ist, his religious veneration of his habitual
indulgences, his peculiar forms of nightmare. They swear to his
perfect personification of your moods, your Saxon moods, which their
inconsiderate spleen would have us take for unmixedly Saxon. They are
unjust, but many of them speak with a sense of the foot on their necks,
and they are of a blood demanding a worshipworthy idea. And they dislike
Bull's bellow of disrespect for their religion, much bruited in the
meadows during his periods of Arcadia. They dislike it, cannot forget
the sound: it hangs on the afflicted drum of the ear when they are in
another land, perhaps when the old devotion to their priest has expired.
For this, as well as for material reasons, they hug the hatred they
packed up among their bundles of necessaries and relics, in the flight
from home, and they instruct their children to keep it burning. They
transmit the sentiment of the loathing of Bull, as assuredly they would
be incapable of doing, even with the will, were a splendid fire-eyed
motherly Britannia the figure sitting in the minds of men for our
image--a palpitating figure, alive to change, penetrable to thought,
and not a stolid concrete of our traditional old yeoman characteristic.
Verily he lives for the present, all for the present, will be taught
in sorrow that there is no life for him but of past and future: his
delusion of the existence of a present hour for man will not outlast
the season of his eating and drinking abundantly in security. He will
perceive that it was no more than the spark shot out from the clash
of those two meeting forces; and penitently will he gaze back on that
misleading spark-the spectral planet it bids wink to his unreceptive
stars--acknowledging him the bare machine for those two to drive,
no instrument of enjoyment. He lives by reading rearward and seeing
vanward. He has no actual life save in power of imagination. He has to
learn this fact, the great lesson of all men. Furthermore there may be a
future closed to him if he has thrown too extreme a task of repairing on
that bare machine of his. The sight of a broken-down plough is mournful,
but the one thing to do with it is to remove it from the field.

Among the patriotic of stout English substance, who blew in the trumpet
of the country, and were not bards of Bull to celebrate his firmness and
vindicate his shiftings, Richard Rockney takes front rank. A journalist
altogether given up to his craft, considerin