Frank Frankfort Moore, A Nest of Linnets
“ Mathews considers himself insulted, sir?” asked Mr. Long.The Irishman’s jaw fell. He was stupefied. His lips moved, but it was a long time before a word came.“An insult—an ins—— Hivins above us, sir, where is it that y’have lived at all?” he managed to say at last. “An insult—an ins—— Oh, the humour of it! Flaying a man alive with a postillion’s whip; not even a coachman’s whip,—there’s some dignity in a coachman’s whip,—but a common postillion’s! sir, the degradation of the act passes language, so it does. ’Tis an insult that can only be washed out by blood—blood, sir—a river of blood! ”
