CHAPTER XIII.
The Rubbish Cart Mr.Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the palace pathway and stepped out into the close.

His preferment and pleasant house were a second time gone from him, but that he could endure.

He had been schooled and insulted by a man young enough to be his son, but that he could put up with.

He could even draw from the very injuries which had been inflicted on him some of that consolation which we may believe martyrs always receive from the injustice of their own sufferings, and which is generally proportioned in its strength to the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are treated.

He had admitted to his daughter that he wanted the comfort of his old home, and yet he could have returned to his lodgings in the High Street, if not with exaltation, at least with satisfaction, had that been all.
But the venom of the chaplain's harangue had worked into his blood, and sapped the life of his sweet contentment.
"New men are carrying out new measures and are carting away the useless rubbish of past centuries!" What cruel words these had been; and how often are they now used with all the heartless cruelty of a Slope! A man is sufficiently condemned if it can only be shown that either in politics or religion he does not belong to some new school established within the last score of years.