DEBATING CLUBS AND COGERS'S HALL.
SHOE lane hath a very unromantic sound for a locality. It does not
smell of the aristocracy. It hath not even a slight favor of the Landed
Gentry, and no one could possibly take the trouble to find armorial
bearings or hatchments for Shoe lane. Yet is Shoe lane a most eloquent
place, and there is a little old public house there deemed second only
in point of fame by the admirers of forensic eloquence who frequent it,
to the House of Commons.
The way was long and dreary that Saturday night that I strolled from
Long Acre, whose carriage-shops and leather manufacturers' stalls were
all closed for the day; and the sultry London fog came down, blinding
the pedestrians, as I turned from Lincoln's-Inn-fields into the
better-lighted High Holborn, with the glare from its brassy gin-shops
and dirty-looking old houses, that seemed all of them as if a good
scouring would have done them an incalculable service in the way of a
fresher appearance. I thought that Shoe lane was in a very suspicious
neighborhood.
Turning to the left through Farringdon Market, a huge square seemingly
devoted to the worship of highly odorous vegetables, I came into the
narrow Shoe lane, which runs down at its bottom to Fleet street, just
below where the gray stone arch of Temple bar bisects the Strand and
Fleet street. There is nothing particularly noticeable about this part
of Shoe lane.
[Sidenote: SHOE LANE.]
There is a ham and beef shop, with its layers of cold meat-pies piled
on top of each other in the windows; and across the way there is the
inevitable gin-shop, with its polished brass fender outside to keep off
the boys who have no money to spend in gin, and there are the enticing
signs all over the gin-shop telling of the merits of the brown-stout
there vended, and the Burton ale and somebody's "entire" malt liquors
which the proprietor assures the public are only genuine at his shop.
The lane is narrow here and not more than three or four men could pass
abreast, although there are sidewalks to the lane, or rather apologies
for sidewalks. This narrow lane is one of the few remaining relics of
old London. Below, at the foot of Shoe lane, runs Fleet street--one of
the busiest marts in the world, which is ever jammed and blocked with
drays, cabs, and vehicles of all descriptions crowding to and fro, in
sight of the mighty dome of St. Paul's; and under the pavement of that
street, so famous for its publications and shops, the old River Fleet
once ran in a dirty, hideous current, until it emptied its garnered
filth into the Thames.
Here, opposite Shoe lane, one of the curious old conduits that formerly
supplied old London with water might have been seen about the time
of the wars of the Roses, when the English nobles were hard at work
cutting each other's throats and making and unmaking kings for the want
of something better to do. The cistern erected at the point where Shoe
lane intersects Fleet street, was counted one of the handsomest in
London. Stow--that quaint, old, musty chronicler--says:
"Upon it was a fair tower of stone, garnished with the image of St.
Christopher on the top, and angels lower down, round about, with
sweetly sounding bells before them, whereupon, by an engine placed in
the tower, they, divers hours of the day and night, with hammers chimed
such a hymn as was appointed." Frolicsome Anne Boleyn, the first day
that she was queened, rode through Shoe lane on her way to the sacred
Abbey of Westminster to receive the gilded toy upon her fair forehead,
and pageantry and pomp met her at every step of her palfrey, in
Cornhill, Cheapside, Fleet street, and Shoe lane.
In those days the streets and lanes of London were narrow and
difficult, and the unfortunate queen that was to be might have touched
the over-hanging eaves and gables of the houses in her progress through
the city without leaving her saddle. The conduit in Shoe lane was
grandly gilded over to do her honor, and ran wine for the whole day.
At the base of the conduit a starvling poet sat reciting verses in her
honor as she and her newly made ruffian of a husband passed, and no
doubt this mediæval Mormon was highly pleased with the conceit. There
were towers and turrets erected to do her honor in Shoe lane, and in
one of these towers, according to the chronicler, "was such several
solemn instruments that seemed to be an heavenly noise, and was much
regarded and praised; and, besides this, the conduit ran wine, claret
and white, all the afternoon; so she, with all her company, rode forth
to Temple Bar, which was newly painted and repaired, where stood also
divers singing men and children, till she came to Westminster Hall,
which was richly hanged with cloths of Arras."
