Doctor Thorne Anthony Trollope (best english books to read for beginners txt) 📖

the city. Then, why on earth does he come here? I’ll tell you. The Earl de Courcy brings him. He’s going to marry the Earl de Courcy’s niece; for they say he’s very rich⁠—this tailor’s son⁠—only they do say also that he doesn’t much like to spend his money. He’s going to marry Lord de Courcy’s niece, and Lord de Courcy wishes that his nephew should be in Parliament. There, that’s the claim which Mr. Moffat has here on the people of Barchester. He’s Lord de Courcy’s nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand and foot, heart and soul, to Lord de Courcy, had better vote for him. Such men have my leave. If there are enough of such at Barchester to send him to Parliament, the city in which I was born must be very much altered since I was a young man.”

And so finishing his speech, Sir Roger retired within, and recruited himself in the usual manner.

Such was the flood of eloquence at the Dragon of Wantly. At the White Horse, meanwhile, the friends of the de Courcy interest were treated perhaps to sounder political views; though not expressed in periods so intelligibly fluent as those of Sir Roger.

Mr. Moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to what proficiency in the Parliamentary gift of public talking he might yet attain; but hitherto his proficiency was not great. He had, however, endeavoured to make up by study for any want of readiness of speech, and had come to Barchester daily, for the last four days, fortified with a very pretty harangue, which he had prepared for himself in the solitude of his chamber. On the three previous days matters had been allowed to progress with tolerable smoothness, and he had been permitted to deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence with few other interruptions than those occasioned by his own want of practice. But on this, the day of days, the Barchesterian roughs were not so complaisant. It appeared to Mr. Moffat, when he essayed to speak, that he was surrounded by enemies rather than friends; and in his heart he gave great blame to Mr. Nearthewinde for not managing matters better for him.

“Men of Barchester,” he began, in a voice which was every now and then preternaturally loud, but which, at each fourth or fifth word, gave way from want of power, and descended to its natural weak tone. “Men of Barchester⁠—electors and non-electors⁠—”

“We is hall electors; hall on us, my young kiddy.”

“Electors and non-electors, I now ask your suffrages, not for the first time⁠—”

“Oh! we’ve tried you. We know what you’re made on. Go on, Snip; don’t you let ’em put you down.”

“I’ve had the honour of representing you in Parliament for the last two years and⁠—”

“And a deuced deal you did for us, didn’t you?”

“What could you expect from the ninth part of a man? Never mind, Snip⁠—go on; don’t you be put out by any of them. Stick to your wax and thread like a man⁠—like the ninth part of a man⁠—go on a little faster, Snip.”

“For the last two years⁠—and⁠—and⁠—” Here Mr. Moffat looked round to his friends for some little support, and the Honourable George, who stood close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like a brick.

“And⁠—and I went through it like a brick,” said Mr. Moffat, with the gravest possible face, taking up in his utter confusion the words that were put into his mouth.

“Hurray!⁠—so you did⁠—you’re the real brick. Well done, Snip; go it again with the wax and thread!”

“I am a thorough-paced reformer,” continued Mr. Moffat, somewhat reassured by the effect of the opportune words which his friend had whispered into his ear. “A thorough-paced reformer⁠—a thorough-paced reformer⁠—”

“Go on, Snip. We all know what that means.”

“A thorough-paced reformer⁠—”

“Never mind your paces, man; but get on. Tell us something new. We’re all reformers, we are.”

Poor Mr. Moffat was a little thrown back. It wasn’t so easy to tell these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment; so he looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint. “Say something about their daughters,” whispered George, whose own flights of oratory were always on that subject. Had he counselled Mr. Moffat to say a word or two about the tides, his advice would not have been less to the purpose.

“Gentlemen,” he began again⁠—“you all know that I am a thorough-paced reformer⁠—”

“Oh, drat your reform. He’s a dumb dog. Go back to your goose, Snippy; you never were made for this work. Go to Courcy Castle and reform that.”

Mr. Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by such facetiae as these, when an egg⁠—and it may be feared not a fresh egg⁠—flung with unerring precision, struck him on the open part of his well-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechless despair.

An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered; but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man’s eloquence, or to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above described. Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be stopped even by such an argument as this; but Mr. Moffat was not one of them. As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was for that occasion denied to him. He could not be self-confident, energetic, witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg drying through his clothes. He was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadly disconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had been standing.

It was in vain that the Honourable George, Mr. Nearthewinde, and Frank endeavoured again to bring him to the charge. He was like a beaten prizefighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he stands up, only stands up to fall. Mr. Moffat got sulky also, and when he was pressed, said that Barchester and the people in it might