over the drugged beer of alehouses, and drank strange toasts in fiery
British gin.

One report affirmed that Moore _dared_ not come to Yorkshire; he knew
his life was not worth an hour's purchase if he did.

"I'll tell him that," said Mr. Yorke, when his foreman mentioned the
rumour; "and if _that_ does not bring him home full gallop, nothing
will."

Either that or some other motive prevailed at last to recall him. He
announced to Joe Scott the day he should arrive at Stilbro', desiring
his hackney to be sent to the George for his accommodation; and Joe
Scott having informed Mr. Yorke, that gentleman made it in his way to
meet him.

It was market-day. Moore arrived in time to take his usual place at the
market dinner. As something of a stranger, and as a man of note and
action, the assembled manufacturers received him with a certain
distinction. Some, who in public would scarcely have dared to
acknowledge his acquaintance, lest a little of the hate and vengeance
laid up in store for him should perchance have fallen on them, in
private hailed him as in some sort their champion. When the wine had
circulated, their respect would have kindled to enthusiasm had not
Moore's unshaken nonchalance held it in a damp, low, smouldering state.

Mr. Yorke, the permanent president of these dinners, witnessed his young
friend's bearing with exceeding complacency. If one thing could stir his
temper or excite his contempt more than another, it was to see a man
befooled by flattery or elate with popularity. If one thing smoothed,
soothed, and charmed him especially, it was the spectacle of a public
character incapable of relishing his publicity--_incapable_, I say.
Disdain would but have incensed; it was indifference that appeased his
rough spirit.

Robert, leaning back in his chair, quiet and almost surly, while the
clothiers and blanket-makers vaunted his prowess and rehearsed his
deeds--many of them interspersing their flatteries with coarse
invectives against the operative class--was a delectable sight for Mr.
Yorke. His heart tingled with the pleasing conviction that these gross
eulogiums shamed Moore deeply, and made him half scorn himself and his
work. On abuse, on reproach, on calumny, it is easy to smile; but
painful indeed is the panegyric of those we contemn. Often had Moore
gazed with a brilliant countenance over howling crowds from a hostile
hustings. He had breasted the storm of unpopularity with gallant bearing
and