sank into absolute insignificance. Not to have seen the Claimant,
argued the London of the period unknown. Fashionably dressed ladies
and exquisitely attired gentlemen battled for front places upon the
pavement with sturdy agriculturists who had brought their wives and
daughters to see "Sir Roger," and who had not the slightest
intention of going back till they had accomplished their desire.

It came to pass that there were some two hundred faces in the crowd
familiar to the police as daily attendants at the four o'clock
festival in Palace Yard. Day after day, they came to feast their
eyes on the portly figure of "Sir Roger," and, having gazed their
fill, went away, to return again on the morrow. There was one aged
gentleman whose grey gaiters, long-tailed coat, and massive umbrella
were as familiar in Palace Yard as are the features on the clock-face
in the tower. He came up from somewhere in the country in the days
when Kenealy commenced his first speech, and, being a hale old man,
he survived long enough to be in the neighbourhood when the learned
gentleman had finished his second. At the outset, he was wont to
fight gallantly for a place of vantage in the ranks near the arch-way
of the Hall. Then, before the advances of younger and stouter
newcomers, he faded away into the background. Towards the end, he
wandered about outside the railings in Bridge Street, and, as the
clock struck four, got the umbrella as near as its natural
obstructiveness would permit to the carriage-gate whence the
Claimant's brougham was presently to issue.

At first the police authorities dealt with the assembly in the
ordinary manner, a more or less sufficient force being told off for
the duty of keeping the thoroughfare clear. It soon became manifest
that the Tichborne crowd, like everything else in connection with
the trial, required especial treatment, and accordingly a carefully
elaborated scheme was prepared. Superintendent Denning had under his
command, for the preservation of peace and order in Palace Yard and
the adjacent thoroughfares, not less than sixty men. One or two were
stationed in the justice-chamber itself, and must by the time the
verdict had been delivered have got pretty well up in the details of
the case. Others guarded the entrance-door; others lined the passage
into the yard, others were disposed about the yard itself; whilst,
after three o'clock, two strong companies stood in reserve in the
sheds that flank the entrance to the Hall. At half past three the
crowd began to assemble, building itself up upon the little nucleus
that had been hanging about all day. The favourite standpoint,
especially in the cold, uncertain winter weather that marked the
conclusion of the trial, was inside Westminster Hall, where the
people were massed on the far side of a temporary barricade which
the Tichborne case called into being, the railing of which was worn
black by the touch of the hands of the faithful.

Outside, in the yard, the crowd momentarily thickened till it formed
a dense lane, opening out from the front of the Hall, and turning to
the left down to the south carriage-gate. The railings in Bridge
Street and St. Margaret's Street were banked with people, and ranks
were formed on the pavement in front of the grass-plot. At a quarter
to four the policemen under the shed received the word of command,
and marched out into St. Margaret's Street, some filing off to take
charge of the gates, whilst the rest were drawn up on the pavement
opposite and at the corner of Bridge Street, with the mission of
preventing rushes after the Claimant's carriage as it drove through.
A few minutes later the distinguished vehicle itself--a plain,
dark-blue brougham, drawn by a finely bred bay mare--drove into the
yard, and, taking up its position a little on one side of the entrance
to the Hall, became the object of curious and respectful consideration.
As the great clock boomed four strokes, the doors of the Court opened,
and the privileged few who had been present at the day's proceedings
issued forth.

The excitement increased as the Court emptied, culminating when,
after a brief lull, the Claimant himself appeared, and waddled down
the living lane that marked the route to his carriage. There was
much cheering and a great amount of pocket-handkerchief waving,
which "Sir Roger" acknowledged by raising his hat and smiling that
"smile of peculiar sweetness and grace" which Dr. Kenealy brought
under the notice of the three judges and a special jury. As the
Claimant walked through the doorway, closely followed by the
Inspector, the policemen on guard suddenly closed the doors, and
the public within Westminster Hall found themselves netted and
hopelessly frustrated in what was evidently their intention of
rushing out and sharing the outside crowd's privilege of staring
at the Claimant, as he actually stepped into his carriage.

The outside throng in Palace Yard, meanwhile, made the most of
their special privilege, crowding round "Sir Roger" and cheering
in a manner that made the bay mare plunge and rear. With the least
possible delay, the Claimant is got into the brougham, the door is
banged to, and the bay mare is driven swiftly through the Yard, the
crowd closing in behind. But when they reach the gates, and essay
to pass and flood the streets beyond, where the gigantic umbrella
of the aged gentleman looms uplifted over the shoulders of the line
of police like the section of a windmill sail, the iron gates are
swung to, and this, the second and larger portion of the crowd, is
likewise safely trapped, and can gaze upon the retreating brougham
only through iron bars that, in this instance at least, "do make a
cage." There are not many people outside, for it is hard to catch
even a passing glimpse of the occupant of the carriage as it drives
swiftly westward to Pimlico, finally pulling up in a broad street of
a severely respectable appearance, not to be marred even by the near
contiguity of Millbank convict prison.

Here also is a crowd, though only a small one, and select to wit,
being composed chiefly of well-dressed ladies, forming part of a
band of pilgrims who daily walked up and down the street, waiting
and watching the outgoing and incoming of "Sir Roger." They are
rewarded by the polite upraising of "Sir Roger's" hat, and a further
diffusion of the sweet and gracious smile; and having seen the door
shut upon the portly form, and having watched the brougham drive
off, they, too, go their way, and the drama is over for the day.

But the crowd in and about Palace Yard have not accomplished their
mission when they have seen the blue brougham fade in the distance.
There is the "Doctor" to come yet, and all the cheering has to be
repeated, even with added volume of sound. When the Claimant has
got clear away, and the crowd have had a moment or two of
breathing-time, the "Doctor" walks forth from the counsels'
entrance, and is received with a burst of cheering and clapping
of hands, which, "just like Sir Roger", he acknowledges by raising
his hat, but, unlike him, permits no trace of a smile to illumine
his face. Without looking right or left, the "Doctor" walks
northward, raising his hat as he passes the caged and cheering
crowd in Palace Yard. With the same grave countenance, not moved in
the slightest degree by the comical effect of the big men in the
crowd at his heels waving their hats over his head, the "Doctor"
crosses Bridge Street, and walks into Parliament Street, as far as
the Treasury, where a cab is waiting. Into this he gets with much
deliberation, and, with a final waving of his hat, and always with
the same imperturbable countenance, is driven off, and Parliament
Street, subsiding from the turmoil in which the running, laughing,
shouting mob have temporarily thrown it, finds time to wonder
whether it would not have been more convenient for all concerned if
the "Doctor's" cab had picked him up at the door of Westminster Hall.

Slowly approached the end of this marvellous, and to a succeeding
generation almost incredible, and altogether inexplicable,
phenomenon. It came about noon, on Saturday, the final day of
February, 1874.

A few minutes before ten o'clock on that morning the familiar bay
mare and the well-known blue brougham--where are they now?--appeared
in sight, with a contingent of volunteer running footmen, who
cheered "Sir Roger" with unabated enthusiasm. As the carriage passed
through into the yard, a cordon of police promptly drew up behind it
across the gateway, and stopped the crowd that would have entered
with it. But inside there was, within reasonable limits, no
restraint upon the movements of the Claimant's admirers, who lustily
cheered, and wildly waved their hats, drowning in the greater sound
the hisses that came from a portion of the assemblage. The Claimant
looked many shades graver than in the days when Kenealy's speech
was in progress. Nevertheless, he smiled acknowledgment of the
reception, and repeatedly raised his hat. When he had passed in,
the throng in Palace Yard rapidly vanished, not more than a couple
of hundred remaining in a state of vague expectation. Westminster
Hall itself continued to be moderately full, a compact section of
the crowd that had secured places of vantage between the barricade
and the temporary telegraph station evidently being prepared to see
it out at whatever hour the end might come.

