of Clerkenwell Green. Towards sundown,
that modern Agora rang with the voices of orators, swarmed with
listeners, with disputants, with mockers, with indifferent loungers.
The circle closing about an agnostic lecturer intersected with one
gathered for a prayer-meeting; the roar of an enthusiastic
total-abstainer blended with the shriek of a Radical politician.
Innumerable were the little groups which had broken away from the
larger ones to hold semi-private debate on matters which demanded calm
consideration and the finer intellect. From the doctrine of the Trinity
to the question of cabbage _versus_ beef; from Neo-Malthusianism to the
grievance of compulsory vaccination; not a subject which modernism has
thrown out to the multitude but here received its sufficient mauling.
Above the crowd floated wreaths of rank tobacco smoke.

Straying from circle to circle might have been seen Mr. Joseph Snowdon,
the baldness of his crown hidden by a most respectable silk hat, on one
hand a glove, in the other his walking-stick, a yellow waistcoat
enhancing his appearance of dignity, a white necktie spotted with blue
and a geranium in his button-hole correcting the suspicion of age
suggested by his countenance. As a listener to harangues of the most
various tendency, Mr. Snowdon exhibited an impartial spirit; he smiled
occasionally, but was never moved to any expression of stronger
feeling. His placid front revealed the philosopher.

Yet at length something stirred him to a more pronounced interest. He
was on the edge of a dense throng which had just been delighted by the
rhetoric of a well-known Clerkenwell Radical; the topic under
discussion was Bent, and the last speaker had, in truth, put before
them certain noteworthy views of the subject as it affected the poor of
London. What attracted Mr. Snowdon's attention was the voice of the
speaker who next rose. Pressing a little nearer, he got a glimpse of a
lean, haggard, grey-headed man, shabbily dressed, no bad example of a
sufferer from the hardships he was beginning to denounce. 'That's old
Hewett,' remarked somebody close by. 'He's the feller to let 'em 'ave
it!' Yes, it was John Hewett, much older, much more broken, yet much
fiercer than when we last saw him. Though it was evident that he spoke
often at these meetings, he had no command of his voice and no
coherence of style; after the first few words he seemed to be overcome
by rage that was little short of frenzy. Inarticula