Before the union, old Topertoe was master of three votes—­that is, he sat himself for the county, and returned members for two boroughs.  He was known by the sobriquet of Pater Noster Tom—­not from any disposition to devotion; but because, whether in parliament, on the hustings, or, indeed, anywhere else, he never made a speech longer than the Lord’s Prayer.  And yet, short as it was, it generally puzzled the shrewdest and most sagacious of his audience to understand it.  Still, though not without his faults, he was by no means a bad landlord, as landlords went.  ’Tis true he was fond of his wine and of his wench—­as a proof of which, it was well known that he seldom or ever went to,bed with less than four or five bottles under his belt; and as touching the latter, that he had two agents in pay to cater for his passions.  In both these propensities he was certainly countenanced by the usages and moral habits of the times; and the truth is, he grew rather popular than otherwise, precisely on account of them.  He was bluff, boisterous, and not ill-natured—­one of that bygone class who would horsewhip a tenant to-day and fight a duel for him to-morrow.  Above all things, he resided on his estate, knew all his tenantry by name and person, and contracted, by degrees, a kind of anomalous attachment for them, merely because they were his property, and voted and fought for him at elections, and often fought with him touching their relative positions of landlord and tenant.  Indeed, we question whether he would not enter into a quarrel as readily for a tenant as he would for a favorite dog or horse; and we are inclined to think, that to do him justice, he laid nearly as much value on the one as on the other—­a circumstance which we dare say several of our modern landlords, both resident and absentee, will consider as, on our part, a good-humored stretch of fiction.

His speech at elections absolutely became a proverb in the country; and, indeed, when we remember the good-natured 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!”