For the next hour there was scarcely any movement in the Hall, save
that occasioned by persons who lounged in, looked round, and either
ranged themselves in the ranks behind the policemen, or strolled
out again, holding to the generally prevalent belief that if they
returned at two o'clock they would still have sufficient hours to
wait. In the Yard a thin line extended from the side of the Hall
gateway backwards to the railings in St. Margaret's Street, with
another line drawn up across the far edge of the broad carriage-way
before the entrance. There was no ostentatious show of police, but
they had a way of silently filing out from under the sheds or out
of the Commons' gateway in proportion as the crowd thickened, which
conveyed the impression that there was a force somewhere about that
would prove sufficient to meet any emergency. As a matter of fact,
Mr. Superintendent Denning had under his command three hundred men,
who had marched down to Westminster Hall at six o'clock in the
morning, and were chiefly disposed in reserve, ready for action as
circumstances might dictate.

At half-past eleven, there being not more than three or four hundred
people in Palace Yard, a number of Press messengers, rushing
helter-skelter out of the court and into waiting cabs, indicated the
arrival of some critical juncture within the jealously guarded
portals. Presently it was whispered that the Lord Chief Justice had
finished his summing up, and that Mr. Justice Mellor was addressing
the jury. A buzz of conversation rose and fell in the Hall, and the
ranks drew closer up, waiting in silence the consummation that could
not now be far distant.

The news spread with surprising swiftness, not only in Palace Yard,
but throughout Bridge Street and St. Margaret's Street, and the
railings looking thence into the yard became gradually banked with
rows of earnest faces. Little groups formed on the pavement about
the corners of Parliament Street. Faces appeared at the windows of
the houses overlooking the Yard, and the whole locality assumed an
aspect of grave and anxious expectation. A few minutes after the
clock in the tower had slowly boomed forth twelve strokes it was
known in the Bail Court, where a dozen rapid hands were writing out
words the echo of which had scarcely died away in the inner court,
that the Judges had finished their task, and that the Jury had
retired to consider their verdict. It was known also in the lobbies,
where a throng of gowned and wigged barristers were assembled,
hanging on as the fringe of the densely packed audience that sat
behind the Claimant, and overflowed by the opened doorway. Thence
it reached the crowd outside, and after the first movement and hum
of conversation had subsided, a dead silence fell upon Westminster
Hall, and all eyes were fixed upon the door by which, at any moment,
messengers might issue with the word or words up to the utterance of
which by the Foreman of the Jury the great trial slowly dragged its
length.

Half an hour later the door burst open, and messengers came leaping
in breathless haste down the steps and across the Hall, shouting as
they ran,--

"Guilty! Guilty on all counts!" The words were taken up by the
crowd, and passed from mouth to mouth in voices scarcely above a
whisper. It was a flock of junior barristers, issuing from the
court, radiant and laughing, who brought the next news.

"Fourteen years! Fourteen years!" they called out.

This time the crowd in Westminster Hall took up the cry in louder
tones, and there was some attempt at cheering, but it did not
prevail. The less dense crowd in the Yard received the intelligence
without any demonstration and after a brief pause made off with one
consent for the judges' entrance in St. Margaret's Street, where,
peradventure, they might see the prisoner taken away, or at least
would catch a glimpse of the judges and counsel.

From this hour up to nearly four o'clock the crowd, in numbers far
exceeding those present at the first intimation of the verdict and
sentence, hung about St. Margaret's Street and Palace Yard waiting
for the coming forth of the prisoner, who had long ago been safely
lodged in Newgate. They did not know that as soon as the convict
was given in charge of the tipstaff of the court he was led away by
Inspector Denning, along a carefully planned and circuitous route
that entirely baffled the curiosity of the waiting crowd. Through the
Court of Exchequer the prisoner and his guards went, by the members'
private staircase, across the lobby, along the corridor, through the
smoking-room into the Commons Courtyard, where a plain police
omnibus was in waiting with an escort of eleven men. In this the
prisoner took his seat, and was driven through the Victoria Tower
gate en route for Newgate. He accompanied his custodians as quietly
as if they were conducting him to his brougham, and only once broke
the silence of the journey to Newgate.

"It's very hot," he said, as he panted along the passages of the
House of Commons, "and I am so fat."

Whitethorn, Hythe, Kent

This is surely the beginning of the end. Having been endowed with a
railway which brings passengers down from London in a little over
two hours, Hythe is now dowered with an hotel in which they may dine
and sleep. The existence of the hotel being necessarily admitted,
prejudice must not prevent the further admission that it is
exceedingly well done. Architecturally it is a curiosity, seeing
that though it presents a stately and substantial front neither
stone nor brick enters into its composition. It is made entirely
of shingle mixed with mortar, the whole forming a concrete
substance as durable as granite. The first pebble of the new hotel
was laid quite a respectable number of years ago, the ceremony
furnishing an almost dangerous flux of excitement to the mariners
at the capstan. It has grown up slowly, as becomes an undertaking
connected with Hythe. But it is finished now, handsome without,
comfortable within, with views from the front stretching seawards
from Dungeness to Folkestone, and at the back across green pastures,
glimpses are caught through the trees of the red-tiled town.

Now that suitable accommodation is provided for stray visitors,
Hythe, with its clean beach, its parade that will presently join
hands with Sandgate, its excellent bathing, and its bracing air,
may look to take high rank among watering places suburban to
London. But there are greater charms even than these in the
immediate neighbourhood. With some knowledge of English watering
places, I solemnly declare that none is set in a country of such
beauty as is spread behind Hythe. Unlike the neighbourhood of
most watering places, the country immediately at the back of the
town is hilly and well wooded. Long shady roads lead past blooming
gardens or through rich farms, till they end in some sleepy village
or hamlet, the world forgetting, by the world forgot. In late July
the country is perfect in its loveliness. The fields and woods are
not so flowery as in May, though by way of compensation the gardens
are rich in roses. Still there are sufficient wild flowers to
gladden the eye wherever it turns. From the hedgerows big white
convolvulus stare with wonder-wide eyes, the honeysuckle is out,
the wild geranium blooms in the long grass, the blackberry bushes
are in full flower, and the poppies blaze forth in great clusters
at every turn of the road. The corn is only just beginning to turn
a faint yellow, but the haymakers are at work, and every breath of
the joyous wind carries the sweet scent of hay.

These are laid in blocks, each containing one hundred and twelve tiles,
enclosed in a wooden framework. In June, when the oysters lay their
eggs, these blocks of tiles are dropped into the water by the oyster
beds. The eggs floating about, find the crusty surface of the tiles a
convenient resting-place, and attach themselves by millions. Six months
later the tiles, being examined, are found to be covered by oysters
grown to the size of a silver sixpence. The tiles are taken up and the
little oysters scraped off, a process facilitated by the fact that the
tiles have in the first instance been coated with a solution of lime,
which rubs off, carrying the tender oyster with it.

The infant oysters are next placed in iron network cases, through which
the water freely passes, whilst the young things are protected from
crabs and other natural enemies. At the end of a year or eighteen
months, they have so far grown as to be trusted out on their own
account. They are accordingly strewn on the broad oyster beds, to fatten
for another year or eighteen months, when they are ready for the waiting
gourmet. Your oyster is fit to eat at eighteen months of age; but there
is more of it when it is three years old.

We sailed out from Arcachon across the lake to the oyster park. Here
the water is so shallow that the men who tend the beds walk about them
in waterproof boots coming up to their knees. This part of the bay is
dotted with boats with white canopies. Seen at anchor from Arcachon
they look like boats laid up for the winter season; but every one is
tenanted night and day. They are the homes of the guardians of the
oyster beds, who keep watch and ward through the long winter.

Even more disastrous than possible visits from a male poacher are the
incursions of a large flat sea-fish, known at Arcachon as the thÉre,
with us the ray. This gentleman has a colossal appetite for oysters.
Scorning to deal with them by the dozen, he devours them by the
thousand, asking neither for the succulent lemon nor the grosser
addition of Chili vinegar. His action with the oyster is exceedingly
summary. He breaks the shell with a vigorous blow of his tail, and
gobbles up the contents. As it is stated by reputable authorities
that the thÉre can dispose of 100,000 oysters in a day, it is clear
that the tapping must be pretty persistent.

