He knew better, he knew that the chief agent in elections was money, that the candidate with longest purse generally wins, and money he was not prepared to spend. So it has ever been, and so it will according to present appearances ever be, and must be so, till paid canvassing be put down by Act of Parliament, and election agents’ fees reduced. There is little likelihood of Parliament doing that. Wealthy men like to get into the House, it confers upon them prestige, a seat in Parliament helps the lawyer to a place, a seat in Parliament gives a naval or a military officer another chance of dipping his hand in John Bull’s purse, or it enables a wealthy ignoramus who has managed either by the blessing of God upon his labours, or with the aid of the devil, to become a millionaire, to obtain admission for his sons and daughters into circles in which they would otherwise have no claim. Everybody who is a somebody is anxious to see only men of wealth in Parliament. You may call it the people’s House if you will, it is only the House of the rich people after all. Now and then one of the people finds his way there as a working man, but he is the exception, not the rule, and too often is but the paid agent of the rich man who defrays his expenses, and expects him, with all his show of independence, to support the party, right or wrong. Nor is he much more independent if he is paid by the working men themselves. ‘What impudence! Serve the fellow right,’ said Sir Watkin Strahan, the swell Liberal candidate, as he talked over the matter with his brother swell, the Tory candidate, in the club-room of Sloville next day. ‘What impudence for a London newspaper man to come down here and upset the town! Things have come to a pretty pass, when such fellows are permitted to interfere into our local matters. At any rate, we may agree to get rid of him as a common enemy.’ And for that purpose they entered into an alliance offensive and defensive. Sloville was to be made too hot for Mr. Wentworth—that was understood in every public-house; there was no need to hint any more. Once upon a time Sir Godfrey Kneller overheard a British working man devoting, as was the wont of British workmen in his day (they don’t do it now, they know better), the various members of his body to perdition. The courtly painter was shocked and scandalized. ‘What!’ said he, ‘do you think that God Almighty will take the trouble to damn a poor wretch like you? The idea is absurd; it is lords and fine gentlemen he will damn, I assure you.’