They swear to his perfect personification of your moods, your Saxon moods, which their inconsiderate spleen would have us take for unmixedly Saxon.

They are unjust, but many of them speak with a sense of the foot on their necks, and they are of a blood demanding a worshipworthy idea.

And they dislike Bull's bellow of disrespect for their religion, much bruited in the meadows during his periods of Arcadia.

They dislike it, cannot forget the sound: it hangs on the afflicted drum of the ear when they are in another land, perhaps when the old devotion to their priest has expired.
For this, as well as for material reasons, they hug the hatred they packed up among their bundles of necessaries and relics, in the flight from home, and they instruct their children to keep it burning.

They transmit the sentiment of the loathing of Bull, as assuredly they would be incapable of doing, even with the will, were a splendid fire-eyed motherly Britannia the figure sitting in the minds of men for our image--a palpitating figure, alive to change, penetrable to thought, and not a stolid concrete of our traditional old yeoman characteristic.
Verily he lives for the present, all for the present, will be taught in sorrow that there is no life for him but of past and future: his delusion of the existence of a present hour for man will not outlast the season of his eating and drinking abundantly in security.