s, of which he was justly proud,
and then we sat down to chat. He was full of his voyage and the kindness
he had experienced on every side. His reception in India had exceeded
his highest anticipations, and he was looking forward to work in the
House of Commons on behalf of our great Dependency.

Speaking of his financial prospects, he told me he had received offers
of work from several magazine editors. But he added, "one doesn't know
how long it will last; 'tis a precarious business." His face clouded for
a moment, and I saw he was more troubled than he cared to say.

One thing he told me which I had no right to repeat while he lived, but
I may repeat it without a breach of confidence now that he is dead.

During his brief stay in India he could have had plenty of money if
he had been less scrupulous. There was nothing very dishonourable in
accepting money from rich Hindoos, for he was poor and broken in health,
and he was fighting for their best interests. But he was too proud to
take it, and when wealthy natives were calling on him, he always took
the precaution to have an English friend in the room.

"No," he said to me, "I cannot do that. I'll live like the old
Bradlaugh, or I'll go under."

He lived like the old Bradlaugh, and he went under. He took to the
platform again to earn a livelihood, and it killed him, as his doctors
had foreseen. I implored him at the time not to resume the lecturing. He
was going to fulfil an old-standing engagement at Manchester in the
vast St. James's Hall, and I begged him to cancel it. He replied that he
could not afford to forfeit twenty pounds. "What is that to your life?"
I asked. He only smiled grimly. His mind was made up, and he was not to
be bent by advice.

On Sunday morning, February 16, 1890, Mr. Bradlaugh resigned his
presidency of the National Secular Society, which he had held for so
many years. The Hall of Science was packed with members, chiefly from
the London district, but many of them from the provinces.

The scene was infinitely pathetic. One sentiment reigned in every heart.
The Old Guard was taking leave of its General. Some of them had fought
around him for thirty years, and the farewell was a mutilation of their
very lives. Tears were streaming down strong faces; and they coursed
down the strongest face of all, the face of Charles Bradlaugh, and
plashed on the table before him. For a while he let them fall, and then
he controlled his grief and rose to