While Prince Hal was splitting the skulls of fractious Frenchmen at
Agincourt and fording the passage of the Somme, Sir Robert Ferras de
Chastley held eight cottages in Shoe lane from his king. Here and there
was a garden peeping forth in its floral verdure; and here was also the
town residence of the Bishops of Bangor, powerful and pious prelates in
their day, God wot and odds bodkins; and as early as 1378 they held the
tenure by virtue of the patent of the forty-eighth of Edward the Third,
which says in most barbarous Latin: "_Unum messuag; unam placeam terræ,
unam gardinum cum aliis ædificis in Shoe Lane, London_."
Times have changed since then in Shoe lane. A bishop of Bangor now,
with his train of lances, his men-at-arms, mitre, cross-bearer, and
torches, would be a sight indeed in Shoe lane. How that bright-eyed
bar-maid at the door of the Blue Pig would stare at his lordship! How
the greasy boy in the ham and beef shop would shout at the cope and
silks and velvet housings--taking them, perhaps, in an innocent way,
for a part of the Lord Mayor's show! And as for the conduit running
Claret and Malmsley, the beer-swilling cockneys would not thank
headless Anne Boleyn for such washy foreign stuff. Their fancy could
only be fed by gin. A man-at-arms would be compelled now-a-days to wash
his throat with Bass's bitter beer or brown stout, instead of sack,
hippocras, or mead.
[Sidenote: SOCIETY OF COGERS.]
At last we are in the neighborhood of "Cogers Hall"--the hall of the
Ancient and Honorable Society of Cogers. There is a gin-shop at the
front, with its low doorway and flaring signs. The windows are well
lit, and by the side of the bar is a long, narrow passage conducting
the visitor for twenty or thirty feet to a back room, about forty feet
long and twenty-five feet wide.
Off the passage are a number of small waiting-rooms, noisy and smoky,
with the voices and vile pipes of the occupants. Four rows of tables
run along the room, in which are present fifty or sixty persons all
of the male sex. They are all decently dressed, for, although the
admission is free, yet is the visitor to the Cogers Hall expected to
drink or eat something, and the place, with its tariff of prices,
though moderate enough to an American, would not suit a costermonger or
laborer.
The roof is arched and paneled, done in a feeble imitation of the
style of Sir Christopher Wren, who is popularly supposed to have
built everything in London after the great fire of 1666. A handsome
chandelier depends from an opening in the roof, and is ornamented
with a number of glass globes, which serve to light the apartment and
dissipate the thick clouds of smoke that constantly arise in the room.
There is a large, gaudy sign in the hall, on which are printed these
cabalistic words: "Hot joints are served in this room from one until
five." At the farther end of the room, opposite the entrance, is a
paneling hollowed back in the wall, the entire room being paneled; and
this paneling is shaped like a door, and is gilded. A step from the
floor, in the paneling, is placed a chair of honor, which is occupied
by the Most Worthy Grand, as he is styled; or, in fact, the chairman
of the meeting. Those who are familiar with him go so far in their
irreverence as to call this awful personage "Me Grand," and whispers
have been heard that his name in reality is Tompkins or Noakes.
Directly opposite this dignitary, at the other end of the room, is a
place in the paneling and a chair like to that which I have already
described, and this is occupied by a tall, lean man, with side whiskers
of a grayish pattern, who has the title of Vice Grand.
But the Vice, or Worthy Wice, is of greatly inferior dignity to the
Most Worthy Grand. He is, so to speak, an empty ornament of the feast,
and his duties are simple, and confined to calling out in unison with
the assemblage, "Hear, hear," or "Good." "You are Right," when the
Worthy Grand, in his oracular sentences, is most happy. At other times,
in a loud voice he will call the attention of the waiters, who heartily
detest him for his interference, to the fact that some customer has
drained his beer, or gin and hot water, and needs, therefore, to be
served afresh.
