dance on the morning.  As for their chagrin at noon, you will find descriptions of it in the poet’s Inferno.  They are for lifting our clay soil on a lever of Archimedes, and are not great mathematicians.  They have perchance a foot of our earth, and perpetually do they seem to be producing an effect, perpetually does the whole land roll back on them.  You have not surely to be reminded that it hurts them; the weight is immense.  Dr. Shrapnel, however, speedily looked out again on his vast horizon, though prostrate.  He regained his height of stature with no man’s help.  Success was but postponed for a generation or two.  Is it so very distant?  Gaze on it with the eye of our parent orb!  ’I shall not see it here; you may,’ he said to Jenny Denham; and he fortified his outlook by saying to Mr. Lydiard that the Tories of our time walked, or rather stuck, in the track of the Radicals of a generation back.  Note, then, that Radicals, always marching to the triumph, never taste it; and for Tories it is Dead Sea fruit, ashes in their mouths!  Those Liberals, those temporisers, compromisers, a concourse of atoms! glorify themselves in the animal satisfaction of sucking the juice of the fruit, for which they pay with their souls.  They have no true cohesion, for they have no vital principle.

Mr. Lydiard being a Liberal, bade the doctor not to forget the work of the Liberals, who touched on Tory and Radical with a pretty steady swing, from side to side, in the manner of the pendulum of a clock, which is the clock’s life, remember that.  The Liberals are the professors of the practicable in politics.

‘A suitable image for time-servers!’ Dr. Shrapnel exclaimed, intolerant of any mention of the Liberals as a party, especially in the hour of Radical discomfiture, when the fact that compromisers should exist exasperates men of a principle.  ’Your Liberals are the band of Pyrrhus, an army of bastards, mercenaries professing the practicable for pay.  They know us the motive force, the Tories the resisting power, and they feign to aid us in battering our enemy, that they may stop the shock.  We fight, they profit.  What are they?  Stranded Whigs, crotchetty manufacturers; dissentient religionists; the half-minded, the hare-hearted; the I would and I would-not—­shifty creatures, with youth’s enthusiasm decaying in them, and a purse beginning to jingle; fearing lest we do too much for safety, our enemy not enough for safety.  They a party?  Let them take action and see!  We stand a thousand defeats; they not one!  Compromise begat them.  Once let them leave sucking the teats of compromise, yea, once put on the air of men who fight and die for a cause, they fly to pieces.  And whither the fragments?  Chiefly, my friend, into the Tory ranks.  Seriously so I say.  You between future and past are for the present—­but with the hunted look behind of all godless livers in the present.  You Liberals are Tories with foresight, Radicals without faith.  You start, in fear of Toryism, on an errand of Radicalism, and in fear of Radicalism to Toryism you draw back.  There is your pendulum-swing!’