But his tastes, so far as I could discover, did not lie in the direction
of poetry. Certainly I heard him once, in those old days, read a great
part, if not the whole of Shelley's "Sensitive Plant." He loved Shelley,
however, as an Atheist and a Republican, and I suppose he took Shelley's
poetry on trust. But I do not think, though I speak under correction,
that he cared very much for poetry _as such_. I could never discover
from his conversation or writings that he had read a line of
Shakespeare--the god of Colonel Ingersoll. His mind was of the practical
order, like Oliver Cromwell's. He had a genius for public affairs. He
was not only a born orator, but a born ruler of men. Naturally he had,
as the French say, the defects of his qualities. And it may be that the
terrible stress of his life tended to repress the poetical side of
his nature, and less developed his subtlety than his strength. Yet
his feelings were deep, and his heart was easily touched. When William
O'Brien delivered that great speech in the House of Commons after his
imprisonment by Mr. Balfour, with all its needless indignities, there
were two men who could not restrain their tears. One was an Irish
member. The other was Charles Bradlaugh. One who witnessed the scene
told me it was infinitely pathetic to see that gigantic man, deemed so
hard by an ignorant world, wiping away his tears at the tale of a brave
man's unmerited suffering.

Mr. Bradlaugh used to attend the social parties pretty often in those
old days. He did not dance and he stood about rather awkwardly. It must
have been a great affliction, but he bore it with exemplary fortitude.
Once or twice I saw Mrs. Bradlaugh there. She had a full-blown matronly
figure. Miss Alice and Miss Hypatia came frequently. They were not
then living in the enervating air of London, and they looked extremely
robust. I also remember the boy Charles, of whom Mr. Bradlaugh seemed
very proud. He was a remarkably bright lad, and full of promise. But he
was carried off by a fever. Only a day or two after the lad's death Mr.
Bradlaugh had to lecture at the Hall. I was away, and I wondered whether
he would fulfil the engagement. He did fulfil it. A friend wrote to me
that Mr. Bradlaugh walked through the hall and mounted the platform with
a face as white and rigid as that of a statue. He made no reference or
allusion to his loss, but all could see he carried a bleeding heart.
His lecturing in such circumstances was cha