aded too, ranged ourselves beside him; and so we stood facing
the mob while the verses were sung in comparative quiet. The words
might be provocative, but few heard them. The tune commanded an
audience, as in Cornwall a tune usually will. The true secret of the
spell, however, lay in my father's presence and bearing. A British
crowd does not easily attack one whom it knows as a neighbour and
born superior; and it paid homage now to one who, having earned it
all his life, carelessly took it for granted.

"Begad, sir," said Mr. Fett in my ear, "and the books say that the
feudal system is dead in England! Why, here's the very flower of it!
Damme, though, the old gentleman is splendid; superlative, sir;
it's ten to one against Coriolanus, and no takers. Between
ourselves, Coriolanus was a pretty fellow, but talked too much.
Phocion, sir? Did I hear you mention Phocion?"

"You did not," I answered.

"And quite right," said he; "with your father running, I wouldn't
back Phocion for a place. All the same," Mr. Fett admitted, "this is
what Mr. Gray of Peterhouse, Cambridge, would call a fearful joy, and
I'd be thankful for a distant prospect of the way out of it."

"Indeed, sir"--my father, overhearing this, turned to him affably--
"you touch the weak spot. For the moment I see no way out of the
situation, nor any chance but to prolong it; and even this," he
added, "will not be easy unless the lady on the lamp-post sensibly
alters the tone of her discourse."

Indeed, at the conclusion of the singing she had started again to
address the crowd, albeit--acting on my father's hint--in more
moderate tones, and even, as I thought, somewhat tepidly. Her theme
was what she called convictions of sin, of which by her own account
she had wrestled with a surprising quantity; but in the rehearsal of
them, though fluent, she seemed to lose heart as her hearers relaxed
their attention.

"Confound the woman!" grumbled my father. "She had done better,
after all, to continue frantic. The crowd came to be amused, and is
growing restive again."

"Sir," interposed Mr. Fett, "give me leave to assure you that an
audience may be amused and yet throw things. Were this the time and
place for reminiscences, I could tell you a tale of Stony Stratford
(appropriately so-called, sir), where, as 'Juba' in Mr. Addison's
tragedy of _Cato_, for two hours I piled the Pelion of passion upon
the Ossa of elocutionary correctness, still withou