battle—(uproarious laughter from Crowd, which he endures with dignified resignation)—I say—we who are fighting the battle!

The Crowd. 'Oo's talking about fightin' a battle?... You wouldn't be 'ere if there was any battles about! 'E's a fair ole fraud, 'e is—that's about 'is sort! Shet up, you idiotic ole ass, do! (&c., &c.)

The Orator (patiently). I say once more—we who are fighting the——(Howls of derision, at which he smiles, but perceives, regretfully, that the battle must be abandoned.) One of my friends here has seen fit to describe me as an idiotic old ass. ("So you are!") Well, I am glad, at least, that he pronounced it ass with the vowel short, and not ass, for it shows that he has at least a certain regard for the Queen's English (The Crowd hasten to give the vowel sound all the breadth in their power). I think I was—(here he consults a sheaf of notes)—offering some remarks upon Mr. William Wobler. Now we are told, "Speak evil of no man!"

The Crowd. That's a good un! 'Oo spoke evil of Mr. Bagwind jest now?

The Orator (mildly hurt). I never said a single unkind word about Mr. Bagwind!

The Crowd. Yer lie! Why, didn't you say as he murdered Jettison and Scapegoat? Wot yer call that, eh?

"I say—Never!"

The Orator. I may have made some such observation—but far be it from me to speak evil of any man. If I spoke evil, it was on public grounds. I should scorn to attack any individual in his private character. I think I have satisfactorily answered that matter. And I tell you this—it is largely owing to me that Mr. William Wobler owes his seat in Parliament to-day! (His hearers receive this with frank incredulity.) Ah, but it is, though, and I denounce him, as I have denounced him before, and shall denounce him while I have power to raise my voice, as a man who has proved himself utterly unworthy of the efforts I have made on his behalf. Some people are saying they want Thomas Tiddler in North Paddington. I say—Never! Not as long as I've breath in my body shall Thomas Tiddler be returned for any constituency! No, gentlemen: here I stand before you, with no money, and only one lung. I have rich and high relations, to whom I might apply for relief if I condescended to do so; but I scorn to abase myself in any such manner. I prefer to appeal to you, the people of London. It's a disgrace—a public disgrace—that you people should allow such a man as myself to walk the streets without food! (A voice. "Why don't yer work?") Work? Am I not working? Am I not in my proper place here to-night?

The Crowd (with hearty unanimity). No!

The Orator (with exultation). Then support me in the name of all you hold dear! I have my work to accomplish, and I shall accomplish it by the aid of the People's pence, by the aid of the People's sixpences,—aye, and by the aid of the People's shillings! Will you help me?

The Crowd (more heartily than ever). No!

The Orator. Then I will now proceed to make a collection.

[He descends from his stool, and circulates among the crowd proffering a highly respectable hat. A Rival Orator mounts the stool; he has a straw hat, side whiskers, and a style of concentrated and withering invective.

The Rival Orator (fluently, and with much enjoyment of his own eloquence). I shall preface what I have to say by protesting in the strongest terms at my disposal against the most disgraceful attack we have had the pain of listening to to-night, against the character of a Statesman we all revere, by the unspeakably offensive and degraded individual with a black coat, a clean collar, and only one lung, who has just concluded his contemptible remarks, and is now debasing himself, if possible, still further by going round cringing, actually cringing, for the miserable halfpence which he hopes his foul-mouthed virulence will extract from the more foolish among his hearers! (Applause at this spirited opening; the First Orator imperturbably continues to protrude his hat.) I have no hesitation in saying that if such language as he has favoured us with was uttered against a public man in any other community, in any other country, in any other hemisphere in the civilized globe, the audience would have risen in righteous indignation, and chased the cowardly aggressor back to the vile den from whose obscurity he would have done better never to emerge! Gentlemen, he has appealed to your sympathy on the ground, forsooth, that he has only one lung! I venture to assert that it is nothing short of a public calamity that he is the possessor of one lung; for had he none at all, he would have been incapable of outraging the general intelligence by the utterance of such sentiments as he has disgusted you by this evening. When I first became acquainted with this man, before he had sunk into the besotted state in which he now wallows, he used, I remember, to condemn the practice of making a public collection. Now I've never been against that practice myself. I hold that a man who is capable of attracting an audience by such gifts of oratory as he may possess, is perfectly justified in making a collection afterwards, whether he requires the money or not. But this person has become so degraded, so destitute of any sense of honour, so soaked and sodden with gin, that he now turns round on the principles he once professed, and is to be seen going round with a hat laden with the coppers of those who are infinitely worse off than—judging from his dress and prosperous appearance—he evidently is himself!

The First Orator (exhibiting his empty hat). It don't look much like it at present, Gabbitt!

Mr. Gabbitt. He has boasted to you of having rich relations, and said he scorned to apply to them. I want to know why, instead of coming here begging to you, he don't go to them?

The First Orator. I've been, Gabbitt.

Mr. G. (triumphantly). You hear? he's been to them. That proves they've found him out; they know him for the grovelling soaker he is, a wretch tottering on the verge of delirium tremens, and, rightly, they'll have nothing to do with him. It's very possible, gentlemen, that he may have rich relations in the place where most of us have rich relations—I refer to the workhouse! (Cheers and laughter.) And it is this wretch, this indescribable mixture of meanness and malignity, who has dared to come here and charge Mr. Bagwind with crime! He asked you—and let him not deny it now—"What about Mr. Scapegoat?" Well, there may be a good many things about Mr. Scapegoat, but what I tell you is—an observation like that is one that doesn't convey any concrete idea whatever; in short, it is the observation of a drivelling and confirmed lunatic!

Voice in the Crowd. With on'y one lung; don't forgit that, ole man!

Mr. G. (magnanimously). No, I've done with his lung, now; it doesn't do to carry personalities too far, and I've disposed of that already, and have no desire to return to it. And, as I observe that the wretched object of the strictures which I have felt it my duty to express, has concluded his efforts with the hat, and