This selfish brute, regardless of the fact that we pay a minimum three
shillings a dozen for oysters in London, is happily circumvented by
an exceedingly simple device. Rowing about the oyster beds at Arcachon
one notices that they are fringed with small twigs of fir trees. The
natural supposition is that these are to mark the boundary of the
various oyster beds; but it is in truth designed to keep out the
thÉre. This blundering fish, bearing down on the oyster bed in search
of luncheon, comes upon the palisade of loosely planted twigs. Nothing
in the world would be easier than for him to steer between the openings,
of which there are abundance. But though he has stomach enough for a
hundred thousand oysters, he has not brains enough to understand that
by a little manoeuvring he might get at his meal. Repelled by the open
network of twigs, he swims forlornly round and round the beds, so near
and yet so far, with what anguish of heart only the lover of oysters
can fathom.

The oyster beds at Arcachon belong to the State, and are leased to
private persons, the leading company, which has created the British
trade, having its headquarters at La Teste. The wholesale price of
oysters at Arcachon is from a sovereign to forty shillings a thousand,
according to size. In the long street they sell retail at from twopence
to eightpence a dozen, thus realising what seems to-day the hopeless
dream of the British oyster-eater.

It was not Dr. Watts, then, as the verger had given me to understand. I
was sorry, for it had seemed like going to the house of an old friend,
and I had meant after supper to recite "How doth the little Busy Bee"
for the edification of my fellow-guests, and to tell them what I had
learnt long ago of the good writer's life and labours.

"Here we are again, Mrs. Kercham," said our conductor, stepping into the
low hall of the white house.

"Yes, here you are again," replied an old lady, dressed in black, and
wearing a widow's cap. "Have you got 'em all to-night?"

"Yes, six--all tidy men. Can you write, Mr. Paper Stainer?"

I could write, and did, setting forth, in a book which lay on a table in
a room labelled "Office," my name, age, occupation, and the town whence
I had last come. Three of the other guests followed my example. Two
could not write; and the sergeant, paying me a compliment on my
beautiful clerkly handwriting, asked me to fill in the particulars for
them. This ceremony over, we were shown into our bedrooms, and told to
give ourselves "a good wash." My room was on the ground-floor, out in
the yard: and I hope I may never be shown into a worse. It was not
large, being about eight feet square, nor was it very high. The walls
were whitewashed, and the floor clean. A single small window, deep set
in the thick stone-built walls, looked out on to the yard, and by it
stood the solitary piece of furniture, a somewhat rickety Windsor chair.
I except the bed, which was supposed to stand in a corner, but actually
covered nearly the whole of the floor. The bedstead was of iron, and, I
should imagine, was one of the earliest constructions of the sort ever
sold in this country.

"I put on three blankets, being Christmas-time, though the weather is
not according; so you can take one off if you like."

"Thank you, ma'am; I'll leave it till I go to bed, if you please." Much
reason had I subsequently to be thankful for my caution.

After having washed, I came out, and was told to go into a room, facing
my bedroom, on the other side of the yard. Here I found three of my
fellow-guests sitting by a fire, and in a few minutes the other two
arrived, all looking very clean and (speaking for myself particularly)
feeling ravenously hungry. The chamber, which had "Travellers' Room"
painted over the doorway, was about twelve or thirteen feet long and
eight wide, and, like our bedrooms, was not remarkable for variety of
furniture. A plain deal table stood at one end, and then there were
two benches, and that's all. Over the mantelpiece a large card hung
with the following inscription:--

"Persons accepting this charity are each supplied with a supper,
consisting of half a pound of meat, one pound of bread, and half a pint
of porter at seven o'clock in the evening, and fourpence on leaving the
house in the morning. The additional comfort of a good fire is given
during the winter months, from October 18th till March 10th, for the
purpose of drying their clothes and supplying hot water for their use.
They go to bed at eight o'clock."

This was satisfactory, except inasmuch as it appeared that supper was
not to be forthcoming till seven o'clock, and it was now only twenty
minutes past six. This forty minutes promised to be harder to bear
than the hunger of the long day; but the pain was averted by the
appearance at half-past six of a pleasant-looking young woman,
carrying a plate of cold roast beef in each hand. These she put down
on the table, supplementing them in course of time with four similar
plates, six small loaves, and as many mugs of porter.

It does not become guests to dictate arrangements, but if the worshipful
trustees of Watts's knew how tantalising it is to a hungry man to see
cold roast beef brought in in a slow and deliberate manner, they would
buy a large tray for the use of the pleasant young person, and let the
feast burst at once upon the vision of the guests.

Sharp on the stroke of seven we drew the benches up to the table, and
Mrs. Kercham, standing at one end and leaning over, said grace.
Impatiently hungry as I was, I could not help noticing the precise
terms in which the good matron implored a blessing. I suppose she had
had her tea in the parlour. At any rate, she was not going to favour
us with her company, and so, bending over our plates of cold beef, she
lifted up her voice and said with emphasis,--

"For what you are about to receive out of His bountiful goodness may
the Lord make you truly thankful."

I write the personal pronoun with a capital letter, not being quite
certain from Mrs. Kercham's rapid enunciation whether the bountiful
goodness was Mr. Watts's or the Lord's.

Six emphatic "Amens!" followed, and before the sound had died away
six able-bodied men had fallen-to upon the beef and the bread in a
manner that would have done kind Master Watts's heart good had he
beheld them.

I think I had done first, for I remember when I looked round the table
my fellow-guests were still eating and washing their suppers down with
economical draughts from the half-pint mugs of porter. They--I think I
may say we--did credit to the selection of the police sergeant, and, so
far as appearances went, fulfilled one of the requirements of Master
Watts, there being nothing of the rogue in our faces, if I except a
slight hint in the physiognomy of the little man with the fair hair
plastered down over his forehead, and perhaps I am prejudiced against
him.

It was a little after seven when the plates were all polished, the mugs
drained, and nothing but a few crumbs left to tell where a loaf had
stood. The pleasant young person coming in to clear the table, we drew
up round the fire, and for the first time in our more than two hours'
companionship began to exchange remarks.

They were of the briefest and most commonplace character, and attempts
made to get up a general conversation signally failed. "What do you
do?" "Where do you come from?" "Things hard down there?" were staple
questions, with an occasional "Did you hear tell of Joe Mackin on the
road?" or "Was Bill O'Brien there at the time?" From the replies to these
inquiries I learnt that my companions were respectively a fitter, a
painter, a waiter, and two indefinitely self-described as "labourers."
They had walked since morning from Faversham, from Sittingbourne, from
Gravesend, and from Greenwich, and, sitting close around the fire,
soon began to testify to their weariness by nodding, and even snoring.

"Well, lads, I'm off, goodnight," said the painter, yawning and
stretching himself out of the room.

One by one the remaining four quickly followed, and before what I had
on entering regarded as the absurdly early hour of eight o'clock had
struck, five of Watts's guests had gone to bed, and the sixth was
sitting looking drowsily in the fire, and thinking what a jolly
Christmas he was having.

I was awakened by a familiar voice inquiring whether I was "going to
sit up all night," and opening my eyes beheld the matron standing by me
with a shovelful of coal in one hand and a small jug in the other. Her
voice was sharp, but her look was kind, and I was not a bit surprised
when she threw the coal on the fire, and, putting down the jug, which
evidently contained porter, said she would bring a glass in a minute.

"I'm not going to bed myself for a bit, and if you like to sit by the
fire and smoke a pipe and drink a glass whilst I mend a stocking or
two, you'll be company."

So we sat together by Master Watts's fire, and whilst I drank his
porter and smoked my own tobacco, the matron mended her stockings, and
told me a good deal about the trials she had gone through in a life
that would never again see its sixtieth year. Forty years she had
spent under the roof of Watts's, and knew all about the old man's
will, and how he ordered that after the re-marriage or the death of
his wife, his principal dwelling-house, called Satis, on Boley Hill,
with the house adjoining, the closes, orchards, and appurtenances,
his plate and his furniture, should be sold, and the proceeds be
placed out at usury by the Mayor and citizens of Rochester for the
perpetual support of an alms-house then erected and standing near
the Market Cross; and how he further ordained that there should be
added thereto six rooms, "with a chimney in each," and with
convenient places for six good mattresses or flock beds, and other
good and sufficient furniture for the lodgment of poor wayfarers
for a single night.

