COARSE think'n. I b'long to the school of Mrs. F's Aunt—”
“What?” said some one, intent.
“In 'Little Dorrit,'” explained Tarvrille; “go on!”
“Hate a fool,” said my assailant.
Tarvrille glanced at me. I smiled to conceal the loss of my temper.
“Hate,” said the little man, emphasising his point with a clumsy fist. “Hate's the driving force. What's m'rality?—hate of rotten goings on. What's patriotism?—hate of int'loping foreigners. What's Radicalism?—hate of lords. What's Toryism?—hate of disturbance. It's all hate—hate from top to bottom. Hate of a mess. Remington owned it the other day, said he hated a mu'll. There you are! If you couldn't get hate into an election, damn it (hic) people wou'n't poll. Poll for love!—no' me!”
He paused, but before any one could speak he had resumed.
“Then this about fine thinking. Like going into a bear pit armed