Frind
or inimy, I say agin, if you regard me; sure that makes no differ, only
let us have the fight."
This excellent heroism was all wasted; Neal could not find a single
adversary. Except he divided himself like Hotspur, and went to buffets,
one hand against the other, there was no chance of a fight; no person
to be found sufficiently magnanimous to encounter the tailor. On the
contrary, every one of his friends--or, in other words, every man in the
parish--was ready to support him. He was clapped on the back, until his
bones were nearly dislocated in his body; and his hand shaken, until his
arm lost its cunning at the needle for half a week afterwards. This, to
be sure, was a bitter business--a state of being past endurance. Every
man was his friend--no man was his enemy. A desperate position for any
person to find himself in, but doubly calamitous to a martial tailor.
Many a dolorous complaint did Neal make upon the misfortune of having
none to wish him ill; and what rendered this hardship doubly oppressive,
was the unlucky fact that no exertions of his, however offensive, could
procure him a single foe. In vain did lie insult, abuse, and malign all
his acquaintances. In vain did he father upon them all the rascality
and villany he could think of; he lied against them with a force and
originality that would have made many a modern novelist blush for
want of invention--but all to no purpose.
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