Had she many people come to see the quaint old place beside those
whom the police-sergeant brought every night?

Not many. The visitors' book had been twenty years in the house,
and it was not nearly full of names.

I took up the book, and carelessly turning back the leaves came upon
the signature "Charles Dickens," with "Mark Lemon" written underneath.

I know Dickens pretty well--his books, I mean, of course--and said,
with a gratified start, "Ha! has Dickens been here?"

"Yes, he has," said the matron, in her sharpest tones, "and a pretty
pack of lies he told about it. Stop a bit."

I stopped accordingly whilst the old lady flew out of the room, and
flying back again with a well-worn pamphlet in her hand, shoved it at
me, saying, "Read that." I opened it, and found it to be the Christmas
number of Household Words for 1854. It was entitled "The Seven Poor
Travellers," and the opening chapter, in Mr Dickens's well-known style,
described by name, and in detail, the very house in which I had taken
my supper.

It was a charming narrative, I, poor waif and stray, felt a strong
personal regard for the great novelist as I read the cheery story in
which he sets forth how, calling at the house on the afternoon before
Christmas-day, he obtained permission to give a Christmas feast to the
six Poor Travellers; how he ordered the materials for the feast to be
sent in from his own inn; how, when the feast was set upon the table,
"finer beef, a finer turkey, a greater prodigality of sauce and gravy,"
he never saw; and how "it made my heart rejoice to see the wonderful
justice my travellers did to everything set before them." All this and
much more, including "a jug of wassail" and the "hot plum-pudding and
mince pies," which "a wall-eyed young man connected with the fly
department at the hotel was, at a given signal, to dash into the
kitchen, seize, and speed with to Dr. Watts's Charity," was painted
with a warmth and colour that made my mouth water, even after the plate
of cold beef, the small loaf, and the unaccustomed allowance of porter.

"How like Dickens!" I exclaimed, with wet eyes, as I finished the
recital; "and he even waited in Rochester all night to give his poor
Travellers 'hot coffee and piles of bread and butter in the morning!'"

"Get along with you! he didn't do nothing of the sort."

"What! didn't he come here, as he says, and give the poor Travellers a
Christmas treat?"

Not a bit of it; as the matron, with indignation that seemed to have
lost nothing by lapse of years, forthwith demonstrated. There had been
no supper, no wassail, no hot coffee in the morning, and, in truth, no
meeting between Charles Dickens and the Travellers, at Christmas or at
any other time.

Indeed, the visitors' book testified that the visit had been paid on
May 11th, 1854, and not at Christmastide at all.

It was time to go to bed after that, and I left the matron to cool down
from the boiling-point to which she had been suddenly lifted at sight
of the ghost of 1854. My little room looked cheerless enough in the
candlelight, but I had brought sleep with me as a companion, and knew
that I should soon be as happy as if my bed were of down, and the
roof-tree that of Buckingham Palace.

And so in sooth I would have been but for the chimney. Why did the
otherwise unexceptional Master Watts insist upon the chimney? Such a
chimney it was, too, yawning across the full length of one side of the
room, and open straight up to the cold sky. There was--what I forgot
to mention in the inventory--a sort of tall clothes-horse standing
before the enormous aperture, and after trying various devices to keep
the wind out, I at last bethought me of the supernumerary blanket, and,
throwing it over the clothes-horse, I leaned it against the chimney
board. This served admirably as long as it kept its feet, and when it
blew down, as it did occasionally during the night, it only meant
putting up and refixing it, and the exercise prevented heavy sleeping.

At seven in the morning we were called up, and after another "good
wash," went our ways, each with fourpence sterling in his hand, the
parting gift of hospitable Master Watts.

"Good-bye, paper-stainer," said the matron, as, after looking up and
down High Street, I strode off towards the bridge, Londonwards. "Come
and see us again if you are passing this way."

"Thank you,--I will," I said.

It's odd how one thing leads to another. By the time the Chancery
Barrister has got his quotation right, the Patriarch is half a mile
ahead in the wrong direction, and we all have to go and look for him.

The Col de Jaman is the salvation of many tourists. Not being regular
Alpine climbers, they start over the Dent and get as far as the Col,
rest awhile just under the great mountain molar, and come down. We had
a splendid day for our expedition. It had been freezing hard in the
night, and when we reached the snow region we found the pines frosted.
On the Col a beneficent commune has built some chalets furnished with
plentiful supply of firewood. Out of the sun it was bitterly cold, and
we were glad to light a fire, which crackled and roared up the broad
chimney and made a pretty accompaniment to the Chancery Barrister's
song about the Jolly Young Waterman. He sang it all in one key, and
that the wrong one. But it was a well-meant effort, and we all joined
in the chorus.

There's some talk to-day of a startling episode at an hotel up the
Rhone Valley. A Russian gentleman was sitting sipping his tea, when
there approached him a lady, who addressed him in three languages.
His replies not being satisfactory she shot him. This is cited by the
Chancery Barrister as showing the advantage of an early acquaintance
with foreign languages, and the desirableness of a pure accent.

It is quite agreed that if our Naturalist had been in the Russian's
place he would have been shot after the first question. This morning,
on ringing for his bath, he was answered by a chambermaid with a "Pas
encore." Why "not just yet" our Naturalist did not know. He was not
unusually early. But he had done his duty. He had tried to get up and
have his bath; it was not ready, so he might go back to bed with a
quiet conscience. Presently came another knock, and our Naturalist,
carefully robing himself, opened the door, and discovered the
chambermaid standing there with a plate, a knife, and a breakfast roll.

"What the dev----I mean qu'c'est qu'c'est?" he asked.

"Monsieur a demandÉ le petit pain," the girl replied, astonished at
his astonishment.

With great presence of mind he accepted the situation, took in the
bread, and did without his bath. The Member says that, coming upon him
suddenly amid the silence of the snow, he heard him practising the
slightly different sounds of pain and bain.

Nothing but snow between the Col and the Dent du Jaman, but snow at its
very best, hard and dry. Just before we reach the top we come upon a
huge drift frozen hard and slippery. We might have gone round, but we
decided to try and climb. The Patriarch of course was first, and
achieved the task triumphantly. Others followed, and then came the
Chancery Barrister. Another step, and he would have safely landed.
But unhappily a quotation occurred to him.

"This is jolly," he said, turning half round, with the proud
consciousness that he was at the crest and that with another stride all
would be well; "what's that Horace says about enjoying what you have?"

"'Me pascant olivae,
Me cichorea, levesque malvae,
Frui paratis, et valido mihi,
Latoe, dones, et, precor, integra
Cum----'"

Here the most terrible contortion appeared on the generally pleasant
countenance of the Chancery Barrister. He clutched desperately at the
ice; but his suspicion was too true. He had begun to move downwards
("When he got to cum he came," the Member, who makes bad jokes, says),
and with increasing impetus he slid down the bank. His face during the
terrible moments when he was not quite certain where he would stop, or
indeed whether he would ever stop, passed through a series of
contortions highly interesting to those on the bank above.

"Me pascant olivae!" cried the Member. "Olives are evidently no use as
a support in a case like yours, and diachylon would be more use to you
now than soft mallows."

The Chancery Barrister, who had happily reached the bottom, walked round
by a more accessible path, and nothing further either from Horace or
Virgil occurred to him for more than an hour.

Perhaps the difference in the weather had something to do with it, but
we found the Dent du Jaman not nearly so difficult to climb as the
Roches de Naye. After the scamper across the snow and the climb over
this little ice-collar down which the Chancery Barrister had slipped,
there is no more snow. We climb up by steps worn by the feet of many
adventurers. The top is a level cone with an area not much greater
than that of a moderate-sized dining-room. There was not a breath of
wind, and the sun beat down with a warmth made all the more delicious
by the recollection of the frozen region through which we had passed.
The Dent is only a trifle above six thousand feet high, but the prospect
as seen from it stretches far. Below is the Canton de Vaud, a portion of
the Jura chain of mountains, the far-reaching Alps of the Savoy, a bit
of the lake gleaming like an emerald under the white tops of the
mountains, a cloud on the southern horizon that the guide tells us are
the mountains of the Valais, and, still to the south just touched by the
sun, glitter the snow summits of the Great St. Bernard.

