RIOTOUS ELECTIONEERING IN 1820s 'EATANSWILL' (POSSIBLY BURY ST EDMUNDS): DICKENS' PICKWICK PAPERS

EXTRACT FROM: Charles Dickens The Pickwick Papers. London: Penguin Books, pp 167-9, 173, 176-7).

It appears that the Eatanswill people, like the people of many other small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty importance, and that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight that attached to his example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties that divided the town - the Blues and the Buffs.

...It was late in the evening, when Mr Pickwick [founder of the Pickwick society] and his companions, assisted by Sam, dismounted from 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 [his opponent] 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...

The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted [at Eatanswill's inn] 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 of the honest and independent... swelled into a tremendous roar of triumph, which stopped even the red-faced man in the balcony.

Hurrah! shouted the mob in conclusion. ... Slumkey forever!

'Slumkey for ever!' echoed Mr Pickwick, taking off his hat.

'No Fitzkin!', roared the crowd. 'Certainly not', shouted Mr Pickwick.

'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. ... '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 gentlemen 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. ...

'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...

...'Spirited contest, my dear Sir' said [Mr Perker].

'I am 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?' - and 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.

'Fitzkin'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 Fitzkin'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 six pence 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'.

[Pickwick meets some more locals and spends the night at the house of one of the notables. On the morning of the election...] The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning ... the beating of drums, blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men, and tramping of horses, echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of day; and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of either party, at once enlivened the preparations, and agreeably diversified their character.

'Well Sam', said Mr Pickwick [to his valet] ... all alive today I suppose?

'Reg'lar game, Sir' replied Mr Weller; 'our people's a collecting down at the Town Arms and they're hollering themselves hoarse already'.

...'Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem' said Mr Pickwick, glancing from the window.

'Verry fresh', replied Sam; 'me and the two waiters at the Peacock has been a-pumpin' over the independent voters as supped there last night'.

'Pumping over the independent voters!' exclaimed Mr Pickwick.

'Yes', said his attendant, 'every man slept where he fell down; we dragged 'em out, one by one, this mornin' and put 'em under the pump, and they're in reg'lar fine order now. Shillin' a head the committee paid for that 'ere job'.

'Can such things be!' exclaimed the astonished Mr Pickwick.

... [the honourable Slumkey is met by voters as he leaves Slumkey Hall]

'Is everything ready?' said the honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr Perker. ...'Nothing has been omitted, I hope?'

'Nothing has been left undone, my dear Sir - nothing whatever. There are twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and six children in arms that you're to pat on the head, and inquire the age of; be particular about the children my dear Sir, it has always a great effect, that sort of thing... And perhaps, my dear Sir' said the cautious little man, 'perhaps if you could manage to kiss one of 'em - I don't say it's indispensable - but if you could manage it would produce a very great impression on the crowd.'

'Wouldn't it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that?' said the hon. Samuel Slumkey.

'Why I'm afraid it wouldn't', replied the agent; 'if it were done by yourself, my dear Sir, I think it would make you very popular'.

'Very well,' said the hon Samuel Slumkey with a resigned air, 'then it must be done. That's all'.

... Suddenly the crowd set up a great cheering.

'He has come out', said little Mr Perker, greatly excited... Another cheer, much louder.

'He has shaken hands with the men', cried the little agent. Another cheer, far more vehement.

'He has patted the babes on the head', said Mr Perker, trembling with anxiety. A roar of applause rent the air.

'He has kissed one of 'em!' exclaimed the delighted little man. A second roar.

'He has kissed another', gasped the excited manager. A third roar.

'He's kissing 'em all!' screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman. And hailed by deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved on. 

END OF EXTRACT

The year is somewhere in the late 1820s, the town may possibly be Bury St Edmunds, and the Pickwick society founded 'to the advancement of knowledge and the diffusion of learning' is one of an efflorescence of early 19th century amateur societies established by wealthy dilettantes who fancied themselves scientists or antiquarians. Pickwick, the founder, is incessantly complimented on his gifts as a natural scientist and antiquarian by his three incompetent sidekicks Winkle (the sportsman), Snodgrass (the poet) and Tupman (the lover) all of whom get into extremely sticky situations when expected to perform within their chosen fields. It is often left to the sharp-witted Sam Weller, Pickwick's valet (a cockney Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote) to get the Pickwickians out of their various scrapes. If you wish to find out who won the election read Chapter 13 in all its anarchic glory. Dickens was a journalist and many of these scenes bear the unmistakeable imprint of very fine journalistic notes. His eye for the grotesque and pompous is unparalelled but he manages to make the electioneers appear very sympathetic. Apparently at the time, in the UK they often had to stagger the polling around the country, rather like in modern day India, because they didn't have the necessary police resources to maintain order across the country. If elections were even half as interesting as that at Eatanswill one can really see why.