By this ingenious species of ratiocination—this word is employed here in compliment to him, for ratiocination and fructification were the two stock weapons, which he, on all occasions, used to defeat his opponents, and without which he couldn't well argue a point—he endeavoured to justify himself. But he didn't succeed. His friends attributed his silence in the churchyard to fear—they would not hear of its being ascribable to anything else!—and when he found that he could not then shake this conviction, he, in order to subdue them for the time being, promised to show them that night what he would say, and how he would act in the event of the spirit's re-appearance.
This grand point having been thus far settled, he reverted to politics, in which he knew, of course, that he was perfectly at home, and in possession of the ability to beat them hollow.
Of all highly-influential men, there is not one more capable of commanding the attention of those who form the circle of which he is the centre, than a village politician. Nor would it be correct if there were, for what a patriot he is!—what a pure philanthropist!—nay, what a deeply indignant man! How profound is his political wisdom!—and how boldly he denounces the conduct of the party to whom he is, on principle, opposed! What rogues—what reckless, rampant rogues—does he prove them to be! To his knowledge, what intrigues are they connected with—what flagrant follies are they guilty of—what dead robberies do they commit! In his view, with what tenacity do they stick to the property of the people!—how they batten on corruption!—how they live on pure plunder!—how richly they deserve to be hanged! With what fiery indignation does he declare them to be wretches: how rotten, how venal, how utterly contemptible does he labour to make them all appear, when, to get a coat to make, or a boot to mend, he would take off his hat to the first he met. Precisely such a patriot was Obadiah Drant. But, although he would denounce the aristocracy at night, and bow to them with all humility in the morning, it merely proved the force of example—he would boldly philippicise people of property, and bend low to get the smallest share; but as men envy only the possessors of that which they have not, this was merely the effect of education. He would, moreover, loudly declaim against rank, state, and splendour, and yet
"lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
That thrift might follow fawning;"
but that was a natural matter of business. He was a patriot, notwithstanding; a tyrant, and a slave; and was highly respected by those whom he met at the sign of the Crumpet and Crown.
But, on this particular night, he was singularly eloquent. He, indeed, surpassed himself. He explained what the ministers ought to have done, and what he would have done had he been at the helm: he showed them how easily and how equitably he would have swept off the National Debt—how he would have settled the Currency question—how confidence and credit had proved the nation's curse—how France should
