books, mostly old and such as had seen
long service. As his habit was when a friend sat with him, Mr. Blaydes
presently reached down a volume, and, on opening it, became aware of a
passage which sent him into crowing laughter.

"Ha, ha, friend Breakspeare, here's something for thee! Thou art the
Sophist of our time, and list how the old wise man spoke of thy kind.
'They do but teach the collective opinion of the many; 'tis their
wisdom, forsooth. I might liken them to a man who should study the
temper or the desires of a great strong beast, which he has to keep and
feed; he learns how to approach and handle the creature, also at what
times and from what cause it is dangerous, or the reverse; what is the
meaning of its several cries, and by what sounds it may be soothed or
infuriated. Furthermore, when, by constantly living with the huge
brute, he has become perfect in all this, he calls it philosophy, and
makes a system or art of it, which forthwith he professes. One thing he
names honourable, another base; this good, that evil; this just, that
unjust; all in accordance with the tastes and words of the great
animal, which he has studied from its grunts and snarls.'--Ha, ha,
friend Breakspeare! Does it touch thee? 'Comes it not something
near?'--Nay, nay, take it not in dudgeon! 'Tis old Plato who speaks."

"What, I?" cried the journalist, gaily. "I'm infinitely obliged to you.
The passage shall do me yeoman's service--turned against the enemy. For
it is not I who speak for the many at Hollingford, as well you know. We
Liberals are the select, the chosen spirits. The mighty brute is
Toryism."

Only the fear of reaching Rivenoak at too late an hour constrained
Lashmar to rise at length and take his leave.

"I hope you will let me come and see you again, Mr. Blaydes," he
exclaimed heartily, as he grasped the old man's hand.

"Here you will commonly find me, Mr. Lashmar, after eight o'clock, and
if you bear with my whimsies I shall thank you for your company. This
ale, I try to believe, will last my time. If a company corrupt it, I
forswear all fermented liquor, and go to the grave on mere
element--'honest water which ne'er left man in the mire.' But I hope
better things--I hops better things."

"And what do you think of Martin?" asked the journalist, as he and
Lashmar walked to the nearest place where a vehicle could be obtained
for the drive to Rivenoak.

"A fine old cynic!" answered Dyce. "I hope often to drink