers should exist
exasperates men of a principle. 'Your Liberals are the band of Pyrrhus,
an army of bastards, mercenaries professing the practicable for pay.
They know us the motive force, the Tories the resisting power, and they
feign to aid us in battering our enemy, that they may stop the shock.
We fight, they profit. What are they? Stranded Whigs, crotchetty
manufacturers; dissentient religionists; the half-minded, the hare-
hearted; the I would and I would-not--shifty creatures, with youth's
enthusiasm decaying in them, and a purse beginning to jingle; fearing
lest we do too much for safety, our enemy not enough for safety. They a
party? Let them take action and see! We stand a thousand defeats; they
not one! Compromise begat them. Once let them leave sucking the teats
of compromise, yea, once put on the air of men who fight and die for a
cause, they fly to pieces. And whither the fragments? Chiefly, my
friend, into the Tory ranks. Seriously so I say. You between future and
past are for the present--but with the hunted look behind of all godless
livers in the present. You Liberals are Tories with foresight, Radicals
without faith. You start, in fear of Toryism, on an errand of
Radicalism, and in fear of Radicalism to Toryism you draw back. There is
your pendulum-swing!'
Lectures to this effect were delivered by Dr. Shrapnel throughout the
day, for his private spiritual solace it may be supposed, unto Lydiard,
Turbot, Beauchamp, or whomsoever the man chancing to be near him, and
never did Sir Oracle wear so extraordinary a garb. The favourite
missiles of the day were flour-bags. Dr. Shrapnel's uncommon height, and
his outrageous long brown coat, would have been sufficient to attract
them, without the reputation he had for desiring to subvert everything
old English. The first discharges gave him the appearance of a thawing
snowman. Drenchings of water turned the flour to ribs of paste, and in
colour at least he looked legitimately the cook's own spitted hare,
escaped from her basting ladle, elongated on two legs. It ensued that
whenever he was caught sight of, as he walked unconcernedly about, the
young street-professors of the decorative arts were seized with a frenzy
to add their share to the whitening of him, until he might have been
taken for a miller that had gone bodily through his meal. The popular
cry proclaimed him a ghost, and he walked like one, impassive, blanched,
and silent amid the uproar of mobs of jolly ruffians, for each of whom it
was a point of honour to have a shy at old Shrapnel.
Clad in this preparation of pie-crust, he called from time to time at
Beauchamp's hotel, and renewed his monologue upon that Radical empire in
the future which was for ever in the future for the pioneers of men, yet
not the less their empire. 'Do we live in our bodies?' quoth he,
replying to his fiery interrogation: 'Ay, the Tories! the Liberals!'
They lived in their bodies. Not one syllable of personal consolation did
he vouchsafe to Beauchamp. He did not imagine it could be required by a
man who had bathed in the pure springs of Radicalism; and it should be
remarked that Beauchamp deceived him by imitating his air of happy
abstraction, or subordination of the faculties to a distant view,
comparable to a ship's crew in difficulties receiving the report of the
man at the masthead. Beauchamp deceived Miss Denham too, and himself,
by saying, as if he cherished the philosophy of defeat, besides the
resolution to fight on:
'It's only a skirmish lost, and that counts for nothing in a battle
without end: it must be incessant.'
'But does incessant battling keep the intellect clear?' was her
memorable answer.
He glanced at Lydiard, to indicate that it came of that gentleman's
influence upon her mind. It was impossible for him to think that women
thought. The idea of a pretty woman exercising her mind independently,
and moreover moving him to examine his own, made him smile. Could a
sweet-faced girl, the nearest to Renee in grace of manner and in feature
of all women known to him, originate a sentence that would set him
reflecting? He was unable to forget it, though he allowed her no credit
for it.
On the other hand, his admiration of her devotedness to Dr. Shrapnel was
unbounded. There shone a strictly feminine quality! according to the
romantic visions of the sex entertained by Commander Beauchamp, and by
others who would be the objects of it. But not alone the passive virtues
were exhibited by Jenny Denham: she proved that she had high courage.
No remonstrance could restrain Dr. Shrapnel from going out to watch the
struggle, and she went with him as a matter of course on each occasion.
Her dress bore witness to her running the gauntlet beside him.
'It was not thrown at me purposely,' she said, to quiet Beauchamp's
wrath. She saved the doctor from being rough mobbed. Once when they
were surrounded she fastened his arm under hers, and by simply moving on
with an unswerving air of serenity obtained a passage for him. So much
did she make herself respected, that the gallant rascals became emulous
in dexterity to avoid powdering her, by loudly execrating any but dead
shots at the detested one, and certain boys were maltreated for an ardour
involving clumsiness. A young genius of this horde conceiving, in the
spirit of the inventors of our improved modern ordnance, that it was vain
to cast missiles which left a thing standing, hurled a stone wrapped in
paper. It missed its mark. Jenny said nothing about it. The day closed
with a comfortable fight or two in by-quarters of the town, probably to
prove that an undaunted English spirit, spite of fickle Fortune, survived
in our muscles.