Coming down, we bivouac in the chÂlet, lighting up the fire again.
Here, twelve hundred feet lower down, it is bitterly cold, in spite
of, perhaps because of, the fire. The chÂlet is built with commendable
deference to the necessity for ventilation. The wind, smelling fire,
comes rushing over the snow, and we are glad to put on coat and caps.
The conversation turns to legal topics, and certain eminent personages
are discussed with great severity. Of one it is roundly asserted that
he is mad.

"I am quite sure of it," said the Chancery Barrister, who has recovered
his spirits with his footing, "and I'll tell you why. He seconded me
for the Reform Club, and----"

We all agree that this is quite enough; but the Chancery Barrister
insists on proceeding with his narrative, of which it seems this was
merely the introduction.

We found our Naturalist of very little use. We had expected he would
mount with us whatever heights we sought, and had pleasing views of
his explaining the flora as we went along. But he always had some
excuse that kept him on lower levels. One morning he declared he had
passed a sleepless night owing to the efforts of two Scotch lads who
occupied the room next to him. They had some taste for carpentering,
and were addicted to getting up in the dead of the night and doing odd
jobs about the room. At half-past five a.m. they left their couch and
began playing Cain and Abel. Only the Naturalist protested there is no
authority in Scripture for the fearful row Abel made when Cain got him
down on his back.

At other times our Naturalist had heard of a "Camberwell Beauty" in
the neighbourhood, and must needs go and catch it, which, by the way,
he never did. On the whole, we conclude our Naturalist is an impostor.

We reserved the Roches de Naye till the last day. It was rather a
stupendous undertaking, the landlord assuring us that four guides were
necessary. One led a horse that no one would ride, one carried the
indispensable luncheon-basket, and two fared forth at early morn to cut
steps in the snow. The sun was shining when we started on this desperate
enterprise, and it was hot enough as we toiled along the lower heights.
But when we reached the snow level, the sun had gone in, having just
shone long enough to make the snow wet. Then a cold bleak wind set in,
and we began to think that, after all, there was more in the Naturalist
than met the eye. Whilst we were toiling along, sometimes temporarily
despairing, and generally up to our waists in snow, he was enjoying the
comforts of the hotel, or strolling about in languid search of fabulous
butterflies.

Picking our way round a hill in which had been cut in the snow a ledge
about two feet wide, we came in face of the slope we were to climb. Up
at the top, looking like black ants, were the guides cutting a zigzag
path in the snow. The Member observed that if any one were to offer
him a sovereign and his board on condition of his climbing up this
slope, he would prefer to remain in indigent circumstances. As we
were getting nothing for the labour, were indeed paying for the
privilege of undertaking it, we stuck at it, and after a steady climb
reached the top, when the wind was worse than ever. It was past
luncheon time, and every one was ferociously hungry; but it was agreed
that if we camped here and lunched, we should never get to the top. So
on we went, through the sloppy snow, pursued by the keen blast that
cut through all possible clothing.

It was a hard pull and not much to see for it, since clouds had rolled
up from the west and hid the promised panorama. The wind was terrible,
and there was no shelter. But we could hold out no longer, and the
luncheon being laid upon the sloppy grass, the Patriarch, with his
accustomed impartiality, went round with his knife.

By this time we had induced him to take the sardines last, which he
obligingly did.

We ran most of the way back to the side of the hill where the snow had
been cut. The exercise made us a little warmer; and the genial influence
of the cold fowl, the hard-boiled eggs, the sardines and the thin red
wine beginning to work, we were able to enjoy the spectacle of the
Patriarch leading the first party down the perilous incline. We had
ropes, but didn't think it worth while to be tied. The party was divided
into two sections, half a dozen holding on to a rope. It must have been
a beautiful sight from many a near mountain height to watch the
Patriarch's chimney-pot hat slowly move downwards on the zigzag path.

"What's that Virgil says about ranging mountain tops?" said the Chancery
Barrister:

"Me Parnassi deserta per ardua dulcis
Raptat amor: juvat ire jugis, qua nulla priorum
Castaliam molli divertitur orbita clivo."

He had got in the centre of the second party, and with two before him,
three behind, and a firm grip on the rope, he thought it safe to quote
poetry.

We had eight days at Les Avants, of which this devoted to the ascent of
the Roches was the only one the sun did not shine upon. Whether on
mountain or in valley, what time the sun was shining it was delightfully
warm. The narcissi were not yet out, but the fields were thick with
their buds. How the place would look when their glory had burst forth on
all the green Alps we could only imagine. But already everywhere bloomed
the abundant marigolds, the hepaticae, the violets, the oxlips, the
gentians, the primroses, and the forget-me-nots.

Apparently, every well-to-do Welsh collier marks his status in society
by the possession of a mahogany chest of drawers--if mounted in brass
so much the better--which it is the pride and privilege of his wife to
keep in a state of resplendent polish. Mr. Morgan Griffiths having had a
long run of prosperity, and being of a frugal mind, had launched out
largely in the purchase of mahogany chests of drawers, and his kitchen
may be said to bristle with them. Each had its history, and it was to
the patient listening to the repetition thereof, and to the expenditure
of much appreciative criticism upon the varied styles of architecture
displayed in their construction, that I completely won Mr. Morgan
Griffiths's confidence, and overcame the cautious fencing with which
he met my first inquiries touching his recollection of the memorable
Merthyr Riots of 1831.

Perfect confidence reigned between us now, and I discovered that,
though it is exceedingly hard to get a Welsh miner to talk freely to
"a Saxon," when he opens his heart, and can look back for a period of
fifty years, he is a very interesting companion.

"Yes, it's a long time ago," Mr. Morgan Griffiths repeated, in short,
clipping intonation of the English language I will not attempt to
reproduce, "but I've often talked it over with Mrs. Morgan Griffiths,
and I can see it all now. Times was sore bad, and there was a deal
of poverty about. Bread was dear, and iron was cheap--at least so Mr.
Crawshay said when we went up to ask him if he couldn't give us
miners a trifle over the twelve or thirteen shillings a week we was
earning. Everybody I knowed was in debt, and had been in debt for
some time, and was getting further in every week. The shopkeepers
up at Merthyr were getting uneasy about their money, and besides
saying plump out to some of us that we couldn't have any more bread,
or that, without money down on the nail, they served out all round
summonses to what was called the Court of Requests. That was all
very well, but as we couldn't get enough to eat from day to day
upon our wages, it was pretty certain we couldn't go and pay up
arrears. But the summonses came all the same, and it was a black
look-out, I can tell you.

"One day, in the middle of the summer of this year 1831, there was
a great meeting out on Waun-hill of all the miners of the country.
I can't rightly tell you the day of the month, but it was about
three reeks after we rescued Thomas Llewellin, who had been sent
to gaol on account of the row at Mr. Stephens's. We talked over
our grievances together, and we made up our minds that we couldn't
stand them any longer, though we meant no more mischief than our
little Morgan who wasn't born then, me and Mrs. Morgan Griffiths
not being married at the time, nor indeed set eyes on each other.
After the row opposite the Bush Inn, I went back to my work till
such time as the petition we had agreed to send to the King was
written out by Owen Evans, and had come round to be signed by us
all. But there was others not so peaceably minded, and a lot of
them, meeting outside Merthyr, marched over the hill to Aberdare,
where they went to Mr. Fothergill's and treated him pretty
roughly. They ate up all the victuals in the house, and finished
up all the beer, and then took a turn round the town collecting
all the bread and cheese they could lay their hands on.

