vague sense that it would be an occasion something like a fighting match, when
bad characters would probably assemble, and there might be struggles and alarms
for respectable men, which would make it expedient for them to take a little
neat brandy as a precaution beforehand and a restorative afterwards. The tenants
on the Transome estate were comparatively fearless: poor Mr Goffe, of Rabbit's
End, considered that one thing was as mauling as another, and that an election
was no worse than the sheep-rot; while Mr Dibbs, taking the more cheerful view
of a prosperous man, reflected that if the Radicals were dangerous, it was safer
to be on their side. It was the voters for Debarry and Garstin who considered
that they alone had the right to regard themselves as targets for evil-minded
men; and Mr Crowder, if he could have got his ideas countenanced, would have
recommended a muster of farm-servants with defensive pitchforks on the side of
church and king. But the bolder men were rather gratified by the prospect of
being groaned at, so that they might face about and groan in return.
    Mr Crow, the high constable of Treby, inwardly rehearsed a brief address to
a riotous crowd in case it should be wanted, having been warned by the rector
that it was a primary duty on these occasions to keep a watch against
provocation as well as violence. The rector, with a brother magistrate who was
on the spot, had thought it desirable to swear in some special constables, but
the presence of loyal men not absolutely required for the polling was not looked
at in the light of a provocation. The benefit clubs from various quarters made a
show, some with the orange-coloured ribbons and streamers of the true Tory
candidate, some with the mazarine of the Whig. The orange-coloured bands played
»Auld Langsyne«, and a louder mazarine band came across them with »O whistle and
I will come to thee, my lad« - probably as the tune the most symbolical of
Liberalism which their repertory would furnish. There was not a single club
bearing the Radical blue: the Sproxton Club members wore the mazarine, and Mr
Chubb wore so much of it that he looked (at a sufficient distance) like a very
large gentianella. It was generally understood that these brave fellows,
representing the fine institution of benefit clubs, and holding aloft the motto,
»Let brotherly love continue«, were a civil force calculated to encourage voters
of sound opinions and keep up their spirits. But a considerable number of
unadorned heavy navvies, colliers, and stone-pit men,