"I took it from the library, and she did not make any objection."
"And what do you think of him as a writer?"
I did not need to look in his face to know how much diverted he was at the idea of extracting a criticism of the great historian from such a chit as I; and summoning all my courage to the aid of my pride, I answered steadily.
"If one of my 'age and sex,' sir, can be considered to have an opinion, I should say, that though Mr. Macaulay is probably the most brilliant writer of the century, he is the one who has done the least good. I don't think any one who has the least faith, reverence, or loyalty, can read him except under protest."
"Which means," said Mr. Rutledge, "that you and Mr. Macaulay are so unhappy as to differ on some points of politics and theology, n'est ce pas?"
"I know very little about politics, and less about theology; I only know how I feel when he calls King Charles the First 'a bungling villain,' 'a bad man,' and says even prettier things about Lord Stafford; I know it vexes me when he elevates Cromwell 'into a man whose talents were equal to the highest duties of a soldier and a prince,' and never omits an opportunity of sneering, with a mixture of contempt and pity, at that slow old institution, the Church of England."
"And you do not agree with him?"
"Agree with him!"
"What sentiments," exclaimed Mr. Rutledge, "what sentiments for a young republican! Do you mean to tell me that you don't look upon the death-warrant of Charles as the 'Major Charta' of England? Do you mean to say that you don't regard it as the first step in that blessed march of liberty that is regenerating the world?"
"A blessed march indeed!" I cried indignantly, "over the dead bodies of honor and obedience, faith and loyalty! A blessed march, to the tune of the Marseillaise and murder!"