poorly veiled malignance. Surely it must be I he meant, literally, when he thundered out, "Sir, you are much mistaken if you think your talents have been as great as your life has been reprehensible." Full upon me and upon me alone seemed to flash his gaze.
"After a rank and clamorous opposition you became—on a sudden—silent; you were silent for seven years; you were silent on the greatest questions—and you were silent for money!"
There could be no doubt, I thought, that he singled me from the multitude of his auditors. It was I who had supported the unparalleled profusion and jobbing of Lord Harcourt's scandalous ministry, I who had manufactured stage thunder against Mr. Eden for his anti-American principles—"You, sir, whom it pleases to chant a hymn to the immortal Hampden—you, sir, approved of the tyranny exercised against America, and you, sir, voted four thousand Irish troops to cut the throats of the Americans—"
Under the burden of this imputed ignominy, was it remarkable that I faltered in my own piece immediately following?
Not more foully was the blameless Don Sancho done to death than I upon this Friday murdered the ballad that recounts his fate. And she, who had