"A lad sent by Mr. Fothergill came running over the mountain with
a letter to the magistrates, telling them what was happening in
Aberdare, and pressing them to send off for the soldiers. It was
said the magistrates did this pretty quick, but we had no railways
or telegraphs then, and, ride as quick as you might, the soldiers
could not get here before morning. The men from Aberdare were back
here the same night, and marched straight for the Court of Requests,
where they made poor Coffin, the clerk, give up every scrap of book
or paper he had about the Court's business, and they made a bonfire
of them in the middle of the street. Then they came over here, and
swore we should all turn out and join them.

"I remember it well. I was just coming up from the pit to go to my
tea, when they came bursting over the tips, shouting and waving
their sticks, and wearing in their hats little bits of burnt paper
from the bonfire opposite Coffin's house. They were most of them
drunk, but they were very friendly with us, and only wanted us to
leave off work and go along with them. I was a young fellow then,
up to any lark, and didn't make much fuss about it. So off we
went to Dowlais, freed the men there, and we all had a good drink
together.

"Next day the soldiers came in earnest: Scotchmen with petticoats
on, and nasty-looking guns on their shoulders. I stood in a passage
whilst they marched down High Street from Cyfarthfa way, and didn't
like the look of things at all. But close upon their heels came all
our fellows, with bludgeons in their hands, and one of them, a man
from Dowlais, had tied a red pocket-handkerchief on a stick and waved
it over his head like a flag. The soldiers tramped steadily along till
they got just above the Castle Inn, and there they halted, our men
pressing on till they filled the open place below the Castle, as well
as crowding the street behind the soldiers, who looked to me, as I
hung on by the hands and legs to a lamp-post, just like a patch of red
in the centre of a great mass of black. The soldiers had some bread
and cheese and beer served out to them, but they were a long time
getting it; for as soon as any one came out of the Castle with a loaf
of bread and a piece of cheese some of our men snatched it out of
their hands and eat it, jeering at the soldiers and offering them bits.

"The soldiers never said a word or budged an inch till the Sheriff
looked out of the window and asked the little fellow who was their
commander-in-chief to draw them up on the pavement close before the
hotel. The little fellow said something to them; and they turned round
their guns so as the butt ends were presented, and marched straight
forward, as if our fellows were not on the pavement as thick as ants.
There was a little stoppage owing to the men not being able to clear
off because of the crowd on the right and left. But the thick ends of
the guns went steadily on with the bare-legged silent soldiers after
them, and in a few strides the pavement was clear, and the soldiers
were eating their bread and cheese with their faces to the crowd, and
a tight right-handed grip on their muskets.

"The Sheriff got on a chair in the doorway of the Castle, with the
soldiers well placed between him and us, and made a rigmaroling
speech about law and order, and the King; but he said nothing about
giving us more wages. Our master, Mr. Crawshay, was in the hotel too,
and so was Mr. Guest, of Dowlais. Evan Jones, a man who had come over
from Aberdare, got up on the shoulders of his mates and made a
rattling speech all about our poor wages.

"'Law and order's all very well," he said, "but can you live on twelve
shillings a week, Mr. Sheriff, and bring up a lot of little sheriffs?'

"Then we all shouted, and old Crawshay coming up to the doorway, I got
down from the lamp-post, not wishing to let him see me there, though I
was only standing on my rights. But Mr. William had a voice which,
something like an old file at work, could go through any crowd, and I
heard him in his quiet, stern way, just as if he was talking to his men
on a pay-day, say it was no use them crowding there with sticks and
stones to talk to him about wages.

"'Go home, all of you' he said; 'go to bed; and when you are sober and
in your senses, send us a deputation from each mine, and we'll see what
can be done. But you won't be sensible for a fortnight after this mad
acting; so let us say on this day fortnight you come with your
deputation. Now go home, and don't make fools of yourselves any more.'

"We always listened to what Mr. Crawshay said, though he might be a
little hard sometimes, and this made us waver. But just then
Lewis-yr-Helwyr, shouting out in Welsh, 'We ask for more wages and they
give us soldiers,' leaped at the throat of the Scotchman nearest to him,
and snatching the musket out of his hand, stuck the bayonet into him.

"In the twinkling of an eye the great black mass jumped upon the little
red patch I told you of, and a fearful struggle began. The attack was so
sudden, and the soldiers were at the moment so earnest with their bread
and cheese, that nearly all the front rank men lost their muskets and
pressed backward on their comrades behind. These levelled their pieces
over the front rank's shoulders and fired straight into the thick of us.
The little officer had hardly given the word to fire when he was knocked
down by a blow on the head, and a bayonet stuck into him, Our men
pressed stoutly forward and, tumbling over the dead, fell upon the
soldiers, who could move neither arm nor leg. The rear rank were, as
fast as they could bustle, filing into the hotel, but not before they
had managed to pass over their heads the little officer, who looked very
sick, with the blood streaming down his face.

"At last the soldiers all got inside the doorway of the hotel, where
they stood fast like a wedge, two kneeling down shoulder to shoulder
with their bayonets fixed, three others firing over their heads, and
others behind handing up loaded guns as fast as they fired. There was a
lane speedily made amongst us in front of the doorway; but we had won
the fight for all that, and cheered like mad when the soldiers turned
tail.

"In a few minutes we shouted on the other side of our mouths. Without
any notice the windows of every room in the hotel suddenly flew up, and
out came from each the muzzles of a pair of muskets which flashed death
down upon us at the rate of two men a minute; for as soon as the first
couple of soldiers fired they retired and reloaded whilst two others
took their places and blazed away. A rush was made to the back of the
hotel, and we had got into the passage, when the bearded faces of the
Scotchmen showed through the smoke with which the house was filled, and
the leaders of our lot were shoved back at the point of the bayonet. At
the same time the windows at the back of the house flew up as they had
done in the front, and the muzzles of the muskets peeped out as they
had done before.

"This was getting rather hot for me. Men dead or dying were lying about
everywhere around the Castle Inn. If I had been asked that night how
many were killed, I think I should have said two hundred; but when the
accounts came to be made up, it was found that not more than sixty or
seventy were shot dead, though many more were wounded. I was neither
hurt nor dead as yet, and I thought I had better go home if I wanted to
keep so. I was below the Castle Inn at the time, and not caring to pass
the windows with those deadly barrels peeping out I turned down High
Street, and walked through the town. It was raining in torrents, and I
never saw Merthyr look so wretched. Every shop was closed, and
barricades placed across some of the windows of the private houses; and
as I walked along, trying to look as if I hadn't been up at the Castle,
I saw white faces peeping over window blinds.

"Merthyr was trembling in its shoes that day, I can tell you; and it
came out afterwards that every tradesman in the place had got together
all the bread, cheese, meat, pies, and beer he could put his hands on,
ready to throw out to the mob if they came knocking at his door.

"It was late at night when I got home, having gone a long way round, and
I saw nothing more of our fellows; but I heard that the wounded soldiers
had been taken up to Penydarren House, which was fortified by their
comrades, and held all night against our men. Somehow the word got
passed round that we were to meet the next morning in a quiet place on
the Brecon road, and when I got there I found our gallant fellows in
great force. I, having neither sword nor gun, was told off with a lot of
others to get up on the heights that bank the turnpike road near
Coedycymmer, and roll down big stones, so that the fresh troops expected
up from Brecon could not pass. This we did with a will; and when, in the
afternoon, a lot of cavalry came up, we made it so hot for them, what
with the stones rolled down from above and the musketry that came
rattling up from our men who had guns, that they cleared off pretty
smartly.

"This cheered us greatly, and another lot of ours, who had been posted
on the Swansea road to intercept troops coming up in that direction,
soon after joined us, with news of a great victory, by which they had
routed the soldiers and taken their swords and muskets. We thought
Merthyr was ours, though I'm not sure that we quite knew what we were
going to do with it. When somebody shouted, 'Let's go to Merthyr!' we
all shouted with him, and ran along the road, intending to take
Penydarren House by storm. On the way we met Evan Price and some others,
who had been to see Mr. Guest, and had been promised fine things for the
men if they would give up their arms and go peaceably to work. Some
jumped at this offer and sneaked off; but I had got a sabre now, and was
in for death or glory. There was a good many in the same boat, and on we
went towards Penydarren House, enough of us to eat it up, if the walls
had been built of boiled potatoes instead of bricks.