Still this man is human, and will listen, when off his seat of duty,
to any scandal against the Most Worthy Grand with secret pleasure.
In fact, the Worthy Wice, inspired by a generous four-pence worth of
gin and hot water, told me aside, in conversation, that the Worthy
Grand was unfit for his high position. "He his han hass, sir. He
his too Hold. And he 'as no woice watsomever, sir. Bah! that, sir,
for Tompkins"--and the Worthy Wice snapped his fingers in an insane
manner at the air in which his potent imagination had conjured up the
semblance of the Worthy Grand. Sitting down at a table I followed the
custom of the place and called for something. On each table were placed
a couple of long-shanked clay pipes, and a thin-necked, big-paunched,
red-clay jar, which a man sitting near explained to my satisfaction.
"You see," said he in a rather mysterious voice, "we 'aven't much ice
to speak of in England; leastways, it is too dear, and this 'ere red
clay 'as a peculiar wirtue--it keeps the water as cold as if it was in
the waults of Bow Church."
[Sidenote: AT THE TABLES.]
This man was decently dressed, and was, I believe, a drover by
profession. He was very fleshy and very red in the face.
Tissues of fat lay around his eyebrows in layers, and his double chin
was dewlapped like one of his own beeves. He had a heavy red hand, and
was, as I found out, a true Briton in every sense. I asked him why the
place was called Cogers Hall. To this conundrum he confessed himself
unable to answer, but after scratching his head the "Beefy One," as
I shall call him, made a sign for a waiter to come to the table. "I
say," said the Beefy One, "why do you call this place Cogers 'All?" The
waiter could not satisfy him, but said that he would call the Master.
Well, the Master came, a thin-faced, side-whiskered Englishman, with
watery blue eyes and trembling lip. The counterfeit presentment of
the Master hung over the Worthy Grand's chair of state, done in oil,
and it seemed as if the artist had endeavored, in accordance with the
spirit of the Cogers Hall, to give the face an oratorical, Gladstonian
expression, and the cloak was folded around the shoulders of the
Master as the toga is folded around the shoulders of Tully, in classic
pictures. Besides the picture of the Master, several other pictures
of Past Worthy Grands were hung as tokens of their former forensic
abilities. The Master, in answer to the question why the place was
called Cogers Hall, said:
"Well, you see, we calls it Cogers Hall from the Latin _ko-gee_-TO--to
cogitate, to think. Oh, yes, sir, we have been a long time established,
sir; since 1756, sir; a matter of a hundred years or so, sir. You are
han Hamerican, sir. Oh, yes, sir, we've 'ad George Francis Train 'ere,
sir, for many a night, sir; and 'e spoke in that chair, sir; and when
he was arrested, sir, in Ireland, the Home Secretary as wos, sir, wrote
to me to question me if he had spoken treason, sir, or spoke agin the
Queen, sir. Cos ye see, sir, the principle of an Englishman, sir, is to
allow every man liberty to say wot he likes, sir, so long as he does
not speak agin the Queen or speaks treason. That's an Englishman's
principle, sir."
And George Francis Train had spoken in this very room! I could fancy
the feelings of poor Artemus Ward when he stood at the tomb of
Shakespeare at Stratford. These wooden chairs and benches were hallowed
in my eyes henceforward. Men had sat upon those chairs who had
listened to the fervid eloquence of a Train, and perhaps some of these
very men had survived. _Civis Americanus sum._
As the night came on apace, the smoky, old-fashioned, paneled room
began to fill up, and before long nothing could be seen but rows of
men lining the small tables, puffing vigorously from the long clay
pipes, and at intervals taking deep draughts from the large, brightly
burnished metal pots, holding a pint each, or perhaps sipping fourpenny
glasses of hot gin and water. Along with the little jar of hot water
which the waiter brought on demand, were little saucers of sugar--these
little saucers never containing, by any chance, more than three lumps
of sugar, and each of these lumps being equalized in size with a
mathematical nicety. Some of the visitors, more hungry than others,
satisfied their longings with "Welsh Rabbits," at sixpence apiece; or,
when the rabbits had, in addition, two eggs cooked with them, the Welsh
rabbit was called a "Golden Buck," and the waiter, in his greasy tail
coat, raised his demand to eightpence.
