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It takes a multitude to make such a stillness as followed that disorder
of cheering. A man alone in a wilderness;--it's stillness of a sort no
doubt, but he hears himself breathe, he hears himself move, he hears all
sorts of things. Here the voice of Caterham was the one single thing
heard, a thing very bright and clear, like a little light burning in a
black velvet recess. Hear indeed! One heard him as though he spoke at
one's elbow.
It was stupendously effective to the man from prison, that gesticulating
little figure in a halo of light, in a halo of rich and swaying sounds;
behind it, partially effaced as it were, sat its supporters on the
platform, and in the foreground was a wide perspective of innumerable
backs and profiles, a vast multitudinous attention. That little figure
seemed to have absorbed the substance from them all.
Caterham spoke of our ancient institutions. "Earearear," roared the
crowd. "Ear! ear!" said the man from prison. He spoke of our ancient
spirit of order and justice. "Earearear!" roared the crowd. "Ear! Ear!"
cried the man from prison, deeply moved. He spoke of the wisdom of our
forefathers, of the slow growth of venerable institutions, of moral and
social traditions, that fitted our English national characteristics as
the skin fits the hand. "Ear! Ear!" groaned the man from prison, with
tears of excitement on his cheeks. And now all these things were to go
into the melting pot. Yes, into the melting pot! Because three men in
London twenty years ago had seen fit to mix something indescribable in a
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