I hated the
well-born young special constables whom I passed, because they would have
fought. I hated the gent and shop-keeper special constables, because they
would have run away. I hated my own party, because they had gone too
far--because they had not gone far enough. I hated myself, because I had
not produced some marvellous effect--though what that was to have been I
could not tell--and hated myself all the more for that ignorance.
A group of effeminate shop-keepers passed me, shouting, "God save the
Queen!" "Hypocrites!" I cried in my heart--"they mean 'God save our shops!'
Liars! They keep up willingly the useful calumny, that their slaves and
victims are disloyal as well as miserable!"
I was utterly abased--no, not utterly; for my self-contempt still vented
itself--not in forgiveness, but in universal hatred and defiance. Suddenly
I perceived my cousin, laughing and jesting with a party of fashionable
young specials: I shrank from him; and yet, I know not why, drew as near
him as I could, unobserved--near enough to catch the words.
"Upon my honour, Locke, I believe you are a Chartist yourself at heart.
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