Lastly. You despise compassion. There is no need of words of mine
for proof of this. I will merely print one of the newspaper
paragraphs which I am in the habit of cutting out and throwing into
my store-drawer; here is one from a 'Daily Telegraph' of an early
date this year (1867); (date which, though by me carelessly left
unmarked, is easily discoverable; for on the back of the slip there
is the announcement that "yesterday the seventh of the special
services of this year was performed by the Bishop of Ripon in St.
Paul's";) it relates only one of such facts as happen now daily;
this by chance having taken a form in which it came before the
coroner. I will print the paragraph in red. Be sure, the facts
themselves are written in that colour, in a book which we shall all
OF us, literate or illiterate, have to read our page of, some day.


An inquiry was held on Friday by Mr. Richards, deputy coroner, at
the White Horse Tavern, Christ Church, Spitalfields, respecting the
death of Michael Collins, aged 58 years. Mary Collins, a miserable-
looking woman, said that she lived with the deceased and his son in
a room at 2, Cobb's Court, Christ Church. Deceased was a
"translator" of boots. Witness went out and bought old boots;
deceased and his son made them into good ones, and then witness sold
them for what she could get at the shops, which was very little
indeed. Deceased and his son used to work night and day to try and
get a little bread and tea, and pay for the room (2S. a week), so as
to keep the home together. On Friday-night-week deceased got up
from his bench and began to shiver. He threw down the boots,
saying, "Somebody else must finish them when I am gone, for I can do
no more." There was no fire, and he said, "I would be better if I