And yet the pair were well encountered: on the one side, bulk--on the other, genuine heroic fire.
'Down you shall come, you great big, ugly brute!' cried Morris aloud, with something of that passion which swept the Parisian mob against the walls of the Bastille.

'Down you shall come, this night.

I'll have none of you in my lobby.' The face, from its indecent expression, had particularly animated the zeal of our iconoclast; and it was against the face that he began his operations.

The great height of the demigod--for he stood a fathom and half in his stocking-feet--offered a preliminary obstacle to this attack.

But here, in the first skirmish of the battle, intellect already began to triumph over matter.