In a few minutes the Worthy Vice, a gray-bearded man with a meek face
and in shabby-genteel clothes, took his seat, and all the chairs in
the apartment were turned around by those who occupied them in order
that they might hear and see better. The Worthy Vice, who is sometimes
entered on the bills of the performance as a "Patriot" when he has to
take part in a discussion, read the minutes of the last meeting of
the Ancient and Honorable Society of Cogers, which were listened to
quietly, and then the attention of the audience was turned to the Most
Worthy Grand, who occupied the chair at the other end of the apartment.
This most noble Briton, in a quavering voice, having adjusted his
vest--which had a tendency to leave exposed the lower part of the
shirt-bosom at his stomach where his trousers bisected--opened the
proceedings with much solemnity, imitating by hems and haws, as well
as he could, the manners of the dullest and most common-place orators
of the House of Commons. His business as a specialty was to review the
events of the week.
[Sidenote: NEWS OF THE WEEK.]
"I don't think, gentlemen," said he, "that my task will be a very long
one this hevening in reviewing the hevents of the week. There, aw,
'asn't been much a-doing in furrin parts, ah, this week. There 'as been
'a row in Turkee again, and in, ah, fact we might say there is halways
a row in Turkee, more or less. There's a man in Hegipt whom we call the
Viceroy of that, ah, country, and when he, ah, wos here we gave 'im
fireworks and sich, and made a blessed time about him, as we might say
vulgarly, so to speak. Now, he has been a invitin' of all the sovrins
of Europe on his own hook to see him and his ryal family open the Sooz
Canal. Well, he has been, ah, spendin' sich a lot of money that the
Sultan comes out in a long letter and calls him a Cadivar, which is a
word that I can't understand, being neither Latin nor yet Greek.
"Blessed hif I knowed that ye iver understood Greek or Lating, ither,
Jimmy," said an old man who sat observant of the reviewer in a corner,
drinking beer from a pewter pot.
"I thank ye all the same, Mr. Wilkins, but I don't _like_ to be
interrupted when I'm speaking," answered the Most Worthy Grand.
"You're right, Me Grand. Horder! horder!" shouted several indignant
voices.
"I wos goin' to say," continued the Grand, after taking a deep draught
of the porter which foamed in the pewter pot on the table before
him--"I wos goin' to say that the state of our neighbor, Fronse, just
hover the water, is now a spektikle for mankind. There's a great hadoo
about the Hemperor's 'elth; and I must say as how he is in a bad way
by all accounts. Nobody knows wot his disease is. It may be liver; it
may be kidneys. I might take the liberty of sayin', as a rule, kidneys
is bad. No one knows wot would be the consequences if the Hemperor was
to step out, wulgularly speakin'. It would p'r'aps be the cause of a
general war in Europe. Hengland doesn't want any more wars. We 'ave
'ad enough of them. They does no good for the workin' man. ('Hear!
hear!') We pays the piper when the dancin' is done; but we never dances
ourselves."
"True as the gospel, Jimmy," from a beer drinker.
"Now, there's another question which we all 'ave heard of a good deal,
and that's the Halabama claims. They are in a precious muddle, to be
sure. They may be right and they may be wrong. But I must say that I
don't see where the money is to come from to pay them."
"We'll never pay them. We aint got the "dibs;" leastways, I won't pay
any of it," says an irreverent young man whose face was quite flushed
with strong drink.
"Well, as far as that goes, if they are to be paid, we know it will
come from the pockets of just such people as ourselves in the way of
taxes. Its taxes halways."
