"The fury to get rich--who is so responsible for it as the crowd of indolent, luxurious and vain women? The frenzy to become notorious--almost entirely women's work. The spirit of reckless ambition in public life encouraged by the sex which has never known the meaning of responsibility. Decay of the arts--inevitable result of the predominance of little fools who never admired anything but art in millinery. Revival of delight in manslaying--what woman could ever resist a uniform? Let them be; let them be. Why should they spoil our ale and tobacco? Friend Breakspeare, how's your wife? Now there, Mr. Lashmar, there is a woman such as I honour! 'She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.' A woman of the by-gone day--gentle but strong, silent and wise. 'Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates!' Mr. Lashmar, your beaker stands empty. So, by the bye, does the jug. Mrs. Ricketts!" The little room contained many 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.