rd, bilious
natures both, rarely came into contact but they chafed each other's
moods. Their frequent bone of contention was the war. Helstone was a
high Tory (there were Tories in those days), and Moore was a bitter
Whig--a Whig, at least, as far as opposition to the war-party was
concerned, that being the question which affected his own interest; and
only on that question did he profess any British politics at all. He
liked to infuriate Helstone by declaring his belief in the invincibility
of Bonaparte, by taunting England and Europe with the impotence of their
efforts to withstand him, and by coolly advancing the opinion that it
was as well to yield to him soon as late, since he must in the end crush
every antagonist, and reign supreme.

Helstone could not bear these sentiments. It was 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."

"But, my dear sir, you can't be serious in what you say. Bonaparte's
marshals are great men, who act under the guidance of an omnipotent
master-spirit. Your Wellington is the most humdrum of commonplace
martinets, whose slow, mechanical movements are further cramped by an
ignorant home government."

"Wellington is the soul of England. Wellington is the right champion of
a good cause, the fit representative of a powerfu