toil.  The old man’s eye would begin to flash and his voice to rise as he told of these horrors, and then his face would soften as he added that, after it was all over and the slavery was put an end to, as he went through a coal district the women standing at their doors would lift up their children to see “Lawyer Roberts” go by, and would bid “God bless him” for what he had done.  This dear old man was my first tutor in Radicalism, and I was an apt pupil.  I had taken no interest in politics, but had unconsciously reflected more or less the decorous Whiggism which had always surrounded me.  I regarded “the poor” as folk to be educated, looked after, charitably dealt with, and always treated with most perfect courtesy, the courtesy being due from me, as a lady, to all equally, whether they were rich or poor.  But to Mr. Roberts “the poor” were the working-bees, the wealth producers, with a right to self-rule not to looking after, with a right to justice, not to charity, and he preached his doctrines to me in season and out of season.  I was a pet of his, and used often to drive him to his office in the morning, glorying much in the fact that my skill was trusted in guiding a horse through the crowded Manchester streets.  During these drives, and on all other available occasions, Mr. Roberts would preach to me the cause of the people.  “What do you think of John Bright?” he demanded suddenly one day, looking at me with fiery eyes from under heavy brows.  “I have never thought of him at all,” was the careless answer.  “Isn’t he a rather rough sort of man, who goes about making rows?” “There, I thought so!” he thundered at me fiercely.  “That’s just what I say.  I believe some of you fine ladies would not go to heaven if you had to rub shoulders with John Bright, the noblest man God ever gave to the cause of the poor.”

This was the hot-tempered and lovable “demagogue,” as he was called, with whom we were staying when Colonel Kelly and Captain Deasy, two Fenian leaders, were arrested in Manchester and put on their trial.  The whole Irish population became seething with excitement, and on September 18th the police van carrying them to Salford Gaol was stopped at the Bellevue Railway Arch by the sudden fall of one of the horses, shot from the side of the road.  In a moment the van was surrounded, and crowbars were wrenching at the van door.  It resisted; a body of police was rapidly approaching, and if the rescue was to be effective the door must be opened.  The rescuers shouted to Brett, the constable inside, to pass out his keys; he refused, and some one exclaimed, “Blow off the lock!” In a moment the muzzle of a revolver was against the lock, and it was blown off; but Brett, stooping down to look through the keyhole, received the bullet in his head, and fell dying as the door flew open.  Another moment, and Allen, a lad of seventeen, had wrenched open the doors of the compartments occupied by Kelly and Deasy, dragged them out, and while two or three hurried them off to a place of safety,