Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative: and, accordingly, there were two newspapers in the town – the Eatanswill Gazette and the Eatanswill Independent; the former advocating Blue principles, and the latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were. Such leading articles, and such spirited attacks! – ‘Our worthless contemporary, the Gazette’ – ‘That disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent’ – ‘That false and scurrilous print, the Independent’ – ‘That vile and slanderous calumniator, the Gazette;’ these, and other spirit-stirring denunciations, were strewn plentifully over the columns of each, in every number, and excited feelings of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of the townspeople.
Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a peculiarly desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such a contest known. The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was the Blue candidate; and Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, had been prevailed upon by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The Gazette warned the electors of Eatanswill that the eyes not only of England, but of the whole civilised world, were upon them; and the Independent imperatively demanded to know, whether the constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they had always taken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike of the name of Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion agitated the town before.
It was late in the evening when Mr. Pickwick and his companions, assisted by Sam, dismounted from the roof of the Eatanswill coach. Large blue silk flags were flying from the windows of the Town Arms Inn, and bills were posted in every sash, intimating, in gigantic letters, that the Honourable Samuel Slumkey’s committee sat there daily. A crowd of idlers were assembled in the road, looking at a hoarse man in the balcony, who was apparently talking himself very red in the face in Mr. Slumkey’s behalf; but the force and point of whose arguments were somewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large drums which Mr. Fizkin’s committee had stationed at the street corner. There was a busy little man beside him, though, who took off his hat at intervals and motioned to the people to cheer, which they regularly did, most enthusiastically; and as the red-faced gentleman went on talking till he was redder in the face than ever, it seemed to answer his purpose quite as well as if anybody had heard him.
The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted than they were surrounded by a branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwith set up three deafening cheers, which being responded to by the main body (for it’s not at all necessary for a crowd to know what they are cheering about), swelled into a tremendous roar of triumph, which stopped even the red-faced man in the balcony.
‘Hurrah!’ shouted the mob, in conclusion.
‘One cheer more,’ screamed the little fugleman in the balcony, and out shouted the mob again, as if lungs were cast-iron, with steel works.
‘Slumkey for ever!’ roared the honest and independent.
‘Slumkey for ever!’ echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat.
‘No Fizkin!’ roared the crowd.
‘Certainly not!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick. ‘Hurrah!’ And then there was another roaring, like that of a whole menagerie when the elephant has rung the bell for the cold meat.
‘Who is Slumkey?’ whispered Mr. Tupman.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone. ‘Hush. Don’t ask any questions. It’s always best on these occasions to do what the mob do.’
‘But suppose there are two mobs?’ suggested Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Shout with the largest,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.
Volumes could not have said more.
They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure quarters for the night.
‘Can we have beds here?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter.
‘Don’t know, Sir,’ replied the man; ‘afraid we’re full, sir – I’ll inquire, Sir.’ Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned, to ask whether the gentleman were ‘Blue.’
As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in the cause of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one to answer. In this dilemma Mr. Pickwick bethought himself of his new friend, Mr. Perker.
‘Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Certainly, Sir; Honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey’s agent.’
‘He is Blue, I think?’
‘Oh, yes, Sir.’
‘Then we are Blue,’ said Mr. Pickwick; but observing that the man looked rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him his card, and desired him to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he should happen to be in the house. The waiter retired; and reappearing almost immediately with a request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him, led the way to a large room on the first floor, where, seated at a long table covered with books and papers, was Mr. Perker.
‘Ah – ah, my dear Sir,’ said the little man, advancing to meet him; ‘very happy to see you, my dear Sir, very. Pray sit down. So you have carried your intention into effect. You have come down here to see an election – eh?’
Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.
‘Spirited contest, my dear sir,’ said the little man.
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. ‘I like to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth – and so it’s a spirited contest?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the little man, ‘very much so indeed. We have opened all the public-houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the beer-shops – masterly stroke of policy that, my dear Sir, eh?’ The little man smiled complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff.
‘And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Why, doubtful, my dear Sir; rather doubtful as yet,’ replied the little man. ‘Fizkin’s people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up coach-house at the White Hart.’
‘In the coach-house!’ said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this second stroke of policy.
‘They keep ‘em locked up there till they want ‘em,’ resumed the little man. ‘The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them; and even if we could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart fellow Fizkin’s agent – very smart fellow indeed.’
Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.
‘We are pretty confident, though,’ said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. ‘We had a little tea-party here, last night – five-and-forty women, my dear sir – and gave every one of ‘em a green parasol when she went away.’
‘A parasol!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Fact, my dear Sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and sixpence a-piece. All women like finery – extraordinary the effect of those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers – beats stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing hollow. My idea, my dear Sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine, you can’t walk half a dozen yards up the street, without encountering half a dozen green parasols.’
Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only checked by the