- 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
soul elate; but he drooped his head under the half-bred tradesmen's praise, and
shrank chagrined before their congratulations.
    Yorke could not help asking him how he liked his supporters, and whether he
did not think they did honour to his cause. »But it is a pity, lad,« he added,
»that you did not hang these four samples of the Unwashed. If you had managed
that feat, the gentry here would have riven the horses out of the coach, yoked
to a score of asses, and drawn you into Stilbro' like a conquering general.«
    Moore soon forsook the wine, broke from the party, and took the road. In
less than five minutes Mr. Yorke followed him: they rode out of Stilbro'
together.
    It was early to go home, but yet it was late in the day: the last ray of the
sun had already faded from the cloud-edges, and the October night was casting
over the moorlands the shadow of her approach.
    Mr. Yorke - moderately exhilarated with his moderate libations, and not
displeased to see young Moore again in Yorkshire, and to have him for his
comrade during the long ride