He was on the edge of a dense throng which had just been delighted
by the rhetoric of a well-known Clerkenwell Radical; the topic under
discussion was Bent, and the last speaker had, in truth, put before
them certain noteworthy views of the subject as it affected the poor
of London. What attracted Mr. Snowdon's attention was the voice of
the speaker who next rose. Pressing a little nearer, he got a
glimpse of a lean, haggard, grey-headed man, shabbily dressed, no
bad example of a sufferer from the hardships he was beginning to
denounce. 'That's old Hewett,' remarked somebody close by. 'He's the
feller to let 'em 'ave it!' Yes, it was John Hewett, much older,
much more broken, yet much fiercer than when we last saw him. Though
it was evident that he spoke often at these meetings, he had no
command of his voice and no coherence of style; after the first few
words he seemed to be overcome by rage that was little short of
frenzy. Inarticulate screams and yells interrupted the torrent of
his invective; he raised both hands above his head and clenched them
in a gesture of frantic passion; his visage was frightfully
distorted, and in a few minutes there actually fell drops of blood
from his bitten lip.
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