put everyone in vast good humour. You might wonder that his
sweetly idyllic picture did not stir bitterness by contrast; it were to credit
the English workman with too much imagination. Resonance of applause rewarded
the sparkling rhetorician. A few of the audience availed themselves of the noise
to withdraw, for the clock showed that it was close upon ten, and public-houses
shut their doors early on Sunday.
    But Richard Mutimer was on his feet again, and this time without regard to
effect; there was a word in him strongly demanding utterance. It was to the
speech of the unfortunate prophet that he desired to reply. He began with
sorrowful admissions. No one speaking honestly could deny that - that the
working class had its faults; they came out plainly enough now and then. Drink,
for instance (Mr. Cullen gave a resounding »Hear, hear!« and a stamp on the
boards). What sort of a spectacle would be exhibited by the public-houses in
Hoxton and Islington at closing time to-night? (»True!« from Mr. Cowes, who also
stamped on the boards.) Yes, but - Richard used the device of aposiopesis;
Daniel Dabbs took it for a humorous effect and began a roar, which was summarily
interdicted. »But,« pursued Richard with emphasis, »what is the meaning of these
vices? What do they come of? Who's to blame for them? Not the working class -
never tell me! What drives a man to drink in his spare hours? What about the
poisonous air of garrets and cellars? What about excessive toil and inability to
procure healthy recreation? What about defects of education, due to poverty?
What about diseased bodies inherited from over slaved parents?« Messrs. Cowes
and Cullen had accompanied these queries with a climax of vociferous approval;
when Richard paused, they led the tumult of hands and heels. »Look at that poor
man who spoke to us!« cried Mutimer. »He's gone, so I shan't hurt him by
speaking plainly. He spoke well, mind you, and he spoke from his heart; but what
sort of a life has his been, do you think? A wretched cripple, a miserable
weakling no doubt from the day of his birth, cursed in having ever seen the
daylight, and, such as he is, called upon to fight for his bread. Much of it he
gets! Who would blame that man if he drank himself into unconsciousness every
time he picked up a sixpence?« Cowes and Cullen bellowed their delight