ot the charm of simplicity. If such
a man as, say, Mr. Matthew Arnold wanted to test the accuracy of the
"Silas Marner" chapter for critical purposes, he would scarcely recover
the ordeal of a night spent in a haunt of the hardened toper. If the
company happened to be unembarrassed, their ribaldry would sicken the
philosopher; their coarse manners would revolt him; their political
talk--well, that would probably stupefy him and cause him to flee.

Here are my notes of one specimen conversation, given without any
dramatic nonsense or idealisation. My memory can be trusted absolutely,
and I have often reported a long interview in such a way that the person
interviewed saw nothing to alter.

Bowman guffawed, and his purple face swelled with merriment, for he had
been hearing a whispered story told by Bill Preston, an elderly retired
tradesman. Bill is a most respectable man whose daughters hold quite a
leading position in the society of our district. He is great on church
business, and he is the vicar's right-hand man. It is a noble sight to
see him on Sundays when he stalks down the aisle, nattily dressed in
black, and wearing a devotional air; but in our parlour his sole aim is
to tell the queerest stories in the greatest possible number, and his
collection--amassed by years of loving industry--is large and various.
He cannot hear the simplest speech without trying to extract some bawdy
significance from it, and when he has scored a thoroughly indecent
success, his clean, rosy, jolly face is lit up by a fascinating smile.
Ah! if ladies only heard these sober fathers of families when
conversational high jinks are in progress, they would be decidedly
enlightened.

When Bowman ended his guffaw he said, with admiration, "You naughty old
man! How dare you go for to corrupt my morals?" And Bill received the
tribute with modest gratification. Then a loud voice silenced us all,
and Joe Pidgeon, our great logician, began to hold forth.

"Wot did old Disraely do? Why, they was all frightened of him. He was a
masterpiece, I tell you. What was that there heppigram as he
made?--'Inebriated with the hexuberance of his own verbosity.' There's
langwidge for you! And he kep' it up, too, he did. He was the brightest
diadem in England's crown, he was. But this Gladstone!--wot's he? Show
me any trade as he's benefited! Ain't he taken the British Flag to the
bloomin' pawnshop? Gord love me, he oughter be 'ung, he did! I tell you
he ought