They talk of it to this day, and when a wife
wants a sea-side trip, they say 'we must, wait for
the Band.' My lord would like to be popular—
not like Black Dick who didn't care a hang for
any one—but his unlucky temper won't let him.
I remember, as it was yesterday, when he was
standing for Greenshire, the first time when he
was Lord Blareton, before he came to the title—
he was only a captain then—his own committee
nearly pitched him out of the window. It was
the first day's polling, and my lord being quite
safe, they put all their strength on Mr. Trysdale,
to get in two blues if they could. The chairman
of the head committee was Squire Vavaser, just
the very opposite to my lord, except that he was
about the some height. My lord was, as he is
now, as thin as a whipping-post; the squire was
stout and big every way, with a shoulder like a
leg of mutton. My lord's pale London face was
covered with light hair and curls, the squire's
face was smooth, close-shaved, of a brown, red
colour, like a ripe pear on a southern wall, and
his dark hair was cropped close. My lord was
a dandy in his dress, all rings and chains; the
squire looked the squire, in his frilled shirt and
brown cutaway, with the Hunt Club buttons.

I had just ridden over with a copy of the
returns of the first day's poll: they showed Mr.
Trysdale a score of votes ahead. The chairman
had scarcely read the numbers, when tramp,
tramp, jingle, jingle, up the stairs at a run, and in
burst my lord, in a white rage, with another copy
of the returns in his hand. He turns round, locks
the door, puts the key in his pocket, and cries out,
'What the blank blank is the meaning of this?'
Mr. Vavaser stood up in a minute to his full
length, and, waving his hand to the committee,
said, very slow and fierce, 'Gentlemen, I beg
you not to say one word.' Then, and I thought
his voice trembled a bit with passion, 'Lord
Blareton, take that key out of your pocket, and
unlock that door.' Young Sir Francis Preston
was opening his mouth. 'Not a word,' said
the squire, as fierce as a bull. 'Lord Blareton,'
—this time it was a breath deeper, and
slower, and fiercer—'unlock that door!'

"His lordship looked like a great rat in a
corner, and stared at the old squire, but the old
squire looked him down as they look down a
madman; then slowly, with a shaking hand, and
grinding his teeth, he put the key in the lock,
and turned it, while you might hear a pin drop.

"Says the squire, very hard and cold, 'Your
lordship is perfectly safe, but you must let us
manage this business our own way. I must ask
you to retire.'

"His lordship, quite beat, in a shaking voice,
says, 'Is that so?"

"Mr. Vavaser just bows a yes, and waves him
out of the room like a king, and my lord goes
tramp, tramp, jingle, jingle, with, his long spurs,
slowly down the stairs, jumped into his carriage,
and blessed the postboys above a bit all the way
to the park, because they didn't drive fast
enough, and they did the six miles in twenty
minutes. After he gets to the park, he says to
his valet, 'Give the blank scoundrels a couple
of guineas.'Crooked Billy that's now on the
omnibus told my nevy all about it hisself. That's
about the only time he ever was matched in this
county. But for all he's such an awful temper,
he's uncommon good to the poor, and makes the
farmers very wild with the wages he gives to all
the labourers in the home farm and park."

After this bit of county history, like Oliver
Twist, wanting more, I presented him with a
Regalia cigar good enough for a President of the
Institute of Civil Engineers, which he sucked
with immense zest, and asked him if he knew
Sir Peter de Rawley, until lately, M.P. for
Greenshire.

"Should think I did; knew Sir Peter in his
best days, when he hunted six days a week and
went to church on Sundays in buckskins and
top-boots. Fine-spoken gentleman, of the
old blood, Sir Peter; as different from Lord
Swansea as chalk from cheese. They tell
me they've lived at Rawley a matter of
five hundred years. Shouldn't think Sir Peter
was ever out of temper in his life, except about
the Reform Bill and that Free Trade business.
He don't like no improvements except in stock
and blood horses; couldn't abide roads, much
less railroads. I mind the farmers wanting a
presentment for a road from Rawley parish past
his park; and one of 'em—Farmer Vackel it was—
said something about a gig. 'Gig,' says he,
'what does a fanner want with wheels? I always
go on a hack; so did my father and my
grandfather, and I'll have no roads to encourage a
parcel of cockney farmers.' And didn't he fight
against the railroad. But he travels by it now,
and has taken to trousers, and I seen him in a
brougham actually last summer; but then he's
over eighty, and there's none of his old friends
to keep him in heart, in Greenshire. Most of the
old sort are dead. One of the last was old
Colonel Kidthorpe—not so old either; but I mind
once the colonel was telling Sir Peter that he
would allow no steam-engines to be put up on
his estate, called them d—d free-trading, cotton-
spinning humbug. 'Quite right, colonel,' says
Sir Peter—'quite right; but, colonel, I think
a little better stock would do your Oxbridge
farmers no harm,' for Sir Peter's Short-horn herd
is known all over the world. 'I tell you what,
Sir Peter,' says the colonel, 'if you live another
ten years I'm—— blessed'—he swore awful did
the colonel—'but you'll be a radical, for the
Short-horn is a regular radical beast. The long
horn is the genuine old Tory.' And then they
ha-ha-ha'd! till it did your heart good to hear
'em. It was that same time, at the dinner of
the Greenshire Agricultural Society, that Sir
Peter, when his health was drunk, was obliged
to make a speech, which was always hard work
for him. I think he began and told 'em he ought
to know something about the county, for he'd
been on every hedge and in every ditch in the
county, but he wound 'em up with saying that
it was all very fine what Professor Waddler—a
visitor—had been telling them about guano and
such foreign things, but for his part he thought
there was nothing like muck. How they roared