The remainder of the way was occupied in discussing the various possibilities of the election, into which I was rejoiced to find that defeat never entered.
In the goodly days I speak of, a county contest was a very different thing indeed from the tame and insipid farce that now passes under that name: where a briefless barrister, bullied by both sides, sits as assessor; a few drunken voters, a radical O’Connellite grocer, a demagogue priest, a deputy grand-purple-something from the Trinity College lodge, with some half-dozen followers, shouting, “To the Devil with Peel!” or “Down with Dens!” form the whole corp-de-ballet. No, no; in the times I refer to the voters were some thousands in number, and the adverse parties took the field, far less dependent for success upon previous pledge or promise made them than upon the actual stratagem of the day. Each went forth, like a general to battle, surrounded by a numerous and well-chosen staff,—one party of friends, acting as commissariat, attended to the victualling of the voters, that they obtained a due, or rather undue allowance of liquor, and came properly drunk to the poll; others, again, broke into skirmishing parties, and scattered over the country, cut off the enemy’s supplies, breaking down their post-chaises, upsetting their jaunting-cars, stealing their poll-books, and kidnapping their agents. Then there were secret-service people, bribing the enemy and enticing them to desert; and lastly, there was a species of sapper-and-miner force, who invented false documents, denied the identity of the opposite party’s people, and when hard pushed, provided persons who took bribes from the enemy, and gave evidence afterwards on a petition. Amidst all these encounters of wit and ingenuity, the personal friends of the candidate formed a species of rifle brigade, picking out the enemy’s officers, and doing sore damage to their tactics by shooting a proposer or wounding a seconder,—a considerable portion of every leading agent’s fee being intended as compensation for the duels he might, could, would, should, or ought to fight during the election. Such, in brief, was a contest in the olden time. And when it is taken into consideration that it usually lasted a fortnight or three weeks; that a considerable military force was always engaged (for our Irish law permits this), and which, when nothing pressing was doing, was regularly assailed by both parties; that far more dependence was placed in a bludgeon than a pistol; and that the man who registered a vote without a cracked pate was regarded as a kind of natural phenomenon,—some faint idea may be formed how much such a scene must have contributed to the peace of the county, and the happiness and welfare of all concerned in it.
As we rode along, a loud cheer from a road that ran parallel to the one we were pursuing attracted our attention, and we perceived that the cortége of the opposite party was hastening on to the hustings. I could distinguish the Blake girls on horseback among a crowd of officers in undress, and saw something like a bonnet in the carriage-and-four which headed the procession, and which I judged to be that of Sir George Dashwood. My heart beat strongly as I strained my eyes to see if Miss Dashwood was there; but I could not discern her, and it was with a sense of relief that I reflected on the possibility of our not meeting under circumstances wherein our feelings and interests were so completely opposed. While I was engaged in making this survey, I had accidentally dropped behind my companions; my eyes were firmly fixed upon that carriage, and in the faint hope that it contained the object of all my wishes, I forgot everything else. At length the cortége entered the town, and passing beneath a heavy stone gateway, was lost to my view. I was still lost in revery, when an under-agent of my uncle’s rode up.
“Oh, Master Charles!” said he, “what’s to be done? They’ve forgotten Mr. Holmes at Woodford, and we haven’t a carriage, chaise, or even a car left to send for him.”
“Have you told Mr. Considine?” inquired I.
“And sure you know yourself how little Mr. Considine thinks of a lawyer. It’s small comfort he’d give me if I went to tell him. If it was a case of pistols or a bullet mould he’d ride back the whole way himself for them.”
“Try Sir Harry Boyle, then.”
“He’s making a speech this minute before the court-house.”
This had sufficed to show me how far behind my companions I had been loitering, when a cheer from the distant road again turned my eyes in that direction; it was the Dashwood carriage returning after leaving Sir George at the hustings. The head of the britska, before thrown open, was now closed, and I could not make out if any one were inside.
“Devil a doubt of it,” said the agent, in answer to some question of a farmer who rode beside him; “will you stand to me?”