. He pointed out the hard and thorny path I should
have to tread, but when he saw I was resolved on the attempt, he put his
hand on my shoulder and said, "There is no young man in the movement I
would sooner welcome."

In the very same room, on another Sunday evening a little later, I
first saw James Thomson. He came down to the Hall of Science with Mr.
Bradlaugh, in whose employment he then was, and I gave him the article I
had brought for the _National Reformer_. He shook hands very cordially,
and I was delighted to meet one for whose poetry I had a profound
admiration.

It was also at the Hall of Science, about the same time, that I met the
eccentric Mr. Turberville, brother to Mr. Blackmore, the novelist. He
was a man of parts with a bee in his bonnet. He claimed kinship with
Turberville, a minor poet of the sixteenth century, and he loved to
talk of poetry. His knowledge of Shakespeare was profound and minute.
He admired Mr. Bradlaugh's perorations immensely, as well as his bold
defence of Freethought. He made out a will in Mr. Bradlaugh's favor,
but he subsequently made another will, and died in circumstances that
necessitated an inquest. By agreement, however, Mr. Bradlaugh obtained
L2,500 from the estate, and the windfall came opportunely, for his
struggles and litigations had involved him in considerable debt. I
know he often had to borrow money on heavy interest. One day, at
Turner-street, he told me that a creditor of this species had coolly
invited him to dinner. "Hang it," he said, "you can't dine with a man
who charges you sixty per cent."

Another recollection I have of Mr. Bradlaugh is in connexion with the
funeral of Mr. Austin Holyoake. The death of this gentleman was a great
loss to the Freethought cause. He was highly respected by all who knew
him. The geniality of his disposition was such that he had many friends
and not a single enemy. For some years he was Mr. Bradlaugh's printer
and publisher, and a frequent contributor to his journal. He was
foremost in every good work, but he was one of those modest men who
never get the credit of their labors. He died at 17 Johnson's-court,
Fleet-street, in an upstairs room above the printing office, where his
devoted wife had for many weeks nursed his flickering life. The funeral
was a notable event. Those of us who could afford it rode in the
undertaker's coaches, and the rest walked in procession to Highgate
Cemetery. I can still see Mr. Bradlaugh in my