ssly stated that he has a majority of three hundred and sixty-five
in his spiritual constituency of four hundred and thirty-five. But Mr.
Crockett's point is that he was a hero for refusing to kick his own
mother out of doors. He makes Mr. Allan Fairley tell his own tale, and
the end of this portion of it runs thus:

'He got no further; he wadna hae gotten as far if for a moment I had
jaloosed his drift I got on my feet I could hardly keep my hands off
them, minister as I was, but I said: "Gentlemen, you are aware of what
you ask me to do? You ask me to turn out of the house the mither that
bore me, the mither that learnt me 'The Lord's my Shepherd,' the mither
that wore her fingers near the bone that I might gang to the college,
that selled her bit plenishin' that my manse micht be furnished! Ye ask
me to show her to the door--I'll show you to the door!"--an' to the door
they gaed!' "Weel done! That was my ain Allan!" cried I.'

Was there ever a piece of sentiment cheaper, falser, more tawdry?
Who applauds a man for not turning his old mother out of doors at the
impertinent request of a meddling nobody? Look at the stormy small
capitals of this oatmeal hero, who is supposed to electrify us by the
mere fact of his not being an incredible ass and scoundrel! Does any
sober person think for a moment that a man of genius could have made
this revolting blunder? It is beyond comparison the densest bit of
stupidity in dealing with the emotions I have encountered anywhere.
Anybody but Mr. Crockett can see where the point of the story lies. It
lies in the cool impertinence and heartlessness of his visitors. To
put the emphasis on the rejection of their proposal--to make a point of
_that_--is to insult the reader. Of course it was rejected. How should
it possibly, by any stretch of poltroonery and baseness, be otherwise?

_Ex pede Herculem_. This bedrummed and betrumpeted man of genius
cannot read the A B _ab_ of the human emotions. 'Here!' says the subtle
tempter, 'I'll give you twopence if you'll put your baby on the fire!'
The god-like hero thunders: 'No! He is my flesh and blood. He is the
sacred trust of Heaven. He is innocent, he is helpless. I'll show you to
the door!' Oh! what emotions stir within the heart when a master's hand
awakes a chord like this!

There is, of course, a certain angry pleasure in this necessary work;
but it does not endure, and it is followed rapidly by a reaction of pain
and pity. But we have a