_Billsbury, Thursday, May 22_.--Came down here yesterday, to stay
for a fortnight on end. Four meetings have been arranged in different
wards, and a good deal of time is to be devoted to canvassing.
Pleasant prospect! Begin to think that, on the whole, it was easier
work to wear an occasional wig in the Law Courts, or to sit in
Chambers, planning imaginary Law-books.
On Tuesday I lunched with the BELLAMYS, to say good-bye. Mrs. BELLAMY
made herself very agreeable. Somebody, so she said, had told her
that my chances at Billsbury were excellent, and she declared she had
always admired young men who devoted themselves with a single-hearted
purpose to the service of their country. So different from the crowd
"Of shallow-pates, who scorn laborious days. And shun the rugged paths
that lead to praise." This is a familiar quotation from the works of
"your grandfather, the poet." Mrs. BELLAMY quotes him on all possible
occasions. A long time ago she gave me a beautifully bound copy of his
book, "_Per Ardua_, by HENRY GATTLETON, M.A." I've got a notion she
has a whole room-full of the unsold copies, somewhere at the top of
the house.
After luncheon had a long talk with MARY, who really looked prettier
than I've ever seen her. She said, "Now that you have got into what
Mamma calls 'the vortex of politics,' I suppose you'll despise all
our simple little amusements, and begin to forget everybody except
the Billsbury voters." I asked her how she could say such a thing,
told her I never could forget the happy hours I'd spent with her at
Exhibitions and dances, and so forth, and assured her I loathed the
Billsbury voters (which, by the way, I really think I do). I was
just beginning to screw myself up to the pitch of asking her _the_
question, in fact, I had taken her hand, and was actually stuttering
out something which made her look down at her feet (she's got the
smallest and prettiest foot I ever saw), when the footman opened the
door and announced POMFRET. Of course POMFRET must have seen something
was up. He's a beast, but not a fool. But he chattered away volubly,
just as if he were the most delightful and welcome person in the
world. I got so angry after ten minutes of it, and my toes and fingers
began to have such an almost irresistible longing to be at him, that
I thought it best to go. But MARY gave me a look as I went away which
simply went right through me, the kindest and most beautiful look any
two eyes ever gave to an unhappy man. I shut my eyes constantly and
bring the whole scene back, and in imagination I throw POMFRET out of
the window, and carry MARY in triumph to the nearest church, while her
mother quotes the late Mr. GATTLETON's poetry over us in blessing. And
then I open them again and find myself in this hole.
Dinner with the CHORKLES on Saturday.
_May 23_.--Started canvassing yesterday and continued to-day under the
charge of Mr. DIKES, one of the Town Councillors. "Old DICKY DIKES,"
the people here always call him. He's supposed to be one of the most
knowing cards in the whole county. A man of about sixty-four, with
light brown hair, rather curly, a wig, say his detractors, but I can't
make my mind up about it yet, as I haven't been able to study him
closely with his hat off. His head is large, face a cross between J.L.
TOOLE's and DIZZY's without the goatee. Always wears a frock-coat of
best broadcloth, and an immense top-hat. Has one curiously protruding
tooth which fascinates me, and makes my attention wander when he's
telling me his anecdotes. I keep wondering how it ever got into that
strange position--a sort of dental rocking-stone, weird, solitary,
inexplicable. Everybody knows him, as he represents the St. Mark's
Ward (which we are canvassing) in the Council. The flourish with which
he always introduces me is wonderful. I might be an Emperor honouring
the place with a visit. But the people take it all as a matter of
course, and seem pleased to see us. They don't care twopence about
real political questions in the back-streets. They mostly say, "My
father was a Blue and his father afore 'im, and I've bin a Blue all my
life, and I ain't a goin' to change my colour now. You're all right,
Sir; you've no call to bother about me. I wish you success." They
don't mind being asked any amount of questions as to where they lived
before, how long they've been in their present houses, and so on. It's
all a kind of entertainment to them. Here and there, of course, you
come on a keen politician, who really understands. I hear CHORKLE's
dinner to-morrow is to be a grand affair.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANCIENT EXAMPLE OF FEMALE MASHER.