only on the consideration of Moore being a sort of outcast and alien, and having but half measure of British blood to temper the foreign gall which corroded his veins, that he brought himself to listen to them without indulging the wish he felt to cane the speaker. Another thing, too, somewhat allayed his disgust; namely, a fellow-feeling for the dogged tone with which these opinions were asserted, and a respect for the consistency of Moore’s crabbed contumacy.
As the party turned into the Stilbro’ road, they met what little wind there was; the rain dashed in their faces. Moore had been fretting his companion previously, and now, braced up by the raw breeze, and perhaps irritated by the sharp drizzle, he began to goad him.
“Does your Peninsular news please you still?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” was the surly demand of the Rector.
“I mean have you still faith in that Baal of a Lord Wellington?”
“And what do you mean now?”
“Do you still believe that this wooden-faced and pebble-hearted idol of England has power to send fire down from heaven to consume the French holocaust you want to offer up?”
“I believe Wellington will flog Bonaparte’s marshals into the sea, the day it pleases him to lift his arm.”
