for the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and the war-party his legions.”
“Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me; they stand in my way. I cannot get on—I cannot execute my plans because of them; I see myself baffled at every turn by their untoward effects.”
“But you are rich and thriving, Moore?”
“I am very rich in cloth, I cannot sell; you should step into my warehouse yonder, and observe how it is piled to the roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition; America used to be their market, but the Orders in Council have cut that off.”
Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a conversation of this sort; he began to knock the heels of his boots together, and to yawn.
“And then to think,” continued Mr. Moore, who seemed too much taken up with the current of his own thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest’s ennui,—“to think that these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield will keep pestering one about being married! As if there was nothing to be done in life but to ‘pay attention,’ as they say, to some young lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to start on a bridal tour, and then to run through a round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be ‘having a family.’—Oh, que le diable emporte!”—He broke off the aspiration into which he was launching with a certain energy, and added, more calmly—“I believe
