after their sires are dead.  Papa (ex uno disce omnes) living as quietly as he can; not exactly enviably, it is true, being now and then seen to cast an uneasy and furtive glance behind, even as an animal is wont, who has lost by some mischance a very slight appendage; as quietly however as he can, and as dignifiedly, a great admirer of every genteel thing and genteel personage, the Duke in particular, whose “Despatches,” bound in red morocco, you will find on his table.  A disliker of coarse expressions, and extremes of every kind, with a perfect horror for revolutions and attempts to revolutionize, exclaiming now and then, as a shriek escapes from whipped and bleeding Hungary, a groan from gasping Poland, and a half-stifled curse from down-trodden but scowling Italy, “Confound the revolutionary canaille, why can’t it be quiet!” in a word, putting one in mind of the parvenu in the “Walpurgis Nacht.”  The writer is no admirer of Gothe, but the idea of that parvenu was certainly a good one.  Yes, putting one in mind of the individual who says —

“Wir waren wahrlich auch nicht dumm,
Und thaten oft was wir nicht sollten;
Doch jetzo kehrt sich alles um und um,
Und eben da wir’s fest erhalten wollten.”

We were no fools, as every one discern’d,
And stopp’d at nought our projects in fulfilling;
But now the world seems topsy-turvy turn’d,
To keep it quiet just when we were willing.

Now, this class of individuals entertain a mortal hatred for Lavengro and its writer, and never lose an opportunity of vituperating both.  It is true that such hatred is by no means surprising.  There is certainly a great deal of difference between Lavengro and their own sons; the one thinking of independence and philology, whilst he is clinking away at kettles, and hammering horse-shoes in dingles; the others stuck up at public offices with gilt chains at their waistcoat-pockets, and giving themselves the airs and graces of females of a certain description.  And there certainly is a great deal of difference between the author of Lavengro and themselves—­he retaining his principles and his brush; they with scarlet breeches on, it is true, but without their Republicanism, and their tails.  Oh, the writer can well afford to be vituperated by your pseudo-Radicals of ’32!

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but the matter is too rich not to require a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER XI

The Old Radical.

“This very dirty man, with his very dirty face, Would do any dirty act, which would get him a place.”

Some time ago the writer was set upon by an old Radical and his wife; but before he relates the manner in which they set upon him, it will be as well to enter upon a few particulars tending to elucidate their reasons for so doing.