"I differ from the gentleman who preceded me altogether. Prussia must
'ave the left bank of the Rhine, and I'll put sixteen bullets in the
Pope's heart. I tell ye, gentlemen, the Ekumenikal Council will be
the downfall of the Romish religion. I'll put sixteen bullets in the
Pope's heart," cried out a tall, thin-faced man in a half-clerical suit
of black, who got on his feet, and while in the act of energetically
expressing his feeling, by a wave of his right hand carried away a
glass globe shading the gaslight above his head. The man was very drunk
apparently, but by his language seemed to be a person of education. The
"Beefy One," who sat by my side, and who had reached his third bottle
of beer, whispered to me:
"I say, yon is a fine fellow when he's sober, and can talk poetry by
the yard, but he is very drunk, and when he's fuddled he will talk a
man blind about the Pope. Will you have some beer? Do take a pot."
It was with some trouble that the fiery Scotch orator was induced to
sit down and defer his assault upon the Pope until a more fitting
occasion.
At this moment the Beefy One pointed out to me a tall, martial-looking
person in black clothes, who seemed to be very restive and looked as
if he wanted to speak. He was of large frame, about sixty years of
age, and was apparently a man of considerable stamina and backbone.
His white whiskers and neat dress gave him the look of a justice of
the peace who had dropped in to take a look at the assemblage from
curiosity, and to see that the public morals and the constitution were
properly taken care of.
[Illustration: COGERS HALL.]
While the Worthy Grand was making a series of remarks on the health
of the Emperor Napoleon and the menacing attitude of Prussia towards
France in a gentle, slipshod way, the stranger looked up at times from
the four-penn'orth of gin which he ordered when he came in to give an
incredulous, doubting smile to a few of the coterie who sat around him
and were evident admirers of his. The Beefy One whispered to me--
"That ole gentlemun is the finest orator as ever was. I tell ye,
sir, he _can_ talk when he's agoing. There's no end to his beautiful
sentiments, I do say it, although he's a Hirishman. Oh, 'e is a great
horator is the Ole One."
[Sidenote: LIBERALS AND CONSERVATIVES.]
After the review of the week's public events by the Worthy Grand,
debate was in order on the topics reviewed by him. I found that the
debaters who jumped to their feet one after the other in a manner
worthy of the most dignified legislative assemblage, were divided
into two parties, liberals and conservatives. The Liberals were the
most logical, strange to say; the Tories were most dogmatic and
violent. The Liberals--one of them at least--wished to do away with
all monarchies and established churches; while the Conservatives,
principally belonging to the shopkeeping element, in the audience, were
strenuously opposed to the eight-hour law and to the trades-unions. One
liberal orator would liked to have seen, as he expressed it, all the
kings, barons, prime ministers, and other like despots, placed in one
old rotten hulk of a vessel, and then the vessel was to be scuttled
on the Goodwin Sands. "And who," said the eloquent orator, "would not
say that it would not be a benefit to the human race? Who would not
exclaim with me," and here he looked around on his eager audience in a
threatening manner, "the more of sich cattle in the rotten old hulk the
better?" There was a general grunt of acquiescence from the advanced
Liberals at this possibility and a deprecatory shake of the head from
one Conservative with a great clay pipe.
Finally, the Irish orator got a chance, and then it was wonderful
to see how, in a sarcastic tone, he humbugged his hearers for half
an hour by allusions to the good time coming, when every man should
have a vote, and every Irish tenant should give up the graceful and
sportsmanlike habit of potting from behind the Tipperary hedges all
landlords who were in the way of a freehold system. The orator waxed
wroth and became pathetic at times as he reviewed the past glories of
the Isle of Saints and her present degraded position among nations. Yet
in that he was skilful enough, in speaking of the Fenians, to deprecate
their acts mildly, but, at the same time, he told his English audience,
in the most forcible tones, of the abuses and tyranny that had led to
the organization of Fenianism.
"Oh, I say, O'Brien, you are a humbugging of hus with that here gammon
habout '98, ye know."
"I give yes me word, me Worthy Grand and gentlemen, that I do not
advocate Fenianism at all, at all; but when yes dhrive min to madness
by oppression, by acts of oppression such as the world has never seen,
can yes blame the wu-r-rum if it turns on yes and bites."
