Once more America "takes the cake" for grotesque absurdity. Mr. James Payn tells us the teetotal folks there are shocked at the idea of christening ships with champagne! Well, perhaps it is a waste of good liquor. "The rosy" in any form must surely be as completely "thrown away" on the hull of an ironclad as titillation on a turtle's back or (as Sidney Smith put it) the dome of St. Paul's. The total abstainer, it seems, "on the occasion of baptising a new liner," sent the President (who was to perform the ceremony) "a bottle of water as a substitute." The Irishman supplied with whiskey to clean windows with drank the liquor and breathed on the glass! Perhaps the President may see his way to taking a leaf out of Paddy's book. Let him drink the fizz (if it is good enough) and "blow the water-drinkers!" Foolish fanatics! They surely forget that for every bottle of "the boy" bestowed on an insensible, unappreciative ship, there is one less left to "gladden the heart of man."
THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
VII.—The Real Thing.
The poll is over, and the Parish Council for Mudford is at last a fait accompli—or almost so. Yet, before I come to relate the story of the polling, there are one or two matters which, as a conscientious historian, I think I should not be justified in omitting.
As I ought to have mentioned before, I did not think it necessary or expedient in my candidature to hold any public meetings. Speaking broadly, I declared to win with Miss Phill Burtt on Canvassing. It was far otherwise with some of my fellow-candidates. Black Bob and his mates (Harry Jorkins and William Brown) got down from town a young glib-spoken fellow, who made a magnificent speech, with a Gladstone peroration, that was supposed to be worth any number of votes. Black Bob (I am told), in proposing a vote of thanks to him, somewhat cruelly called him "a cool, honest and straightforward lecturer." One of these briefless barristers, no doubt. Mrs. Letham Havitt and Mrs. Arble March held a joint meeting (not to be confounded with a meat tea) in support of women candidates, addressed by six enthusiastic ladies who pointed out the various fields of energy provided for woman by this new Engine of Reform. The vicar, the squire, and I, alone out of the eight, contented ourselves with no perfervid platform appeals.
I should also state that, as the poll grew nearer, my wife became increasingly confident that I should be beaten—"and that, Timothy," she added, "you won't like." I pointed out (and I still think it was a natural thing to do in the circumstances) that the most formidable obstacle in the way of my succeeding was the apparent lack of interest taken in the affair by my family. This made Maria perfectly furious. I needn't imagine I should bounce her into it that way; truth to tell, I never for one moment did think so. She would go away and stay at our town house with the girls till the whole affair was over—which she did. So, uncheered by wifely counsel or daughterly devotion, I sallied forth on the morning of the 17th to my Committee Rooms, thence to carry on the last stage of this great contest. I plume myself upon the excellence of my arrangements. Everywhere you were bidden (that is you would have been if you had been at Mudford) to "Vote for Winkins, the Local Candidate." I am free to admit that there was nothing distinctive in this description of myself. We were all local candidates, since we all lived in the village itself. But this appeal to "local" feeling is always an excellent card to play. I know in my own case that I secured five votes at least from men who at the last General Election had voted for our sitting Member because he was the "local candidate." Then I got some boys to carry round a Big Loaf and a Little Loaf, adorned with suitable placards, inciting persons, men and women, married and single, to vote for me. I did this because I never knew of an election yet in which the loaves did not play a prominent part. I was determined to leave no electoral device—legitimate electoral device, of course, I mean—untried.
Except for the masterly precision and perfection of my arrangements, the polling presented few incidents. There were the usual number of people who did not find their names on the register, and who were consequently turned away sorrowing. (By the way, is "and who" right? I am never sure.) Equally, of course, there were some idiots who would put off voting till it was too late, and found themselves shut out by one minute.
At nine the poll closed: and the counting immediately commenced. I did not feel equal to the strain of being present, and was represented by Miss Phill Burtt. I waited at the house in grim suspense. Suddenly I heard wild cheering. Then a minute later Miss Phill dashed up waving a paper excitedly and shouting, "Hurrah! Top of the poll." And so it proved to be. I, who had been last, was actually now first. Here are the figures:—
| Timothy Winkins, J.P. | 219 | |
| G. Travis-Merton (the Squire) | 203 | |
| Robert Hedger (Black Bob) | 203 | |
| Harry Jorkins | 195 | |
| William Brown | 189 | |
| Henry Sandford (the Vicar) | 172 | |
| Mrs. Letham Havitt | 153 | } Tie |
| Mrs. Arble March | 153 |