Spirits that cannot flow one
way must flow another.
In an adjoining room sit the two candidates-gentlemen of high
distinction-for the votes of the sovereign people. Through those
sovereign rights they will satisfy their yearning desire to reach
the very high position of member of the general assembly. Anxiety is
pictured on their very countenances; it is the fruit of care when
men travel the road to distinction without finding it. They are well
dressed, and would be modest, if modesty were worth its having in
such an atmosphere. Indeed, they might have been taken for men with
other motives than those of gaining office by wallowing in a
political quagmire reeking with democratic filth. Courteous to each
other, they sit at a large table containing long slips of paper,
each candidate's sentiments printed thereon. As each voter--good
fellow that he is--enters the room, one or the other candidate
reaches out his hand to welcome him, and, as a sequel, hands him his
slip, making the politest bow. Much is said about the prospects of
the South, and much more that is very acceptable to those about to
do the drinking part of the scene.
Both candidates are very ambitious men; both profess to be the
people's champion-the sovereign people-the dear people-the
noble-hearted people-the iron-handed, unbribable, unterrified
democracy-the people from whom all power springs. The
never-flinching, unterrified, irresistible democracy are smothered
with encomiums of praise, sounding from all parts of the room.
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