[Sidenote: THE SCOTCH PRESBYTERIAN.]
No one could reply to this with the exception of the Scotch
Presbyterian, who, again rising from his seat, denounced the Pope and
Dr. Cumming as accomplices, and declared that at the first opportunity
he would cheerfully encounter martyrdom to be able to "put sixteen
bullets into the Pope's carcass," as he politely and charitably
expressed himself. "I didn't care about your Ekumenikul Council," said
he; "it will be the downfall of popishness and prelacy, and those who
may go there are welcome; but as for me I would be burned to have him
under my pistol."
"Oh, Mac, yer not so bad as yer purtend in yer talk. I'll engage, if
his Holiness would give ye the chance, ye'd only be too glad to kiss
his toe."
This raised a laugh at the Scotchman's expense, but he violently
disclaimed for himself, as a true disciple of John Knox, any intention
of submitting to such a degrading act of spiritual submission. The
debate continued as the night waned, and at eleven o'clock, when I left
the hall of discussion in Shoe lane, the subjects of vaccination, land
laws, and coinage were yet to be touched upon by the speakers.
I have given but a glance at this place, which is the oldest
established of its kind among a number of discussion halls and forums,
whose sign-boards meet the stranger's eye in different parts of the
city where most thickly populated. There is invariably a pot-house
attached to these debating places, or rather the debating halls are
attached to the pot-houses.
The better class of artisans and shopkeepers in a small way are
principally the frequenters of the discussion halls. Mechanics with a
gift of the gab, and who have five or six shillings a week to spend out
of twenty-five or thirty, are to be found here in large numbers. The
Most Worthy Grand and the Vice Grand are paid a fixed salary for their
stated eloquence, and it is principally their duty to read all the
cheap weeklies and dailies, not forgetting the _Times_, which is very
often quoted by them as a sort of a clincher in the argument brought
up. A place like this will take in five pounds of a night, and the
wages paid to the bar-maids is about sixteen shillings a week. There
were two here, and four waiters, who receive sixteen pounds a year and
their "grub," as they call it. A small paper of rough-cut tobacco is
furnished to each customer for a penny, and the consumption of this
narcotic and Welsh Rabbits is encouraged, as they are quite certain to
make the customers dry, and this dryness, as a matter of course, leads
to the imbibition of plenteous beer and gin and water. These shops are
licensed to sell spirits under the new Beer act, and they are compelled
to shut off the debate at midnight. As a general thing the most
advanced liberalism prevails in these places, and religious sentiments
are below par with the audience. Very often it is possible to hear a
well educated or scientific man debating in these halls, but, on closer
survey, his accent will betray him to be some impoverished French or
German physician, or reduced savan, who has no occupation in the hours
of the evening, and can, therefore, afford to dispense wisdom to the
thick-headed audience, gratis.
About a week after my visit to Cogers Hall I went, accompanied by Mr.
Marsh, a member of the Daily Morning Telegraph's staff, and another
gentleman connected with the editorial management of the Pall Mall
Gazette, to take a look at another debating hall which is situated
at No. 16 Fleet street. This place is quite famous in London for the
virulence of its debates and the high flavor of its gin. Its Brown
Stout is also above reproach.
As usual in all such places there is a public bar here, and this is
located at the entrance, and is attended by the inevitable bar-maid,
smiling and bedizined in all the glory of a two guinea silk dress,
bought perhaps in Regent street or the Oxford Circus.
[Sidenote: "WHERE ARE WE NOW."]
The room here was not so large a one as that at Cogers Hall in which
the orators were in the habit of haranguing their auditors. There
were a dozen small tables, around which chairs were placed in a most
picturesque confusion. Small white placards printed in blue ink were
posted on the walls with the following announcement:
TEMPLE
DISCUSSION FORUM.
ADMISSION FREE.
STRANGERS ARE PARTICULARLY INVITED TO TAKE PART
IN THE DISCUSSION AND TO INTRODUCE SUBJECTS
FOR DEBATE.