"When we got in sight of the house, we found they were ready for us, and
had got a lot of those soldiers drawn up in battle array. There was a
deal of disputing amongst our leaders how the attack was to commence,
and whilst they were chattering the men were dropping off in twos and
threes, and in about an hour we were all gone, so nothing more was
done that night.

"We lay quietly in our own homes on Sunday, and on Monday had a great
meeting on Waun-hill again, colliers coming up by thousands to join up
from all parts around. Early in the forenoon we began to move down
towards Merthyr, everybody in high spirits, shouting, waving caps, and
brandishing swords. I saw one man get an awful backhanded cut on the
cheek from an Aberdare collier, who was waving his sword about like a
madman. Nobody knew exactly where we were going, or what we were going
to do; but when we got as far as Dowlais we were saved the trouble of
deciding, for there was Mr. Guest, with a great army of soldiers drawn
up across the road. Mr. Guest was as cool as myself, and rode forward
to meet us as if we were the best friends in the world. He made a good
speech, begging us to think of our wives and families, and go quietly
home whilst we had the chance. Nothing came of that, however, and he
pulled out a paper, and read an Act of Parliament, after which he
turned to the commander-in chief of the soldiers, and said he had done
all a magistrate could do, and the soldiers must do the rest.

"'Get ready,' shouts out the commander-in-chief; and the soldiers
brought their muskets down with a flash like lightning, and a clash that
made me feel uncomfortable, remembering what I had seen on the Friday.

"'Present!'

"There was ten murderous barrels looking straight at us. Another word,
and we should have their contents amongst our clothes. It was an awful
moment. I saw one black-bearded fellow had covered me as if I were a
round target, and I said to myself as well as I could speak for my lips
were like parched peas, 'Morgan Griffiths, twelve shillings a week and
an allowance of coal is better than this'; and I'm not ashamed to own
that I turned round and made my way through the crush of our men, which
was getting less inconveniently pressing at the end nearest to the
levelled barrels.

"There was, to tell the truth, a good deal of movement towards the rear
amongst our men, and when Mr. Guest saw this he rode up again, and,
standing right between the guns and the front rank of our men, said
something which I could not rightly hear, and then our men began running
off faster than ever, so that in about half an hour the soldiers had the
road to themselves.

"That was not the last of the riots, but it is all I can tell you about
them, for I had had quite enough of the business. There is something
about the look of a row of muskets pointed at you, with ball inside the
barrels and a steady finger on the triggers, which you don't care to see
too often.

"Anyhow, I went home, and there heard tell of more fighting all that
week on the Brecon road, of Merthyr in a state of panic, and at last of
Dick Penderyn and Lewis the Huntsman being taken, and the whole of our
men scattered about the country, and hunted as if they were rats.

"It was a bad business, sir--a very bad business, and I know no more
than them as was shot down in the front of the Castle Hotel how it came
about or what we meant to do. We were like a barrel of gunpowder that
had been broken up and scattered about the road. A spark came, and
poof!--we went off with a bang, and couldn't stop ourselves. Yes, this
is a bad business, too, this strike of to-day, and there's a good many
thousand men going about idle and hungry who were busy and full a month
ago. I don't feel the bitterness of it myself so much, because I have a
little store in the house. I had been saving it to buy another chest of
drawers to stand there, opposite the door, but it's going out now in
bread and meat, and I don't know whether I shall live to save up enough
after the trouble's over, for I'm getting old now, look you."

Although the gangway has a distinct and important significance in
marking off nuances of political parties, it appears that it does not
follow as an inevitable sequence that because a man sits behind the
Ministerial bench he is therefore a Taper or a Tadpole, or that because
he takes up his quarters below the gangway he is a John Hampden. The
distinction is more strongly marked on the Liberal side; but even there
there are some honest men who usually obey the crack of the Whip. On the
Conservative side the gangway has scarcely any significance, and though
the Lewisian "Party," which consists solely of Charles, sits there, and
from time to time reminds the world of its existence by loudly shouting
in its ear, it may always be depended upon in a real party division to
swell the Ministerial majority by one vote. The Scotch members, who sit
chiefly on the Liberal side, spread themselves impartially over seats
above and below the gangway. The Home Rule members, who also favour the
Liberal side, sit together in a cluster below the gangway in defiant
proximity to the Sergeant-at-Arms. They are rather noisy at times, and
whenever Chiltern comes in late to dinner, or after going back stays
till all hours in the morning, it is sure to be "those Irish fellows."
But I think the House of Commons ought to be much obliged to Ireland for
its contribution of members, and to resist to the last the principle of
Home Rule. For it is not, as at present constituted, an assembly that
can afford to lose any element that has about it a tinge of originality,
a flash of humour, or an echo of eloquence.

That, of course, is Chiltern's remark. I only know, for my part, that
the Ladies' Gallery is a murky den, in which you can hear very little,
not see much, and are yourself not seen at all.

The subject of Mr. Moody's address was "Daniel"--whom he once,
referring to the prophet's position under King Darius, dubbed "the
Bismarck of those times," and always called "Dan'l." One might converse
for an hour with Mr. Moody without discovering from his accent that he
comes from the United States. But it is unmistakable when he preaches,
and especially in the colloquies supposed to have taken place between
characters in the Bible and elsewhere.

He began his discourse without other preface than a half apology for
selecting a subject which, it might be supposed, everybody knew
everything about. But, for his part, he liked to take out and look upon
the photographs of old friends when they were far away, and he hoped his
hearers would not think it waste of time to take another look at the
picture of Dan'l. One peculiarity about Dan'l was that there was nothing
against his character to be found all through the Bible. Nowadays, when
men write biographies, they throw what they call the veil of charity
over the dark spots in a career. But when God writes a man's life he
puts it all in. So it happened that there are found very few, even of
the best men in the Bible, without their times of sin. But Dan'l came out
spotless, and the preacher attributed his exceptionally bright life
to the power of saying "No."

After this exordium, Mr. Moody proceeded to tell in his own words the
story of the life of Daniel. Listening to him, it was not difficult to
comprehend the secret of his power over the masses. Like Bunyan, he
possesses the great gift of being able to realise things unseen, and to
describe his vision in familiar language to those whom he addresses. His
notion of "Babylon, that great city," would barely stand the test of
historic research. But that there really was in far-off days a great
city called Babylon, in which men bustled about, ate and drank, schemed
and plotted, and were finally overruled by the visible hand of God, he
made as clear to the listening congregation as if he were talking about
Chicago.

He filled the lay figures with life, clothed them with garments, and
then made them talk to each other in the English language as it is
to-day accented in some of the American States.

On the previous night I had heard him deliver an address in one of the
densely populated districts of Salford. Admission to the chapel in which
the service was held was exclusively confined to women, and,
notwithstanding it was Saturday night, there were at least a thousand
sober-looking and respectably dressed women present. The subject of the
discussion was Christ's conversation with Nicodemus--whose social
position Mr. Moody incidentally made familiar to the congregation by
observing, "if he had lived in these days, he would have been a doctor
of divinity, Nicodemus, D. D, or perhaps LL D." His purpose was to make
it clear that men are saved, not by any action of their own, but simply
by faith. This he illustrated, among other ways, by introducing a
domestic scene from the life of the children of Israel in the Wilderness
at the time the brazen serpent was lifted up. The dramatis personae were
a Young Convert, a Sceptic, and the Sceptic's Mother. The convert, who
has been bitten by the serpent, and, having followed Moses' injunction,
is cured, "comes along" and finds the sceptic lying down "badly bitten."
He entreats him to look upon the brazen serpent which Moses has lifted
up. But the sceptic has no faith in the alleged cure, and refuses.

"Do you think," he says, "I'm going to be saved by looking at a brass
serpent away off on a pole? No, no."

"Wall, I dunno," says the young convert, "but I was saved that way
myself. Don't you think you'd better try it?"

The sceptic refuses, and his mother "comes along," and observes,
--"Hadn't you better look at it, my boy?"

