sionally employed as a
bully at elections by the Tory party, and he may serve us in the same
capacity. The fellow comes of a good stock; I heard him say that his
father headed the High Church mob, who sacked and burnt Priestley's house
at Birmingham towards the end of the last century."

"A disgraceful affair," said I.

"What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?" said the man in black. "I
assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty years which has
given the High Church party so much credit in the eyes of Rome as that;
we did not imagine that the fellows had so much energy. Had they
followed up that affair by twenty others of a similar kind, they would by
this time have had everything in their own power; but they did not, and,
as a necessary consequence, they are reduced to almost nothing."

"I suppose," said I, "that your church would have acted very differently
in its place."

"It has always done so," said the man in black, coolly sipping. "Our
church has always armed the brute population against the genius and
intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and genius were not
willing to become its instruments and eulogists; and provided we once
obtain a firm hold here again, we would not fail to do so. We would
occasionally stuff the beastly rabble with horseflesh and bitter ale, and
then halloo them on against all those who were obnoxious to us."

"Horseflesh and bitter ale!" I replied.

"Yes," said the man in black; "horseflesh and bitter ale, the favourite
delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always ready to do our
bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. There is a tradition in
our church, that before the Northumbrian rabble, at the instigation of
Austin, attacked and massacred the presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had
been allowed a good gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He! he! he!"
continued the man in black, "what a fine spectacle to see such a mob,
headed by a fellow like our friend, the landlord, sack the house of
another Priestley!"

"Then you don't deny that we have had a Priestley," said I, "and admit
the possibility of our having another? You were lately observing that
all English literary men were sycophants?"

"Lick-spittles," said the man in black; "yes, I admit that you have had a
Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old sort; you have had him, and
perhaps may have another."

"Perhaps we may," said I. "But with respect to the lower classes,