THE QUESTION THIS WEDNESDAY EVENING WILL BE
"THE POPE'S MODEL LETTER,"
WHERE ARE WE NOW?
TO BE OPENED BY "A PROTESTANT."
CHAIR TO BE TAKEN AT NINE O'CLOCK.
SUPPER FROM EIGHT TILL TWELVE.
BEDS. PRIVATE SITTING-ROOMS.
There was a venerable looking old fellow in the chair when we entered
the Discussion Forum, who lifted a pair of gold rimmed spectacles from
his nose to take a look at us. This was the chairman of the meeting,
and shortly after we sat down he cried out to a tall person with a
short grey raglan coat who was speaking and perspiring at the same time.
"Mister Chowley I will and cannot allow you, sir, to trample on the
religious feelings of any man present in this harmonious meeting. We
are all brothers here, sir, and the individual who disturbs our peace
and quietness, should be to us all as the 'Eathen and the publican,
sir." (Hear, hear.)
The tall man with the raglan, who did not like to be suppressed so
easily, had taken his seat for a moment much against his will, but now
he arose slowly and scornfully looking around him, spoke, with one
hand leaning on a chair behind him, and another hand in his breast, as
follows:
"Gentlemen, this his an age of science if it is an age of hanythink.
Wot does my honorable and noble Roman Catholic friend wish to advance
has an argument. Does he mean to tell ME, with my heyes hopen in
this here blessed Nineteenth Century, which we are all so proud
of, and whose blessed light is the moving cause of so much mental
brilliancy--does he mean to tell me for a moment that the miracle of
the transposition of water into wine at the wedding of Cana wos han
hactual fact. Why gents it his altogether impossible--and no reasonable
man in this Nineteenth century can for a moment believe it possible.
Wot would Galileo, Kepler, Faraday or sich bright lights of the
Nineteenth century say to sich stories? Why gents, there is a chemical
change which would have to take place before such a translation,
and this chemical transformation could not take place without the
assistance of other substances. (Hear, hear.) And gents, as far as the
infallibility of the Pope is concerned, why I have only to say in the
words of the poet, hand I mention no names, that a piece of fat pork
might stick in his gullet as soon as it would stick in mine, and that's
all I think of infallibility and fat pork, with the blessed light of
the nineteenth century before me." (Hear, hear.)
Mr. Chowley here sat down, thoroughly satisfied with himself and
auditory, who applauded him to the echo. Then a member of the Roman
Catholic persuasion answered him in a long and splendid oration, which
seemed to thoroughly convince every one present that the Catholic side
was right, and the Protestant one a most diabolical doctrine. After
each man had done his little speech, it was curious, nay amusing, to
hear the adherents of either party comment upon the previous argument.
"Oh! I say," said a Presbyterian, "didn't he smash the old Pope
neither."
"And wot a blessing he gave His Grace, Archbishop Manning, though?"
"Well," said an ardent Irishman, "I niver heard such a lambeastin as
the heretics got to night."
"You might well say that, Pether, and didn't he scald Martin Luther
with the holy wather, though," said an honest looking, hard working
fellow who sat smoking a pipe.
[Sidenote: FARCE AND TRAGEDY.]
One thing struck me in all this wilderness of argument and polemic
discussion. While the two principals nearly argued their jaws off
in the heat of discussion, they failed miserably to convert any of
the opposite party, who sat the debate out with a heroic stupidity,
understanding with much difficulty about one-third of what was said,
and perhaps caring very little for the matter in hand, but sticking
to their prejudices to the last, with a partisan fidelity not to be
convinced by all the harangues that will take place from that night
until the Day of Judgment.
And yet I could not enter a place of this kind in all London, from
Temple Bar to Hammersmith, without hearing this same everlasting
religious warfare of controversy.
And to add to the joke, hardly one of five of these persons who attend
such discussions, were ever in a church of either the Catholic or
Protestant persuasion.
Such is life--part farce, part tragedy.
[Illustration]