Read CHAPTER XXVII - A SHORT SIDELOOK AT THE ELECTION of Beauchamp Career, free online book, by George Meredith, on ReadCentral.com.

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.