 and it 's the curse of our
country to have politics as well as the other diseases - don't follow a flag, be
independent, keep a free vote; remember how I've been tied, and hold foot
against Manchester. Do it blindfold; you don't want counselling, you 're sure to
be right. I 'll lay you a blood-brood mare to a cabstand skeleton, you 'll have
an easy conscience and deserve the thanks of the country.«
    Nevil listened gravely. The soundness of the head and legs of the country he
took for granted. The inflated state of the unchivalrous middle, denominated
Manchester, terrified him. Could it be true that England was betraying signs of
decay? and signs how ignoble! Half-a-dozen crescent lines cunningly turned,
sketched her figure before the world, and the reflection for one ready to die
upholding her was that the portrait was no caricature. Such an emblematic
presentation of the land of his filial affection haunted him with hideous
mockeries. Surely the foreigner hearing our boasts of her must compare us to
showmen bawling the attractions of a Fat Lady at a fair!
    Swoln Manchester bore the blame of it. Everard exulted to hear his young
echo attack the cotton-spinners. But Nevil was for a plan, a system, immediate
action; the descending among the people, and taking an initiative, LEADING them,
insisting on their following, not standing aloof and shrugging.
    »We lead them in war,« said he; »why not in peace? There 's a front for
peace as well s war, and that 's our place rightly. We 're pushed aside; why, it
seems to me we 're treated like old-fashioned ornaments! The fault must be ours.
Shrugging and sneering is about as honourable as blazing fireworks over your own
defeat. Back we have to go! that 's the point, sir. And as for jeering the
cotton-spinners, I can't while they've the lead of us. We let them have it! And
we have thrice the stake in the country. I don't mean properties and titles.«
    »Deuce you don't,« said his uncle.
    »I mean our names, our histories; I mean our duties. As for titles, the way
to defend them is to be worthy of them.«
    »Damned fine speech,« remarked Everard. »Now you get out of that trick of
prize-orationing. I call it snuffery, sir; it 's
