emergency that could possibly arise. The
usual beer and refreshments were provided
without stint for the coarser portion of the free
and independent possessors of the political
birthright. Subtle scruples of the higher
classes were overcome in masterly manner
by Mr. Ermine, who was a known
and welcome visitor at every house in the
county. If any man during the fortnight
of preparation for the day of election
expressed a wish for a new horse, a new
gun, a new plough, a new wagon, a new
suit of clothes, a new cow, or a short lease
of a cottage, he had it at once,—he scarcely
knew how. If any woman expressed a wish
for a trip to London, a new gown, a new
milking-pail, a new chest of drawers, a new
carpet, or a new fit-out of boots for the
children, she had it at once,—she scarcely
knew how. If any gentleman wished for a
new writing-table, a new diamond-ring, a new
library chair, admission to an exclusive club,
or a presentation for a son to a public school,
he had it at once,—he scarcely knew how. If
any lady wished for a new piano, a new
fan, a new toilet-glass, an Indian shawl,
or an introduction to a circle of fashion,
she had it at once,—she scarcely knew how.
Everybody was satisfied. Everybody was
delighted. There had not been, for many
years, such a charming election at Fogmoor.
The arrangements beneath the surface were
also perfect. While the contest lasted, it would
have been a difficult task to find a single
professional pugilist in the neighbourhood of
the metropolis. They were all at Fogmoor;
and, as they all mustered there in the
Snarlington interest, peace and propriety were
thoroughly respected.

Sir Tomahawk Sternhold presented a
pitiable spectacle. He had sunk rapidly in
Fogmoor popularity. He sat for hours in
Mr. Kosmus's chief committee-room without
speaking a word to his fellow-labourers. When
he met society in the drawing-room or in the
street, he felt that he was not the individual
of a few weeks before. One humiliation
was spared him. He was not confronted
with his opponent in the habitations of his
friends; though he was not aware that Mr.
Snarlington's eccentricity had alone saved him
from this unpleasantness. People judged of Mr.
Snarlington's wealth by what they saw going
on around them, and there was not a door in
the county that was now closed against him.
Mr. Snarlington's treatment of the borough
and its inhabitants was severe, but it was
well-merited. He had bought the suffrages of his
townsmen at the full market-price, and he
was not disposed to conceal his bitter
contempt for a drove of political cattle. He
was stern and unflinching in his determination
not to observe any of the recognised,
expected, and time-honoured amenities of
elections. His placards were small, and
without any of the usual local flatteries. He
would not trouble himself to make professions
of any political principles whatever. He
would not visit any important elector with
the usual deputation, and would not address
the inhabitants from any tavern window, on
the day of nomination. In his single speech
he told them such disagreeable truths, that
Sir Tomahawk—who did not know how
securely every listening man had been bought,
made sure of a triumph. Alas, by the
middle of the polling-day six-sevenths of the
possessors of the political birthright had
recorded their faith in what they called the
honest and straightforward candidate. The
one-sided struggle was at an end, and Mr.
Snarlington was declared to be duly elected.

Mr. Snarlington took the oaths and his
seat for Fogmoor, and Sir Tomahawk Sternhold
began to think that little was to be
gained by keeping aloof from his fellow-member.
He had been soundly rated by the
committee of the Woolsack Club for his
clumsy mismanagement of the election; and
although he had defended himself pretty
well, he felt that his position with the
ministry had been materially injured. He
was asked about the character and political
principles of Mr. Snarlington, and he could
return nothing but vague and unsatisfactory
answers. He saw the necessity of cultivating
more intimate relations with his repulsive
colleague, and he began to make overtures.
But they were not met in the spirit he could
have wished. Mr. Snarlington bluntly told
him that, as long as he remained in the house,
he should act as an independent member.
Sir Tomahawk might go his way, he should
go his. He was pledged to nothing. He
was bound to nobody. His borough was
his own. He had bought it in the regular
way, and he certainly intended to do what
he liked with it. Sir Tomahawk had
discernment enough to see that the case was
hopeless. He withdrew from further
solicitation, and fell back upon his dignity, his
principles, and his title.

His title certainly did not go a great way;
but his dignity—when he thought proper, as
he did very frequently, to turn it on at the
main—was ample and severe enough to do
honour to a dukedom. His principles, in a
great measure, were part and parcel of this
dignity: they were born of it, and they drew
their nourishment from it. Propounded by
Sir Tomahawk they sounded imposing, and
conveyed an impression of great political
wisdom, combined with honesty of purpose
and firmness of character. Propounded by
anyone else, their glitter and emptiness were
at once discovered. This proved the value
of the manner which could make such
counterfeits pass current as genuine coin, and
showed the natural talent of Sir Tomahawk
as a party legislator. They were rather
numerous—these same principles—but that
only enhanced his own value when he came
to be purchased in the political market. A
man with no honesty of purpose, with no