"Well, mother, the fact is, if I could understand the f'losophy of it I
would look up right off; but I don't see how a brass serpent away off on
a pole can cure me."

And so he dies in his unbelief.

It seemed odd to hear this conversation from the Wilderness recited,
word for word, in the American vernacular, and with a local colouring
that suggested that both the sceptic and the young convert wore
tail-coats, and that the mother had "come along" in a stuff dress. But
when the preacher turned aside, and in a few words spoke of sons who
would not hear the counsel of Christian mothers and refused to "look
up and live," the silent tears that coursed down many a face in the
congregation showed that his homely picture had been clear as the
brazen serpent in the Wilderness to the eyes of faith before which
it was held up.

The story of Daniel is one peculiarly susceptible of Mr. Moody's usual
method of treatment, and for three-quarters of an hour he kept the
congregation at the morning meeting enthralled whilst he told how
Daniel's simple faith triumphed over the machinations of the unbeliever.
Mr. Moody's style is unlike that of most religious revivalists. He
neither shouts nor gesticulates, and mentioned "hell" only once, and
that in connection with the life the drunkard makes for himself. His
manner is reflected by the congregation in respect of abstention from
working themselves up into "a state." This makes all the more impressive
the signs of genuine emotion which follow and accompany the preacher's
utterance. When he was picturing the scene of Daniel translating the
king's dream, rapidly reciting Daniel's account of the dream, and
Nebuchadnezzar's quick and delighted ejaculation, "That's so!" "That's
it!" as he recognised the incidents, I fancied it was not without
difficulty some of the people, bending forward, listening with
glistening eye and heightened colour, refrained from clapping their
hands for glee that the faithful Daniel, the unyielding servant of
God, had triumphed over tribulation, and had walked out of prison
to take his place on the right hand of the king.

There was not much exhortation throughout the discourse, not the
slightest reference to any disputed point of doctrine. It was nothing
more than a re-telling of the story of Daniel. But whilst
Nebuchadnezzar, Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, Darius, and even
the hundred and twenty princes, became for the congregation living and
moving beings, all the ends of the narrative were, with probably
unconscious, certainly unbetrayed, art, gathered together to lead up to
the one lesson--that compromise, where truth and religion are concerned,
is never worthy of those who profess to believe God's word.

"I am sick of the shams of the present day," said Mr. Moody, bringing
his discourse to a sudden close. "I am tired of the way men parley
with the world whilst they are holding out their hands to be lifted
into heaven. If we're gwine to be good Christians and God's people let
us be so out-and-out."

This sung with mighty volume of sound, Bendigo, who had all this time
been quietly seated on the platform, advanced, and began to speak in a
simple, unaffected, but wholly unintelligent manner. He was decently
dressed in a frock-coat, with black velveteen waistcoat buttoned over
his broad chest. He was still, despite his threescore years, straight
as a pole; and had a fine healthy looking face, that belied the fearful
stories told by his friends of his dissipation. Except a certain
flattening of the bridge of the nose, a slight indentation on the
forehead between the eyebrows, and the crooked finger on his left hand,
he bore no traces of many pitched fights of which he is the hero, and
might in such an assembly have been taken for a mild-mannered family
coachman.

His address, though occasionally marked by the grotesque touches which
characterised the remarks of the two preceding speakers, was not without
touches of pathos.

"I've been a fighting character," he said, and this was a periphrastic
way of referring to his old occupation in which he evidently took great
pleasure; "but now I'm a Miracle. What could I do? I was the
youngest-born of twenty-one children, and the first thing done with me
was to put me in a workhouse. There I got among fellows who brought me
out, and I became a fighting character. Thirty years ago I came up to
London to fight Ben Caunt, and I licked him. I'm sixty-three now, and
I didn't think I should ever come up to London to fight for King Jesus.
But here I am, and I wish I could read out of the blessed Book for then
I could talk to you better. But I never learnt to read, though I'm
hoping by listening to the conversation around me to pick up a good
deal of the Bible, and then I'll talk to you better. I'm only two years
old at present, and know no more than a baby. It's two years ago since
Jesus came to me and had a bout with me, and I can tell you He licked
me in the first round. He got me down on my knees the first go, and
there I found grace. I've got a good many cups and belts which I won
when I was a fighting character. Them cups and belts will fade, but
there's a crown being prepared for old Bendigo that'll never fade."

This and much more to the same purport the veteran said, and then Mr.
Dupee interposed with more "few words," the plate was sent round, and
the superintendent and Bendigo went downstairs to relieve "brother Jim,"
the echo of whose stentorian voice had occasionally been wafted in at
the open door whilst Bendigo was relating his experiences.

After another prayer from the pastor, and one from one of the deacons
who accompanied him on the platform and sat behind in the crimson velvet
arm-chairs, a third hymn was sung, and Mr. Spurgeon began his short
address.

He took for text the 42nd verse of the 12th chapter of Exodus: "It is a
night to be much observed unto the Lord for bringing them out from the
land of Egypt: this is that night of the Lord to be observed of all the
children of Israel in their generations." The night referred to in the
text was that of the Passover--"a night of salvation, decision,
emigration, and exultation," said the preacher, "and I pray God that
this night, the last of a memorable year, may be the same for you, my
friends. Oh for a grand emigration among you like that of the departure
of the people of Israel--an emptying out of old Egypt, a robbing of
Pharaoh of his slaves, and the devil of his dupes!"

It was understood that Mr. Spurgeon was labouring under severe
indisposition, and probably this fact gave to his brief address a tone
comparatively quiet and unimpassioned. Only once did he rise to the
fervent height of oratory to which his congregation are accustomed, and
that at the close, when, with uplifted hands and louder voice, he
apostrophised the parting year: "Thou art almost gone, and if thou goest
now the tidings to the throne of God will be that such and such a soul
is yet unsaved. Oh, stay yet a while, Year, that thou mayest carry with
thee glad tidings that the soul is saved! Thy life is measured now by
seconds, but all things are possible with God, and there is still time
for the salvation of many souls."

At five minutes to twelve the preacher paused, and bade his hearers "get
away to the Throne of Grace, and in silent prayer beseech the Almighty
to bless you with a rich and special blessing in the new year He is
sending you."

The congregation bent forward and a great silence was upon it, broken
only by half-stifled coughing here and there, and once by the wailing of
an infant in the gallery. The minutes passed slowly and solemnly as the
Old Year's "face grew sharp and thin" under the ticking of the clock
over the kneeling preacher and his deacons. The minutes dwindled down to
seconds, and then--

"Alack, our friend is gone!
Close up his eyes, tie up his chin
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth at the door."

"Now, as we have passed into the New Year," said Mr. Spurgeon, advancing
to the rails as the last stroke of midnight died away, "I do not think
we can do better than join in singing 'Praise God from whom all
blessings flow.'"

No need now of instructions how to sing. The congregation were almost
before the leader in raising the familiar strain, with which six
thousand voices filled the spacious Tabernacle.

Then came the benediction, and a cheery "I wish you all a happy New
Year, my friends," from Mr. Spurgeon.

A great shout of "The same to you!" arose in response from basement and
galleries, and the congregation passed out into a morning so soft, and
light, and mild, that it seemed as if the seasons were out of joint, and
that the New Year had been born in the springtime.

After the opening hymns Sankey's Sacred Song-Book, in which this rhymed
nonsense appears, was abandoned, and the congregation took to the
admirable little selection of hymns compiled for the use of the
institution, containing much less sentiment, and perhaps on the whole
more suitable. After prayer and a short address, the boys and girls
filed out as they had come in. Then the rest of the congregation rose,
and as they passed out received a large piece of bread, supplemented by
the distribution from a room on a lower storey of a cup of hot cocoa.
Stretching all down the long flight of stone steps, they drank their
cocoa and greedily munched the bread, and when it was done passed out
into the sabbath noon, to slouch about the great city till the doors of
the casual wards were open.

They had "gathered up all the sunbeams lying around their path" as far
as the day had advanced, and there was no more for them till, at eight
o'clock in the evening, the bread and tea should be set out before them
under the workhouse roof.

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