He spoke with bated breath of our ridiculing "the most awful mysteries of the Christian faith." He described our letterpress as an "outrage on the feelings of a Christian community," which he would not shock public decency by reading; and our woodcuts as "the grossest and most disgusting caricatures." And then, to catch any juryman who might not be a Christian, though perhaps a Theist, he declared that our blasphemous libels would "grieve the conscience of any sincere worshipper of the great God above us." This appeal was made with uplifted forefinger, pointing to where that being might be supposed to reside, which I inferred was near the ceiling.

Sir Hardinge Giffard finally resumed his seat with a look of subdued horror on his wintry face.

He tried to appear exhausted by his dreadful task, so profound was the emotion excited even in his callous mind by our appalling wickedness.

It was well acted, and must, I fancy, have been well rehearsed.

Yes, Sir Hardinge Giffard is decidedly clever.