ed license of the times, as
many still may, together with the singular blending of generosity
and violence, horsewhipping and protection, mirth and mischief which
characterized the bearing of such men as Topertoe, we are fain to think,
to vary the proverb a little, that he might have spoken more and fared
worse.

"Here I am again, ye blaggards; your own ould Topertoe, that never had
a day's illness, but the gout, bad luck to it. Damn your bloods, ye
affectionate rascals, sure you love me, and I love you, and 't isn't
Gully Preston (his opponent) that can cut our loves in two. No, boys,
he's not the blade to do that, at any rate! Hurra then, ye vagabones;
ould Tom Topertoe for ever! He loves his bottle and his wench, and will
make any rascal quiver on a daisy that would dare to say bow to your
blankets. Now, Gully Preston, make a speech--if you can! Hurra for Tom
Topertoe, that never had a day's illness, but the gout, bad luck to it!
and don't listen to Gully Preston, boys! Hurra!"

This speech, from which he never varied, was waited for at elections
with a vehemence of mirth and a force of popularity which no eloquence
brought against him could withstand. Indeed, it was perfectly well known
that it alone returned him, for when upon an occasion of considerable
doubt and difficulty, the two parties of the county having been
considered as equally balanced, he was advised by some foolish
friend, or enemy in disguise, to address them in a serious speech, the
consequences were near proving disastrous to his interests. When
he commenced--"Gentlemen--upon an occasion of such important
difficulty"--there was for about a quarter of a minute a dead
silence--that of astonishment--Topertoe, however, who had stuck fast,
was obliged to commence again---"Gentlemen--upon an occasion, of
such--" but it would not do, the groaning, shouting, hooting, and
yelling, were deafening for some minutes, much to the gratification of
his opponent. At length there was something like a pause, and several
voices shouted out--"what the divil do you mane, Tom?" "He's showin'
the garran bane at last," shouted another--"desartin' his colors!"--"oh!
we're gintlemen now it seems, an' not his own blaggards, as we used to
be--Tiper-to'e's vagabones that stood by him--oh no! Tom, to hell wid
you and your gintlemen--three cheers for Gully Preston!"

Tom saw it was nearly over with him, and Preston's hopes ran high.
"Aisy, boys," said the other, resuming his o